"Broke," The Man Without the Dime

I sat and pondered for awhile, looking far out to the Statue of Liberty Enlightening the World. Passing time had pierced it full of holes, letting the daylight through. I left the young man, and a little later was strolling around the docks on the East Side. Finally I came to Wall Street. Here at the entrance of this street I came upon the quartermaster’s department of the United States Army. Over the door was the Coat of Arms,—the Eagle for Uncle Sam, the Sword for Defense, the Key for Security. Walking about half the length of Wall Street, I came to the great sub-treasury of the United States, and directly across the street, almost in hand-shaking distance, the powerful banking concern of J. Pierpont Morgan & Co. Going on, I came to the other end of this world-renowned street where stands Old Trinity. I was weary beyond words to express. So I sat down on the steps to rest. Presently, high up in its tower, the chimes began to ring. A little later, from within the church rang out an old familiar hymn, one stanza of which seemed peculiarly appropriate.

“Good heavens!” I said to myself, “what ails that old bell ringer? Is he stone deaf or gone mad? Is there not someone to arrest him?” I knew how useless it would be to try to find that someone, for those with the will to do so were in Europe, or in Newport, or up the Hudson, or in the Adirondacks. As I took my weary way up Broadway, I heard in every step on the pavement the familiar melody, familiar words:—

Leaving Broadway I turned into a large “scoop joint” (saloon). In the corner where the free lunch was served a large brindle bull-dog was chained near a big stack of bread. I realized that I was on the Bowery. A little further up the street, just as I was passing a door-way, a man with a bundle came rolling down the stairs. From the sound of a voice above I knew he had been forcefully thrown out. He was about fifty years of age, almost helpless from the effects of alcohol or some other poison. Only slightly bruised, he regained his feet, but was hopelessly unable to gather his effects. His bundle had burst open and the contents were scattered about promiscuously. His helpless condition attracted the attention of the many passers-by and a group soon gathered to watch his futile efforts to regain his lost possessions. It was a sight too sad to be amusing. Suddenly a workingman stepped forward, gathered the belongings together, and fastened them securely. In the dull dazed face of the abandoned man there was a look of deepest gratitude. As his new friend had gathered up his belongings a small book with an inscription in gold letters fell from among them. As he held up the book I, too, could read the title: The New Testament. That poor unfortunate impressed me as being as great as the greatest man that ever lived, for he had tried.

Through this great human funnel, the Bowery (and it is not the only one in New York through which pours the sin, the shame, the disease and the disgrace of this great city), I wandered on. Seeing a crowd gathered on the pavement in one place, I stopped and saw lying prone upon her face, a wretched creature whose skirt had fallen from her body. She lay there nude, defenseless, uncovered to the view of the morbid throng. The unfortunate, though helpless, was conscious of her shame, and was making futile efforts to hide her disgrace. Just then there happened along a good Samaritan, who, stepping through the crowd, took from his shoulders a blue cotton jumper and covered this wreck of womanhood. Turning to the gaping bystanders, he angrily heaped upon them so scathing a rebuke that with flushed faces and hanging heads they stole away. He asked of some women who stood near by if they would shield the woman until the arrival of an ambulance. One of them kindly consented to do so. I turned away sick at heart for I knew the pathetic finish, that the only open door New York held for this unfortunate one was a prison door.

As I went along, I saw again Old Trinity with its stained glass windows, its old burying ground, worth millions, where the dead have rested for two hundred years, and I thought: “After all, it was the Bowery that revealed to me to-day ‘the golden rule of Christ,’ which alone can bring ‘the golden rule of man.’”

With the vanishing of the sunshine and shadows which all day long had been playing in and about Union Square—whose bits of green lawn, sparkling fountains, and many settees welcome the weary and heavy laden, for a little time at least, and invite rest,—came the myriad lights of the great city which follow the active day of toil and care. At evening I found myself resting there. I had taken a seat beside a white-haired, soft-spoken, slightly-bent man, clothed in a discolored suit, badly worn shoes and tattered hat,—a man who seemingly had received all the blows and hardships our tough old world can give. Indifferently I drew him casually into conversation. The information I gained was taken out of the crucible of a pathetic life, and it revealed a story which may be summed up in a few words: Youth, hope, health, success, love, happiness, reverses, crosses, trials, temptations, error, ruin, impaired health, old age, discouragement,—no, not entirely. He still had left a spark of courage. He still believed in himself. He spoke of the detriment of his physical weakness, caused by a State institution (I knew it was a prison) into which he was forced; of the prejudice against the man a little beyond middle life who was looking for work; of the past that stood as a barrier between him and an ability to re-establish himself in society. Yet he hopefully added, “I have a job now at seven dollars a week and my board. I shall be able to get the decent clothes so essential in finding better work, with better pay.” When he realized that I was apparently in a worse position than himself, for I seemed both workless and penniless, we talked of our mutual vicissitudes. He referred me to the Municipal Lodging House of New York, declaring he had found it both a refuge and a salvation at a time when it almost seemed to him that life meant utter abandonment, even to self-destruction.

I did not go to that beautiful home that night, but I stood instead in the “Bread Line” on the northwest corner of Broadway and Twelfth Street. It was ten o’clock, and although the bread was not to be given out to the starving poor of the city until midnight, a crowd had already begun to collect in front of Old Grace Church, the wealth of which is said to be almost fabulous. Extending up this street, long before the hour of distribution began, was a line in which I counted five hundred men. There were no women among them. There was no jest or laughter. They seemed as mute as “dumb driven cattle.” Just at midnight, after the line had been standing several hours, two men appeared with the bread. There was a sudden rush across the street to be the first in line. A police rule seemed to be in force to the effect that no one was allowed to stand on that side of the street until the hour arrived for giving the bread away. After this long wait, my share of this left-over bread was a piece weighing just four ounces. When I remembered that during the throes of that long and bitter winter this one bread line (New York has several) grew from five hundred to two thousand men, the blazing cross which I could see from the high church tower became “the handwriting on the wall.”

Should you ask me why these men do not seek shelter in New York’s Municipal Home, I could tell you in a few words. Notwithstanding the generous and hospitable character of the institution, it is usually crowded to overflowing.

While studying the character and the aspirations of the honest unemployed in all parts of the country, I found in most of them the desire, the longing for country life. Even the hardened frequenter of saloons and other vicious places seemed anxious to change his environment. They all recognized this to be of great benefit in starting life anew, and in trying to become useful members of society. I found many had gone to the country. Many more desired to go up the Hudson River to work on the farms, in the fruit orchards and the open fields. I determined to follow them and see what it all meant.

So the following day found me again one of that army to whom society is inclined, in fact is fond of referring to, as “men who won’t work,”—seeking an existence. I met a great many who, like myself, were looking for work. But, unlike me (for I had money) some were starving, some were ill. Many were crippled from much walking, several showed me blisters on their ankles and feet as large as a twenty-five cent piece. I found work for one of my English tongue exceedingly difficult to obtain. At Tarrytown, I asked for work at an enormous estate with a national reputation. At this time they were employing three hundred men, all Italians. There was no work for me. They had all the help they needed. When I asked for the privilege of working for my dinner, the foreman looked austerely at me and answered, indirectly, “You understand if you did work here you would receive your pay but once a month.”

