eleven o'clock
Poor rich boy , sad little only son , he was not allowed the freedom to respond to the voice of nature even as the tenement children that dance in the streets to the hand-organs or stir the mud in the gutter with their bare toes . It is not the tenement children of New York who are to be pitied ; it is those that are being fitted to keep the places , in the unstable and frail crafts of the Whirlpool , that their parents are either striving to seize or struggling to reserve for them . At the end of half an hour the boys came back to the porch , all three delightfully and completely dirty , and clamouring that they were hungry . The English tyrant not appearing , I took them into the house and , after a washing of hands and faces , gave the boys the usual eleven o'clock lunch of milk and simple cookies to take out in the sun to eat . As they were thus engaged the tyrant appeared on the horizon , horror written in every feature , and a volley of correction evidently taking shape on her lips , while an ugly look of cowed defiance spread itself over the child 's face as he caught sight of her . There was no scene , however . Father said in the most offhand way , as if being obeyed was a matter of course , `` Go back and tell your mistress that I am carrying out her request , and that after luncheon I will send the boy safely home , with a written message . ''