Soon we were marched into a large dormitory and assigned a
bed. One of the boys, Sala, offered to show me how to make mine regulation
style, and we became friends-friends for years!
The guard ordered us to bed and the lights were turned out,
all but one dim one. I lay there, quiet, not crying like I had in Boys Aid. I
was older. I was tougher. I tried to figure out where I was going, but it had
been a long day, so soon I was asleep!
The next morning the bell changed at 6:45 waking me up with
a start. The routine began. The food, though, was okay. Afterwards I was
marched to a tool house, given a hoe and marched to the edge of the highway
where, with the other boys, I cut weeds until noon. Then, we marched back to
quarters for lunch. In the afternoon, we were marched onto the drill grounds
for two and a half hours of drill.
By this time, my hands were blistered from the hoe and my
heels were blistered from the big shoes. I don’t yip. I wasn’t going to let
these cops see any soft spot in me. I was learning to suffer grimly and though
I didn’t know it then, learning to suffer with a stiff upper lip is a great
asset to a criminal. He’s got to learn to take it!
The blisters on my hands healed. The blisters on my feet healed.
Time passed. When I had been in Whittier
for two months I was ready to be assigned to a steady job. I asked to be put on
the farm. After all, from my wandering I knew something about farm work and it
would be pleasant. But because of my record, I was turned down. That should
have been a signal for rebellion and a run-away. But it wasn’t! You see, at Whittier, I had found good
food and kindness, and life wasn’t too bad. I worked on the extra gang, and in
the afternoon I played football. Jimmy, with whom I had run away from Boys Aid,
had also graduated to Whittier.
He tried to talk me into running away but I strictly wasn’t interested. Not me.
I was playing guard on the second string team. I liked the boys on the team.
There was Smithy who played right end. Ray, who played halfback Sala, who
played tackle next to me Frankie, Shorty, all little guys who had been in
trouble and somehow were trying to find their way out.
Sometimes Mom made the trip to see me. She brought a picnic
lunch of sandwiches, cake and ice cream and we sat on the lawn and talked of
home, of paul, Miriam and my younger sisters. Why, a boy could believe he was
loved and belonged!
One day, after I had been at Whittier about six months, I was told, “Mr.
Nellis wants to see you.”
The superintendent himself! What could he want? What had I
done that been wrong? I walked, curious-like, to the outer office of Fred c.
Nellis. I sat on the edge of a chair, turning from left to right, sweating it
out for an hour that seemed like a lifetime. I could see all my privileges,
seeing Mom, playing on the team, being taken away from me, and I couldn’t
figure out what I had done wrong. I sure hadn’t meant to do anything wrong.
Then out of his office came the big fellow himself. He was
tall, about six feet, and dignified. He looked at me with a stern but kindly
eye. My bitterness had been battered down by the decent treatment at Whittier and I couldn’t
help but admire this man who ran a place that was fit for boys to live in.
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