“What is the pay?” I asked.

“A dollar and seventy-five cents a day, and you board yourself.”

Those Italian workmen were walking several miles a day to and from work for that wage. I heard among them numerous complaints. I wondered why. In the land of the Comorra, on the drive from Sorrento to Pompeii, I had seen these same men in harness, hitched to wagons, hauling loads of stone like beasts of burden.

Someone told me if I wanted farm work I must travel further back in the country, which I did. I was not successful in finding it until the morning of the second day. Just over a stone wall I saw five men at work picking cucumbers for pickles. A little way off stood a very large, beautiful farm house. I was right when I drew the conclusion that the owner was a wealthy old farmer. He was holding his farm at a fabulous sum, believing he would receive it from a certain land owner who would eventually buy at any price. Leaping the wall I confronted the farmer, who needed me exceedingly at one dollar a day and board,—I supposed for not more than ten hours’ work, but asked no questions. I soon discovered that beside the old man, my field companions were the old man’s son and their hired men. No one spoke. Noiselessly and silently we worked, carrying the pickles in baskets on our shoulders, as fast as we gathered them, into a shed, where we emptied them into barrels. It rained at intervals all day, but that made no difference. We worked on. The mud and wet ground soaked our shoes. The rough basket, in constant contact with my shoulder, wore a hole through my jumper, which was a serious consideration when I reflected on my day’s pay.

At noon we were called to dinner. After standing what seemed an interminable time to a hungry man who for half a day had picked cucumbers out on the wet ground, beneath dripping trees, we were allowed to go in to dinner. In a rough outer room there was portioned out to each of the four hired men a bowl of tea, a tin plate containing vegetables and a small piece of meat. We were fed, about as the dog was fed, except that we sat at a table. Not one of my three fellow-workers had yet spoken to me. Turning to the one on my right I smiled and made some off-hand remark about the tough meat, which just at that moment he seemed to be struggling with. He smiled back but made no reply. I looked across the table at the slim, black eyed, busy fellow opposite me and made some non-consequential remark. He grinned with a little more accent than my right hand man. I then spoke to the man on my left, who was an old man of three score years and ten. He had his face very close to his plate and did not raise his head. I then discovered that one of the men was a Hun, the other a Pole. Neither could speak or understand my language, and the old man, a Dutchman, was stone deaf. This was about the most convivial dinner party I had ever attended. The afternoon was about as jovial as the dinner, and was augmented by more showers and a big lot of pickles. Did you ever pick pickles? If not, don’t do it, at least not for one dollar a day, unless you must. How your back aches from continual stooping! Your fingers, black, bruised, and sore from the tiny, prickly cucumber points, drive a fellow to saying things he would not dare to say before his dad.

At four o’clock the farmer left, to haul the pickles to the pickle factory. At five o’clock the Dutchman and the Pole went in to milk. These men were working by the month, each receiving fifteen dollars a month. On this farm many cows were milked. At six o’clock the son quit, which made little difference, as he spent most of his time in the shed. As he was leaving I said, “Is it time to quit?” He answered decidedly, “No, I’ll tell you when to quit.” And so the Austrian and I worked on. The son had mounted his motorcycle and flashed by us like a spark from a trolley. The Hun followed him with an intense look which seemed to say: “When I get my American farm I, too, shall have one.”

It was getting dark, and still no call to stop work. If I had known only two words of Slavic it would have been a relief. But I did not. So I did the next best thing. I expressed my feelings by throwing my basket as far as I could send it across the field and started toward the house. The Hun looked amazed. As I drew near, far up in the house somewhere, to the accompaniment of a tinkling piano, one of the old farmer’s daughters was singing in a voice absolutely devoid of tune, “I want to go to Heaven right away.” I hoped she would. Just then the son rode up on his spinning wheel and asked, “What did you quit for?” I replied, “I came up for a lantern.”

He then called the Hun. Our carte du jour for supper was a duplicate of the dinner, only it was stone cold. We plebs slept in an oppressive attic room. We were called at three A. M. to get up and go to milking. Not being a regular man, I supposed I was not included in the call, although I noticed the Hun responded. After my fellow-workers left I turned over for a much-needed, final rest, but just as I was dozing into sleep I heard the old farmer puffing up the stairs.

“Hey, you fellow,” he called, “get up there and get out and help those fellers milk.”

“All right,” I responded. I did get up and out, but it was to the woodshed where my bundle lay, and while I was putting it together the old man passed hurriedly by the window again, headed for the garret stairs with the look of Cain on his face, to see why I still lingered. I heard the heavy tread on the stairs, as I was passing out across the lawn toward the nearest town. Yes, there was one dollar due me, but I sent word back to one of these, my proletaire brothers, that he could have it, and I suggested that it might be well spent toward buying a talking machine to be used while they dined at that bountiful, hilarious table, at the pickle farm.

CHAPTER XXI
New York State—The Open Fields

“Every man has something to sell if it is only his arms, and so has that property to dispose of.”—Emerson.

Pickle picking had not proved profitable. Continuing my search I found that factory work was out of the question. At all the factories where I had applied the reply had been, invariably, “We have a hundred applicants for every vacancy.” In one, it is true, I might have had work had I been a skillful hatter. But I wasn’t. So I resolved to follow out my original intention of trying the fruit farms which lay on the west side of the river, beginning at Balmville, some thirty miles up the stream.

With this in view I crossed the Hudson. The coming of the night found me in densely-wooded, deeply-shaded intra-mural roadways, extending for miles, to which clung clambering vines bearing clusters of tiny fragrant flowers, and red, black and yellow berries. Here and there were intersecting drive-ways, the entrances to which were guarded by huge stone columns supporting massive gates, over which the summer had already begun to weave garlands of honeysuckle and eglantine.

I could see at times, far through the foliage, the shining light of the palaces. I could hear merry laughter and the sweet song of a singer with a wonderful voice singing a wonderful song. It was nearing midnight. I was growing very hungry and weary. I saw a light in the distance, near the road at the foot of a long hill. It was an inn. The light was in the bar-room. I entered. Two occupants, Italians (one behind the bar), were quietly conversing. Entering I asked the man behind the bar if he could give me supper and a bed, adding, “I have money.” He looked at me curiously. I did not wonder at it for I was travel-worn. The bundle and stick I carried were covered with the dust of the highway.

In reply to my inquiry he answered, “I have no bed.” Turning to his companion he said (in Italian), “He looks as though he had come a long way. I think he is from a prison. Let him sleep by the road. He will not suffer.”

I looked straight at the man, saying, “I may be all that you say, but I am honest.”

Slightly nonplussed he looked at me and grinned, saying, “Ah, you speak Italian!”

“I spent one winter on the blue bay of Naples,” I answered, “and understand a little.”

