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Our
office in Baltimore was on the edge of the tenderloin district. In order to get
one of the best corned-beef sandwiches I have ever had, I had to walk five
blocks on East Lombard through the heart of the district to get to Harry
Attman’s Delicatessen. Along the way, it was not uncommon to be approached by
at least a half dozen panhandlers seeking handouts.
One
of my occasional luncheon partners was our imports inspector Bill Phillips, a
large, gruff, no-nonsense man who refused the beggars with uncharitable
harshness. However I watched in some awe at his change of heart when confronted
by a street urchin of maybe nine or ten. The little girl tugged at his sleeve
and lisped, "Mister, my momma is sick and we are poor and she can't give
me any money. Can you please give me a nickel so I can buy my little brother
some candy." She pointed to her left where an even more bedraggled lad of
maybe four or five sat huddled in a doorway crying softly.
"Young
lady," Bill said rather pompously, "what you are doing is very bad.
If you continue to do this when you are older, men will want something in
return for the money they give you and you may not want to do what they expect.
If I give you a nickel, will you promise me that you will never ask another stranger
for money?
The child looked contritely
at her feet and shyly mumbled a promise. In return, Bill gave her a quarter.
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