I had struck a sympathetic chord. He assured me that he told me the truth when he said he had no bed to give, but he invited me to a good supper. Greatly refreshed and not caring to sleep by the roadside, I continued my journey. I decided that I could reach West Point by daylight.

After I had traveled some distance, intuitively I became possessed of a feeling of depression. I felt that I was in a realm which demanded caution. A gargoyle on the roadside, until I saw what it really was, startled me nearly out of my senses. I heard the mournful baying of hounds in the distance. I was conscious of climbing a mountain. The wayside had become open, barren of trees,—its features mostly brush and rocks. I frequently passed large signs which I could not read from the center of the road, but becoming curious, I approached one of them and read: “The property of Sing Sing Prison of the State of New York. All trespassers are liable to be shot.” I was on Bear Mountain. Fearful of the probability of being near to some headquarters, and that this warning might be carried out, I turned and went down in the deep woods below, where I rested for the remainder of the night. As I turned back I saw far below me on the silver river a night boat throwing a powerful search light on the dark shores of the stream.

When it was dawn I walked on. I could not but compare the humane expression of Bear Mountain, and the State of New York, to that little republic of Switzerland, whose labor colonies cannot be differentiated from the surrounding rural country. The traveler who enters or passes that way sees no mark of his erring brethren, no sign to tell the traveler he may be shot!

It was Sunday morning when I reached Newburgh, a city of thirty thousand people. I strolled up the hill to the low-roofed house where Washington and his wife lived from April 4, 1782, to August 18, 1783. It is now used as a museum for Washington relics. “This,” I thought, “is no doubt of exceeding interest, and educational. I will go in.” But being the Sabbath day, it was closed.

I had not heard from home or friends for a long time. I was getting hungry and had spent all of my money, but I knew there were letters and relief at the Post Office, so I made my way there. Being Sunday the Post Office was also closed. I did not wish to while away the time in a close, oppressive, ill-smelling back room of a saloon, or sit in the shadow somewhere on the street, even if the police did not interfere, but having a desire to read a good book, I hunted up the Public Library. That, too, was closed. In fact the only things I found open on this Lord’s Day in Newburgh were the streets, the saloons, the churches and the jail.

During the week or ten days I was in the vicinity of Newburgh I read in the daily papers the story of three starving men who had been picked up by the police. Two I particularly recall. One was found unconscious on the car tracks on which he had thrown himself, soaked to the skin, in a cold, terrific rain storm. The other was found eating swill from a garbage can in an alley. Both were thought to be mentally unsound. That is always the police report when these examples insult the intelligence of a city. Perhaps they were mentally unsound. Why not? Nothing will dethrone reason more quickly than starvation and neglect. They were berry pickers, the paper said.

The church bells were ringing. I looked down at my soiled appearance and thought, “If I only had an opportunity to renovate, to regenerate, I could attend divine services.” But there was no available place for the poor, the moneyless man or woman of Newburgh, to bathe but the river. I looked in my bundle and found a piece of washing soap. I would first wash my blue shirt, and while I bathed it could be drying in the sun. So I went to the river where many of Newburgh’s destitute and needy were already bathing, but the sewerage had so contaminated the water as to make it repulsive, and I felt that to bathe in there “the last man would be worse than the first.” Then I tried to overcome my prejudice against going to church just as I was. I could slip into a dark corner and scarcely be noticed. Being penniless I would of course be humiliated when the contribution plate was passed. I would, perhaps, be regarded as a dead-beat, but what of that? It would only be a moment. Finally I decided to go. I walked to one of Newburgh’s large churches, up a cool and shady street. I was early. The silence of the lofty edifice, with costly, beautiful, memorial windows to those who had gone to their rest, gave me food for thought long before the service began. It was a strange coincidence that the scriptural reading included the following words: “For I was hungered, and ye gave me meat; I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink; I was a stranger, and ye took me in; naked and ye clothed me; I was sick, and ye visited me; I was in prison, and ye came unto me.” The text was, “Go and sell that thou hast, and give to the poor.” I sat through the service undisturbed.

After a few days of rest I started out again to keep in touch with my unfortunate brothers from the highways and byways.

I went in search of work to the berry fields. Work is supposed to be the ready collateral for self-preservation and maintenance, but during a two-mile walk I stopped at the door of many beautiful and comfortable homes and asked for the privilege of working for even a piece of bread and a cup of coffee. To see the owner or lady of the house, was out of the question. I only came in contact with the servants, and in every instance I was peremptorily denied. One or two said, “I would give you a little if I could, but I am not allowed to do so.” The servant is the echo of the house.

Finally, a little way in from the road, on a small beautiful lawn, I saw a sweet-faced, white-haired lady superintending a bright lad of sixteen who was making a flower bed. I entered and tried to make a polite salutation but it was something of a failure as my slouch hat had slipped down and stuck on my ear. However, I said:

"I will work an hour for you for a piece of bread and a cup of coffee."

The lady inquired with interest, “Would you work for an hour for a cup of coffee and a piece of bread? Well, if you will help this boy for an hour, I will give you a good breakfast.” I readily assented. The task finished, and the breakfast as well, the lady assured me there was a great deal of garden and other work to be done there. If I would wait until the return of Mr. —--, which would be soon, he would probably give me work as long as I wished to remain.

I had learned from the boy that the latter was a rich dominie of the neat little Episcopal chapel just at hand, which he owned, and that I was working at the rectory. He soon came. After a brief external examination he asked the question, “Why are you a hobo?”

I replied in one word, “Circumstances.”

Apparently satisfied, he said, “What wages do you want?” I explained that I understood garden work, that I was a conscientious worker, and if I worked steadily ten long hours a day it ought to be worth one dollar a day and board. The gentleman thought not. He thought five dollars a week would be a square deal. The lady, near and interested, said that a man had come along the day before and offered to work for four dollars a week.

Having discovered I was a few days in advance of the berry picking season, after a moment’s reflection I told the gentleman I would try the garden work at his offer.

One half of the garden, a very large one, was clean and growing. The other half was choked with weeds, and in a very troublesome condition. I exceedingly enjoyed my garden work. When I was hired (although the house contained, I should judge, at least fifteen rooms) I was told that there was no place in the house for me to sleep. I met this by saying that I could sleep any place, so I was given two comforters and left to seek my own bed, which I found on a pallet of hay over the stable. However, I was very comfortable except for feeling the need of a pillow. In wakeful moments during the silent night I could hear the beautiful Arabian horse, John, champing his fragrant hay, and I would sometimes call down, "Hello, John! How are you?" Several times he answered with a low whinny, as much as to say, “All right. How are you?”

I dined with the cook and the work boy in the kitchen. We had all we could eat and it was good. No one worked on the Sabbath but the old cook. We all went to church except her. The dominie asked me to attend. I slipped in on a rear seat. The sermon was on the building of character. The good lady, seeing me, came back and offered me a hymn book. A pillow offered with the comforters would have held a greater meaning, but I am sure that the thoughtlessness of this kind lady was not intentional. I am sure I could have had the pillow if I had asked for it.

During my short stay at the Rectory many destitute men came to the door and asked for food. I noticed they were never turned away if they were willing to work an hour for it, but I noticed, also, that the man was asked to perform his work before he was fed. The good dominie and I often exchanged thoughts. He had a pleasing way of making his help feel that they were his equals. He may not have realized it, but unconsciously he was building character in a much more effective way than if he had put it into words.

I finally wished to leave. The dominie wanted me very much to remain. He said I was worth it, and he would give me the one dollar a day. The rains, I learned, were still delaying the fruit picking, so I decided to remain a while longer. When at last I left and was paid for my work, I said, “If I was worth at the rate of one dollar a day for these last few days, was I not worth the same for all my work?”

“Oh, but that was not our bargain,” he replied,—which, of course, was true.

One day in one of our brief talks (which turned on the hungry man at the door), I said, “Doctor, from a business point of view, I think you make a mistake in asking a man to work before he is fed. A man with a full stomach can do twice as much work as one with an empty stomach.”

“But the man may not keep his part of the contract,” he answered.

“Then that is his disgrace and your misfortune. You have done your part. You have entertained the stranger in a humane way. By working him first is showing him your mistrust of him and that is demoralizing.”

I noticed after this little talk that the man who came to the door was always fed first.

CHAPTER XXII
The Laborer the Farmer’s Greatest Asset

“Letting down buckets into empty wells and growing old with drawing nothing up.”—Cowper.

Leaving the Rectory I found myself on the highway, seeking a fortune as a berry picker. I heard rumors that men had actually made a stake at the work,—that is, enough money (by rigid economy) to exist in the destructive slums of a great city during the freezing winter months when there is no work to be had.

The roads were lined with men and boys seeking work. The long drought had been exceedingly detrimental to the fruit. It was dwarfed and of inferior quality, which worked a hardship on the farmer as well as on the berry pickers. The farms and farm houses were exceptionally attractive, and seemed to abound with comforts. Many of them were homes of wealth and resembled country seats. The day was frightfully hot. There had been a terrific thunder storm the night before and I was obliged to seek shelter for the night with a number of others in a shed. It was a sleepless night for the rain came in and prevented us from even trying to rest on the bare ground.

As I walked along the new State road, I came to an inviting shady spot by the roadside, near a deep hedge. Almost overcome by the heat and weary from lack of rest and sleep, I lay down with my bundle for a pillow and was just falling asleep when I was suddenly aroused by a voice commanding me to move on. Looking up I saw I was being accosted by a big six-foot bully. In reply to my question, “Why?” he answered, “It makes no difference why, move on.”

Looking the man unflinchingly in the eye, I said,

“But it does make a difference why, and I will pretty quickly find out why a man, simply because he is poor and wants to rest on the side of the State road, is denied that privilege.”

The insolent swaggerer was nonplussed for the moment. I suppose he thought I was only a poor, starving berry picker or farm hand who, at his command, would cringingly creep on in the boiling sun, like a dog, to another shady spot.

“Who are you?” he then asked.

“I am a laborer looking for work,” I replied, “but I am also an American. When I am insolently ordered to ‘move on’ on a public highway, I’ll know the reason why if I have to go to Washington to find out. I know your actions have been tolerated in England and Europe for two thousand years. Since you ask me who I am, I am going to ask who you are.”

“I am foreman of this estate,” he answered. “This is the country estate of a very rich ex-United States Congressman, and the State road line runs within six feet of the hedge.”

“Well, sir,” I replied, “I humbly beg your pardon. It is a principle of mine never to ask or take something for nothing, unless it be to draw dividends on a few blocks of nine billion dollars of watered railroad stock. But say, if you would wall this little six-foot strip in, or put up a sign, ‘No trespassing,’ or ‘Beware of the dog,’ as others have done, neither your master nor yourself would have further cause to growl.”

As I wandered on I overtook an honest-looking man who said he was on his way to a farm near Marlborough where he had worked for several summers and had always pulled out with enough money to carry him, in a way, through the winter. It would have been much nearer for him to have walked the railroad track, he said, but he was told in Newburgh that if he did so he was liable to be arrested by the West Shore Railroad Company. They had arrested a hundred and thirty-eight wandering men at Kingston the day before and put them in jail, and so he thought it best to follow the country road.

A little farther on, near some great elm trees, stood an old stone house. From the gilded signs and the many beer kegs in evidence, I saw at once it was another one of the roadside lamps of ruin. Many men seemed to have gathered in and about the place and without disturbance were resting beneath the trees. I joined them and just as I did so a farmer drove up in an automobile looking for help. Before he had spoken, I asked, “Do you want help?”

“Well, I should say so,” he answered. “The farmers are all clamoring for men, and are wondering where the temporary farm hands are this year.”

I suggested he might find a few of them in the Kingston jail. He said that because of the recent rains the fruit was ripening so rapidly that it was decaying on the vines for the need of being gathered. Considering that the earnings of the railroad company were augmented by the fruit shipments he granted that a little persuasive argument with the latter might be of help. But did I want work, and would I work for him? I certainly would.

“What do you pay?” I asked.

“A cent and a half a box for strawberries,—that is, if you will stay the season. If not, I will only pay one cent a box.” The reason for this I found was that at the last gathering of a crop the fruit is light and the pickers cannot make nearly as much as in the beginning, and becoming discouraged, will quit. No matter if the farmer receives ten or thirty cents a box for his fruit, the picker receives no better wage.

“You will board me, I suppose?”

“Oh, no, you board yourself. We have a good bunkhouse where you can sleep.”

“But I have no money. How will I get me something to eat?”

“I will pay you every night at the rate of one cent if you want it.”

“But I have no money at all. What will I do for supper and breakfast?”

“Tell any of the grocers in Middlehope that you are going to work for me and they will trust you. You can come to my place and sleep to-night, so that you can begin work in the morning.”

Passing on to the village, I asked one of the merchants if he would trust me for a bill of edibles until the following evening. He looked at me hesitatingly. He had been deceived and that made him cautious. When saying that I only wanted a little, he consented and gave me the following bill: bacon, five cents, bread, five cents, coffee, five cents, can of corn, ten cents, total twenty-five cents.

I found later that there have been (and are still) thousands of instances when these willing workers have been denied this confidence and have worked all day in the burning sun without supper, breakfast and dinner.

Reaching the farm I was not shown where to go to sleep. I was told to go to the bunkhouse. I found a number of men already there with an improvised stove of rock and available sticks for fuel. With the aid of my willing contemporaries I managed to prepare and eat my supper. There was a promiscuous pile of filthy blankets to choose from for a bed. I went to the stable for straw on which to spread them, and as I picked up one pair of blankets, a man who had been there for some time said,

“I wouldn’t use those blankets. A sick man occupied them last.”

“What was the matter with him?” I asked.

“I don’t know, but he was pretty sick.” Finally choosing a pair of blankets which had the appearance of being a degree more wholesome than the others (and with at least a clean reputation), we laid down. In a short time, we discovered the place was literally alive with night prowlers, which drove us all out under the trees. This was preferable as long as it continued dry and warm, but at two A. M. a rain storm forced us back into the shack.

The next day I put in ten long hours picking berries. When I checked up I had earned just 50 cents—just enough to pay my store bill and buy another meager day’s rations. I tried the cherries, the raspberries and the gooseberries, but could do no better. I discovered that the pickers, no matter how clever they might be, did not, or could not, average over fifty cents a day, which, if they had spent it all for food, would only have been sufficient to purchase about two-thirds as much as they would have eaten if they had had enough. For other farm work the pay was one dollar, or one and a quarter dollars per day without board. With a few exceptions board was given with the one dollar. It was extremely difficult to get other farm work in berry picking season. However, I myself was offered by an old farmer one dollar a day and board, to hoe corn.

The next day was Sunday. Could I work on Sunday? Being good Irish church people, they had been taught to remember the Sabbath day and keep it holy. The old gentleman hesitated slightly but yielded finally when I told him I needed the money. Then, too, I was in much better company working by myself in the field than sitting around the village. He would see what the old lady would say about it.

The old lady had been suffering with the toothache for the past two days and had tried everything from ice down her back to boiling water, when an old woman driving by suggested filling the cavity of the tooth with fine-cut tobacco. This she declared to be a never-failing cure. The old lady tried it, but had swallowed the tobacco, and no mortal, she declared, ever before passed through such a sickness and survived! Consequently life just then seemed very uncertain, and this caused, on her part, a deep reflection on the subject of being very good. But finally she thought it would be all right for me to hoe on the Sabbath day, providing I did my hoeing down in the woodlot, instead of in the open field on the hill.

It was pitiful to see these workers, after a hard day’s work, walk several miles to the village store with their few cents to buy their suppers, knowing that they must walk back before they could cook and eat it. Even though a man were not a drunkard, do you wonder that he would spend a portion of that day’s pitiful wage for stimulant to create enough force to get back to his camp? All of the country merchants had coffee, tea and sugar done up in five-cent packages ready to hand out. They had many customers for such quantities.

One day, during my short investigation among these, a man was found dead in a barn, where he had crawled to rest. Was it any wonder? He had in his possession only a few cents and a little package of groceries. Is it any marvel that another man was found dead, hanging in an orchard, or that another was killed by an automobile, in the darkness of the night? Seventy-five per cent of these workers were old men or men beyond middle life. They were men of all sorts of trades, as well as the unskilled. A great many were physically infirm, which disabled them from following either their own trade or the more arduous work of the common laborer.

I heard during the time I was among these toilers, the wish expressed many times by them that they, too, could own a garden tract, a bit of land that they could cultivate, a place, however humble, that they could call home. No; men do not, as many will tell you, seek the open fields to be evil, but to shun evil.

There exists to-day in many of the villages, towns and cities of New York, the rule to grant to the police, marshal, or constable, as a perquisite to his office, money for every arrest he makes. In Milton I was told by one of its citizens that the fee was one dollar. Consequently they are on the lookout for poor, unfortunate workingmen. When they find one he is thrown into a dark hole of their city jail or lockup. In one of these villages, this wretched place of detention was partially filled with water when the men were put in. No matter how prosperous the aspect of his farm, the farmer will tell you of the vicissitudes he must continually encounter before his crop is gathered and sold, that many of the farms are carrying a heavy mortgage with an excessive rate of interest which they can not pay off, but can only succeed in living and paying the usury,—that he is at the mercy of the middle man (the commission man) and, above all else, what a time he has with his help, so hard to get, so unreliable when he does get it. If this is all true, do you wonder at it? Why, the horse, the cow and the hogs on these farms are better treated than their help! The animal must be well fed, housed comfortably and kept in good health to be profitable. If these farmers would institute some kind of a recall which would rid them of the code of ethics now practiced among them, or which would force them to practice brotherly love, kindness and justice; if they would create a new religion that will abolish the death-dealing, demoralizing, destructive influences which exist among them now; if they will cease being thoughtless; if they will begin to think,—then the weather will have lost much of its terror. The mortgage will be more easily raised. The faults of the commission man may be overcome and the unpleasant specter of quantity and quality of help will vanish. Labor is the corner-stone to the foundation of the edifice of prosperity. It is left to the farmer to make his way easy, his burden light.

Yet some who live in palaces, and many bold charlatans of trade who use the name of philanthropy to guild their shady ways, will still cry, “Why don’t the out-of-work man help the farmer? Why don’t they go onto the land?” They certainly do not mean in the domain of the Hudson.

In talking with an editor, I once advanced the thought of the advantage of cultivating every acre of the ground from New York to Albany. The astonished editor replied, “Why, would you destroy the scenery of our American Rhine?”

Destroy the scenery! I could not but ask, surprisedly, “What is more beautiful than a cultivated vineyard, or a farm supporting an American home?” But this was what the search light revealed. The great estates of the greatest financiers in the world; the palaces of wealthy brewers; the castles of whiskey distillers; monasteries of the Church of England; Roman Catholic convents; orphans’ homes, reformatories for white slaves, States prisons, criminal insane asylums; United States War Schools; government store-houses for high explosives; miles of unsightly brick-yards (of the Brick Trust); acres of decaying old frame shacks; ice-houses (of the Ice Trust;) signs, “Don’t trespass” and “Beware of the dog”—and hundreds of hungry, starving men.

CHAPTER XXIII
Albany—In the Midst of the Fight

“As long as any man exists there is some need of him. Let him fight for his own.”—Emerson.

Between the hours of ten P. M. and midnight the next evening, I found myself (with another down-and-out worker) sitting in the smoking-room of the Albany depot. My momentary acquaintance was an Irishman. Presently another young fellow, whose appearance was indicative of having recently put off a good many meals, came in and sat down near us. The Irishman looked squarely and inquisitively at the new-comer (who was an Irish-American), and recognizing by some mutual instinct that he belonged to the army who must work and wander, abruptly said: “Who are you?”

“I am a tramp,” the young fellow replied.

“Then, I suppose,” continued the Irishman, “you have been in every State in the Union.”

“Yes, every State,” answered the young fellow. “Well,” said the Irishman, “I’ll bet you have never been in the state of matrimony.”

“Yes,” quickly answered the man, “I have been in Utah, too.”

“How about the state of intoxication?”

“Do you mean the State of New York, or a personal experience with John Barleycorn? If you mean the latter, I can honestly say, I have never been drunk.”

Thus we laughed and joked and then talked seriously for an extended time. These two men were on their way to the hop fields of New York for work. The younger of the two, when he had reached the age to fully comprehend, found himself in an Orphan Asylum. At fourteen he had been given to a farmer for whom he did the work of a man. When he was sixteen the family was broken up and the farm sold. He had been taught no trade and had received very little book knowledge. With the non-existence of this farm home, he became (to use the soubriquet of disrespect which is often put upon the forced migratory wage-slave) a floater.

There were only a few men in the smoking-room. Weary, almost beyond endurance, we lay down on the empty seats and fell asleep. Suddenly we were awakened by a depot official saying, “This is no lodging house.” We were roughly asked many questions,—who we were, where we were going, whether we had a ticket or the price of a ticket. When our answers proved unsatisfactory we were violently thrust into the street. I wondered at the time why we were not jailed, but I soon learned that their local prisons were full, and that the fact that they knew we had no money was a good reason,—in fact our protection from arrest.

Undaunted, I stepped up to a policeman who was standing a little way off talking to a man, and asked him for Albany’s Municipal Emergency Home. This officer, surprised at my question, hesitated to answer. The man to whom he was talking, said, “Go to the Baptist Home. Tell them you are penniless and they will take care of you. Here is my card. The address is on it.”

We went to the home but found it closed and dark. To our ringing and knocking there was no response. I learned afterwards that even if the institution had been open, we would have found no welcome as it was house-cleaning time. We next sought out the Salvation Army. It was not house-cleaning time with them but the place was much darker, more securely sealed against the homeless, hopeless wayfarer, than the Baptist Home.

A man on the street gave the two hop pickers the price of a supper, a breakfast and a place to rest, and very soon I was curled down on the cushions of an early morning train, riding the velvet into Rochester.

When, on this early Fall morning, I reached Rochester it was again God’s day of rest. A number of workingmen were grouped a little way down the street, and with assumed indifference I joined them. Their conversation was on the possibility of getting work. All of them seemed to be idle. There was no prospect in sight in the city, and they had decided to go into the apple orchards of the surrounding country. In response to my inquiry as to whether there was any public place where a fellow who was broke could get a meal with or without working for it, one of them replied, “I, too, am up against it, pal, or I would help you. The only place I have heard of is the Sunshine Rescue Mission on Front Street.”

I walked toward the Mission and as I went I caught sounds of a drunken brawl in a saloon. A little farther on a “scarlet girl” with a sad face tapped on the window and smiled. Just as I reached Front Street the police wagon came hurriedly dashing down the street. Three stalwart members of the police force, on the pay roll of the city of Rochester, got out of the wagon when it stopped at the Mission. I thought I must be mistaken in the place and that it was a police station. But no, there was the sign: “Sunshine Rescue Mission.” The officers entered. Brutally and roughly they brought out two men, thrust them into the wagon and took them off to the prison. They were scarcely out of sight before another policeman came down the street with another man whom he hurried into the Mission.

From the time I entered Rochester until I left, I saw evidences of a “vice trust,” the depravity of which could only be conjectured. I did not dare remain there for I trembled at the thought of a homeless man asking for aid in that institution of a “humane” Christian city. I hurriedly left Rochester for here more than any place that I had been in there seemed to be something “rotten in Denmark.”

CHAPTER XXIV
Cleveland—The Crime of Neglect

“A servant grafted in my serious trust And therefore negligent.”—Shakespeare.

The midnight bell was striking. The great city of Cleveland was going to rest as I rode to my hotel. I, too, was soon resting,—but not sleeping. I was forming a resolution to become absolutely indigent for an extended time. My assumed destitution previously had been of very brief periods, always having money at my hotel or in my pockets for my immediate needs. “What,” I reasoned, “does the man who at any moment can place his hand in his pocket and secure relief know of the real struggle of the penniless and homeless worker?”

I looked myself over. I was healthy, comparatively strong. I had no trade, yet was clever at many things. I was honest, sober, willing, industrious. So I entered, with an iron-clad resolve, into a mental contract, signing and sealing it, that I would go penniless to Memphis, Tenn., with a determination to secure work on the government works on the Mississippi river for the winter. For I had discovered in my study from New York to Cleveland many moneyless men striving to reach these government works.

I would not steal, nor beat a railroad train, nor beg, but if forced to do so, I would ask succor from those institutions which stand, ostensibly, ready to help the needy. My itinerary, briefly given, would be, Cleveland to Cincinnati, Cincinnati to Louisville, Louisville to Memphis.

The next morning, after sending my baggage on to Memphis and paying my hotel bill, I was completely broke, and found myself on the streets of Cleveland, destitute, looking for work. I strolled up to the Public Square while I was considering the best course to pursue. I had pulled on my blue jeans over a pretty good business suit, for my investigation was to be of that class of toilers who must work with their hands as well as of the class that does those things we faultily regard as more polite work. Destitute, homeless, friendless, I must honorably reach the government works,—that was the point I had to keep ever in mind. My first thought was as a hopeful medium to find work,—the newspapers. Stepping up to a news-stand I asked for a paper, and thrust my hand deep down in my pocket for the price. Thus it was that it came to me forcibly for the first time that I was broke. I looked at the news-vender as he handed me the paper and said, “Never mind, old man, I have left my pocketbook at home.” Then I remembered I had a postage stamp and thought of offering that in exchange; but I remembered a long delayed letter which must be sent home, and so I kept the stamp. I thought of the many places where the newspapers were on file and the newspaper offices.

Just as I entered the Square, a man sitting on a bench reading a morning paper left abruptly, leaving the paper behind. I made a dash for it with a half dozen other jobless men. I was the lucky one, however. Hurriedly I sought the want columns. I scanned them carefully and made note of those things I knew I could do. I also made note of an "ad" reading: “Wanted, fifty supers at the Opera House. Apply at 10 A. M.” Handing the paper to the other boys, I left quickly on my mission for work. The super’s job I kept as a last resort, if all others failed. All others did fail. There were a great many idle men and boys in Cleveland at that time. I saw the importance of being early, for the answer invariably was, “The place is filled long ago.” So ten o’clock found me at the stage door of the Opera House with several hundred others, hanging onto the hope of being a favored chosen one. I knew that if successful I could work here nights, and that they would probably pay the same price offered in Pittsburg. Through the day I could do something else. I would therefore earn quickly enough to buy a six-dollar ticket to Cincinnati and be well on my journey to the government works, where, from all I had heard, I would be comfortably located for the winter, and in line for making a stake.

The manager soon appeared and began rapidly to choose his men. We discovered we were to be millionaire senators in a great political play. I noticed I was being intentionally shunned, and fearful of not being chosen, I remembered my good front beneath my workingman’s garb. I stepped up to the man and said, “I have better clothes than these. I can make an appearance for the part,” whereupon he immediately took me. Our pay was to be three dollars and a half for eight performances, covering a week,—a little less than forty-four cents a performance.

Although I had landed a job I was no better off so far as the immediate needs for existence went. So I saw that I must be active in order to cover the vacancy in some way. Already I was growing very hungry.

The first thing I did was to ask a man with a star for the Municipal Emergency Home. He looked at me with a contemptuous smile, and seemed to regard me as one just dropped out of Russia, China, or some other heathen country. At last he said: “There is nothing like that here. I never heard of such a thing. Did you?”

No one will ever know what it means to be really hungry until he is broke. There seemed no other way for me to win a dinner other than to ask the various restaurants the privilege of working for it. Of the great number to which I applied, the answer was, “Nothing doing.” At last the proprietress of one restaurant told me she wanted some one very badly for the noon hour rush to wipe dishes, and in return for the work would gladly give me my dinner. I readily accepted the offer, and was soon installed in the small kitchen of a very large, cheap restaurant. I was obliged to stand near the dishwasher and his tubs, hemmed in by a very narrow space. In an instant the rush was on. Everything that was not nailed down or stuck to the wall was in the air. The busy boys would come in with a San Juan charge, literally firing the dishes into the big wash tub, and every time they did so I received a shower-bath. Now, I would not have objected to a sprinkle or two, but an immersion was a crime, and in my position I could neither retreat nor advance. The old lady appearing, I demanded a release, declaring our agreement was that I was to work for a meal and not a bath. She declared the hour was now nearly up, and then, too, I did not object as strenuously as I might have done, if, through the rain and the mist, I had not caught sight of rows of pies, cake, ice-cream and pudding. Also, perhaps as a panacea to my hurt feelings, the old lady (who had a bass voice and weighed about three hundred pounds) threatened to put a few of the reckless flunkies out of commission if they did not exercise more caution.

True to her word, the moment the hour was spent, I was asked to sit down to a banquet on the end of the cook’s table, and the order issued to give me all the corned beef, cabbage and boiled potatoes I wanted. The pie, cake, ice-cream and pudding were not on the dishwiper’s menu, at least not that day, but I was to have all I wanted of what was given me, and that meant a great deal. Regaining the street, I felt a strong desire for a bath, clothes and all. Again approaching another appendix to the correctional laws of Cleveland, I asked for the free public baths. “Gad,” he said, as he eyed me closely, “how many baths do you take a day?” He then referred me to Cleveland’s two public baths, which were so far out that he advised me decidedly to take a street car.

“And are they absolutely free?” I demanded.

“No, one will cost you five cents and the other two.”

I went to the lake.

In my little bundle I carried a small mirror, a hairbrush, a piece of soap, a couple of white collars and a towel. Ye gods, what a bath that was! The water was four degrees below freezing. However, I soon had on the expression of the United States Senator whom I was to impersonate at the Opera House that night, who wouldn’t buy a vote, no, not if he died for it, who could sit in the four o’clock Y. M. C. A. Sunday afternoon meeting with a face as long as a fiddle, and an expression that to the thought of a jackpot would prove fatal. Not one of the elite in the great audience that night ever dreamed of the battle I had gone through that day in Cleveland for the privilege of sitting in that honored seat!

We were an exceedingly interesting group of millionaire senators, for three-fourths of us were broke. After our great act, I timidly approached the manager, and asked him if he would please advance me a quarter as I had no place to sleep nor the money to buy a place. No, he could not think of doing so. It was not their custom to pay until the last performance. An old “senator” of sixty-eight years who sat next to me, one of the many in the same plight I was in, was waiting to learn the result of my plea.

We then began to try to find a place to rest, for that we must have. Our act was not over until nearly ten-thirty o’clock, compelling us to be out late. My brother senator knew Cleveland better than I did and proposed going to the “charity” free lodging house where we could pay by sawing wood an hour or more the next morning. We made our way to the old rookery, which was in a hole down under the hill, but when we got there it was closed and dark.

I then proposed the police station or the jail. He looked at me in astonishment and said, “Do you think I would go there? I’ll tell you where we can go. I slept there the other night, and—well, it might have been worse. It is on the floor of the High Ball Saloon on St. Clair Street. There is no use to hurry, as we can’t lie down until twelve o’clock.“ He then continued, “Let us find some newspapers to lie on.” So as we walked towards our destination we searched the rubbish boxes on the street corners for paper with which to make a bed. Reaching the saloon, we stood about until midnight, at which time the lights were turned low and the side doors locked. Then we were allowed to lie down. We each had two newspapers which we spread under us.

After a moment I raised up and counted the little army of bedless men who were obliged to seek shelter there that night. There were just an even sixty lying upon the floor, and this number was augmented now and then by a late arrival drifting in. A number of men stood at the bar, or lunch stand, and caroused all night. One, verging on delirium tremens, had a prize fight with a stone post. While the place seemed clean and the floor clean for a great, cheap saloon, roaches by the hundred were scampering all about us, and the odor from a near-by toilet could scarcely be endured. In a calm moment of the revelers, just as I felt that I might drop into a doze (my poor, weary, old senator was sleeping through it all), a big Dutchman, whose bones probably ached from coming in contact with the hard floor, raised up and turned over. As he did so, he came down on a little Irishman. Jumping up, he slapped the Dutchman in the face and a rough house was in order for an extended time. Occasionally a “cop” or a plain-clothes man came in and looked us over. For me to try to sleep was useless, and promptly at five o’clock the order was given “Every man up.”

My political colleague and I strolled confidentially up an alley to the Public Square. Here was located a beautiful example of Cleveland’s humanity to man in a small, yet seemingly perfect public lavatory. Every man, no matter how soiled or wretched, was given a towel and a piece of soap to cleanse himself, and often I heard someone say, “Tom Johnson’s gift.”

Food was the next essential to our good behavior and well-being. My associate member proposed we try the “Charity” Lodging House again, which we did. Yes, we could have breakfast if we would saw and split wood for an hour or more first. We would certainly do so. Imagine the state we were in from lack of food and sleep. And yet this homeless old gentleman—and he was a gentleman—was eager and willing. After splitting curly birch for over an hour, we were told to come to breakfast. They gave us weak barley soup, poor bread, and the same old “charity coffee.” The staying qualities of that breakfast were extremely fleeting, for by the time we had climbed the hill we were no better off in regard to having our hunger appeased than when we went in. As we came out we noticed a sign which read, as I remember it, to this effect: “Persons coming here a second time must be expected to take orders from the city.” Not a very encouraging hope for the man who was broke and who was only earning three-fifty per week, which he would not get for six days.

Every day while in this city I found (aside from us senators) many men who had secured work or would have gone to work, but who could find no one to trust them. The boarding-house keepers had been imposed upon so many times by penniless people that they were cautious. The contractor or employer will never pay in advance, only at a stated time,—once a week, once in two weeks, or once a month. While there may be exceptions, through all my investigations in the larger cities of our country, I have never found any relief for the penniless worker in this time of need, either in public or private works. If he proves he is a fine worker he is valuable to his employer and he wants to keep him. But he does not know him. He may have unconquerable habits. It would never do to pay him his wage when the day is done. He might not return, so the employer hopes to hold him by offering him nothing, not even a word of inquiry as to his needs, or of encouragement. He forgets that he is an asset to the community, that whether working for the city or the individual, every laborer is just as worthy of respect and esteem as is the privileged owner of Forest Hill.

What an appeal for Cleveland’s Emergency Home to fill this place of need!

Reader, I want you to keep steadily in mind that you are looking at the man I describe, not at me. I had multi-millionaire acquaintances in Cleveland who would have granted me any request I might have made. I held credentials on which any bank in that city would have honored my check without question. I could have stepped into the home of the exceedingly prominent lodge of which I was a member in good standing, and could have had my every wish granted. I knew if I fell ill or met with accident, to reveal my identity meant every care and comfort, the speedy coming of a loving wife, kind relatives and friends. And so, after all, while I might endure, I could only assume.

My aged “senator” friend left me, to walk a long way in search of someone he knew, who perhaps would make his burden light. I did not need to be told the feelings of the old gentleman as he wearily took his departure. I had started for the Public Square to rest, though momentarily, for there was a dinner which must be battled for. I passed a fruit store. There was an array of delicious fruit in front,—many baskets of rich, purple grapes, marked ten cents. I was sure I could have eaten at least one basket. They were not directly in front of the window. It would have been so easy to pick up a basket unseen and be quickly lost in the crowd. After all it was true, then, that starving men and boys filched bottles of milk from doorsteps, a loaf of bread from the bakery, or a pie from a wagon!

I stepped directly in front of the window and looked at the apples and oranges. A woman inside seemed to have her eye on me,—I fancied suspiciously. Instantly she stepped out and picking up one each of the fairest of the apples and oranges offered them to me. I hesitatingly regarded her gift. “Take them,” she said, “God made them to be eaten.” I had had nothing to eat for eighteen hours except my “charity” bowl of barley soup and with it the warning not to come back. The city of Cleveland had nothing to offer. It remained for a poor woman to give me a portion of her small possessions.

I reached the Square. Broken, I dropped into a seat and was immediately lost in sleep, from which I was suddenly awakened by a sharp blow on the bottom of my feet, which, through the thin half-wornout soles, left a burning sting. Lifting my head, I saw a burly policeman who growled,

“Keep your eyes open. This Square is for wide-awake people.”

“It certainly is not for the city of Cleveland, then, in its care for its homeless,” I remarked.

Remembering I was in a “Golden Rule” city, I felt that I could safely reply to this august hint of the law, without fear of being “run in” or beaten into insensibility, as I had seen helpless men treated in other cities for such presumption. He simply gave me a half comprehending look as he passed on. Now this officer was not the Chief of Police in that city. He was simply a subordinate, and a city of six hundred thousand people requires a large police force. Notwithstanding the spirit of the Chief of Police, or his high ideal of what a police department really stands for, his good aim and end will be miscarried continually by his hirelings, until the required qualifications of a policeman are based upon intelligence, good-will, good morals, good deeds, and not upon the fact that he helped carry his ward.

I saw, however, during my short stay in this city evidences of advancement in the character of their police system, which spoke volumes for Cleveland, even though the homeless and temporarily moneyless toiler, seeking work, found no help in the many considerations for labor.

With the feeling that closing one’s eyes in the public park in Cleveland might mean life imprisonment or at least, for the second offense, a rap on the head instead of the feet, which might disqualify me for my seat in the “senate” that night, I forced myself to keep awake, and in order to do that I had to keep moving.

The agreement with myself was not to beg or steal. I was to be always “on the square.” I decided to continue to look for work. The day before, in search of work, I had climbed many stairs, entered stores, hotels, factories, even tried the City, all without success. I began to feel that perhaps I was too old, yet several of them had said, “Come again. There are always chances. We may be able to use you in a few days.”

I realized I was weak from lack of sleep and nourishment. I must eat first. Just then I overheard one starving man say to another (the park was full of “wide-awake,” starving men), “Jack, I have ten cents, let’s have a couple of beers.”

“Honest, Bill, I’d rather have a loaf of bread for my share.”

“But you see,” returned Bill, “you can get a scoop of beer as big as a toy balloon and a free lunch like a Christmas dinner for the price of a loaf of bread.”

“All right, I’m with you,” said Jack who then continued, “Another week like the one gone by, and want will have me in a home for incurables.”

’Tis true I had forty-four cents due me for one day’s “session” in the “senate.” But what of that? It was not due until Saturday night at twelve o’clock. By that time hunger might drive a man to wreck, rob, murder or suicide, and there is no telling what a politician will do, even on a full stomach.

I then remembered hearing one “senator” telling another of a Catholic institution where he had received a hand-out for some work. I remembered the name of the place. I also remembered hearing another say he had earned fifty cents that day beating carpets,—a job he secured from the Associated Charities.

I first made my way to the Romanist institution. A Sister with a sweet face framed in folds of black and white met me at the door. She looked kind enough to give me the institution, but she didn’t. If she had, Cleveland would have had, from the way I was feeling just then, a Municipal Emergency Home about as quickly as one could change the sign. What she did give me was a job cleaning windows, for which I received a bowl of cold coffee and a piece of bread. As I waited I caught glimpses of delicious dishes of chicken, steaks, and other wholesome and dainty edibles. To the cook, a bright young Irish woman who had received orders to give me only what was before me, I said, as I looked at the bowl and bread, “Do these people believe in multiplying anything around here?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Working hours.”

“What do you do for something to eat when you get really hungry?”

“Well, you see, this is an institution what believes in fasting.” We both laughed and this brought forth a Mother Superior followed by a Mother Inferior, whose faces were sour enough to start a pickle factory. I felt that I had committed some unpardonable offense and abbreviated my call by taking a speedy departure.

Scarcely were we seated that night in the “senate” before the old “senator” told of the square meal he had that day and of a fine place he had found in a stable where we could sleep with the comfort befitting our distinguished station. He had not seen it, but knew where it was and how to find it. So after the session adjourned, we started for our newly-found shelter. It was now late in October. The nights were unusually cold in Cleveland for that time of year. After walking what seemed an interminable distance, the warm, bright street cars passing us frequently (the fare only three cents), we finally reached our shelter. It was not as we fancied it would be,—a large, fine barn, half filled with new-mown hay. It was an old, closed-in, empty shed, with two stalls and two mangers. We entered. By striking a few matches, we could see to gather up enough of the refuse in the stalls to lie on, by placing it in the narrow mangers. The “senator” took one and I the other. He suggested that I take off my coat and place it over my head and shoulders, saying that by so doing I would be much warmer than if I kept it on. I found this to be true. So exhausted and weary had we become that we were soon lost in profound sleep, from which I awoke at three o’clock, perishing with the cold. I crept over and felt of the old man. He was alive and sleeping soundly. I slipped out and walked the streets for an hour. By the time I was thoroughly warmed the day had begun to break. Very soon I found myself again in “wide-awake” Square. I wasn’t in the most amiable mood in the world. Far from it. I began to feel that I would like to stand on their city hall steps and tell the people of Cleveland what I thought of them. I slipped into that ideal little lavatory, and with the warm water, soap and clean towel, cleansed my hands and face until I felt refreshed. Then I thought of Tom Johnson, and the bitterness left my heart. I actually forgot for the moment that I was starving and fell to wondering whither God had taken him and what great work he was doing in that land to which he had gone.