"One day we were going up the Bowery and passing a Mission went in. We heard the testimonies, and I turned to Ranney and said, 'Are you a Christian?' He said, 'I am.' I said, 'Get up, then, and tell the men what God has done for you.' Now here I was a gambler telling this man to acknowledge God, and I did not do it myself! Ranney rose and turned all colors. He finally settled down to that style of talking which he alone possesses. He told his story for the first time. I have heard him hundreds of times since, but to me that night fifteen years ago was the greatest talk he ever gave, telling how God saved him from a crooked and drunken life. It had the ring! I loved him from that night on. When he got through I said, 'Dave, God met you face to face to-night. You will be a different man from now on. God spoke to-night, not you. It was the best talk I ever heard. It took you a long time to start, but nothing can stop you now. One word of advice, pal, I'll give you: Don't get stuck on yourself. God will use you when He won't others among your own kind. He will make a preacher of you to men of your own stamp.' And Ranney is to-day what I said and thought he would be.

"You would think that a man who had been the pal of Ranney for three years would never say an unkind word to one that he loved, but that is what I did. We had a misunderstanding, and I said things to Dave Ranney that he never will forget. I called him every name on the calendar. He was speechless and I thought afraid of me. He never said a word. I left him standing there as if petrified—his friend and pal talking to him like that, his pal that sang with him, and joked with him!

"I went home and swore that never again would I have anything to do with a Christian. I had forgotten for the moment all the little kindnesses he had done and how after I had been on a drunk he had been at my bedside, how he had spoken words of cheer and comfort and said, 'Dan, old man, cheer up. Some day you are going to cut out drink'; and I want to say right now that I have not drank in over twelve years. I'd forgotten all that. I only thought of how I might hang the best fellow on this earth. I came to myself ten minutes after I left him, but the work had been done, and I made up my mind I'd never see or speak to him again. I'd go back to my old life of gambling and cheating, and I did.

"Five months passed. I had not seen Ranney in all that time. I was playing poker one night, the 16th of September, 1899, with no more thought of Dave than if he had never lived. It was in the old —— —— Hotel on Water Street, a little before eight in the evening. My partner and I were having a pretty easy time stealing the other men's money—some call it cheating—when my thoughts turned to my old Christian pal Ranney. It was the eighth anniversary of his conversion. Quick as a flash I jumped to my feet and said, 'Boys, I'll be back in an hour. I've got to go!' My partner thought I had been caught cheating and was going to cash his chips. I said, 'I'll be back in a little while.'

"I ran all the way up to the Bowery to the place where Ranney was holding his meeting. The Mission was packed. There were a lot of big-guns on the platform. No one saw me that knew me. Ranney was asking for those testimonies that would help the other fellow. I got on my feet and faced him. He turned pale. He thought I was going to set him out then and there. He looked me straight in the eye and began to come slowly toward me, and when I had finished we had one another by the hand. This is part of what I said that night:

"'I make no pretense at being a Christian. I am a gambler. But the man standing there—Dave Ranney—was once my chum and pal. We had a little misunderstanding some five months ago, and I am here to-night to ask his forgiveness. Forgive me, Dave. I just left a card-game to come up to your anniversary and help make you happy. I know you don't believe I meant what I said. I love you more to-night than any time since I first met you. Why, men, I would lay down my life that Ranney is one of the best and whitest Christians in New York to-night. It ain't the big things that a man does that show his real character. No, it's the little things. I have watched Ranney, been with him; his sorrows are my sorrows, his joys my joys. I can't say any more to-night.'

"Dave begged me to stay. Mr. Seymour came down to speak to me, but I'd done what I came to do, and I had got out quick—from Heaven to Hell, from my Christian pal to my pal in crime at the card-table.

"I've never been converted. If I was I'd go like my pal Ranney out in the world and tell how God saved me, and not let the ministers do all the talking. At present all I can say is, 'God bless my pal! and some of these days perhaps I'll be with him on the platform telling what God did for me. God speed the day!'"

TRIED IN THE FIRE

I had been sexton for over five years, and had been greatly blessed, when my wife became ill. Things did not always run smoothly, for there are ups and downs even in a sexton's life, and I had mine. When Mary and I took up again I determined to do all in my power to make amends for my former treatment of her, to make life as pleasant for her as I could, and I did. When she was first taken sick I sent her and the boy over to Ireland to visit her parents, thinking the change would do her good. She was better for a little while, but on the 14th of March, 1902, she died. My boy and I were at her bedside and promised to meet her on the other side, and with the help of God we are going to keep our word.

You know there are always "knockers," and I knew quite a few. In every church and society there they are with their little hatchets ready to trim and knock any one that goes ahead of them. Some of these people said of me, "Oh, Ranney is under Christian influences. He is sexton. He is afraid. Wait until he runs up against a lot of trouble, then he will go back to the Bowery again and drink worse than ever." I do think some of those people would have liked to see it happen. I've seen one of them in a sanitarium to be treated for drink who was my worst knocker, and I told him I would pray for him. I'm not talking of the good Christian people. They don't know how to "knock," and I thank God for all such. I had a thousand friends for every "knocker," and they were ready to help me with kind words, money, or in any other way when I was in trouble.

Just as an illustration of this take the act of the poor fellows of the Midnight Mission in Chinatown when my wife died. They wanted to show their sympathy and their love, and a delegation of them came in a body and placed a wreath on Mary's coffin. I learned afterwards how they all chipped in for the collection—some a few cents, some a nickel. Don't think for a moment that the Bowery down-and-out has no heart, for it isn't so. Many a tough-looking fellow with a jumper instead of a shirt has one of the truest hearts that beats. I only wish I could help them more than I do.

When God took Mary away I thought it was hard, and I was sore and ready to do anything, I didn't care what. There was a lady, Miss Brown, a trained nurse, who had been with Mary all through her illness, whose cheering words did me a wonderful lot of good. One thing she said was, "Trust." God bless her!

A TESTING TIME

My old friend the Devil was in evidence during this hard time in all his pomp and glory. I could hear him say, "You see how God treats you! He don't care much or He wouldn't have taken Mary away. What did He do it for? Why, He don't know you even a little bit. Come, Dan, I'll be your friend; didn't we always have a good time together on the Bowery? Go get a 'ball'; it'll do you good and make you forget your troubles. You have a good excuse even if any one sees you." I was tempted, but I said, "Not this time, you old Devil: get behind my back!" People said, "Keep your eye on Ranney; he's up against it; now he will start to drink and go down and out."

I'm going to tell you how God came and helped me in my hour of need. It was the day of the funeral, the 17th of March, 1902. The people who were helping had gone home to get ready to attend the service, and my boy and I were left all alone with the dead. We were feeling pretty bad. My boy had lost the best friend he ever had or would have in this world. Some fathers are all right and love their children, but it isn't like a mother's love. No wonder he was weeping and feeling badly.

We were walking about the room saying nothing, just thinking, and wondering what would happen next. We happened to meet just at the head of the casket (God's doing), and stood there as though held by some unseen power, when my boy opens up like this: "Pop, you don't want me to smoke any cigarettes, do you?" I looked at him, astonished at such a question at this time, but I said, "No, Willie, I don't want you to smoke and hope you never will." Then he said, "Father, you don't want me to drink, do you?" I wondered at these questions, and looked at him with tears in my eyes. I said, "No, Bill, my poor boy, I would rather see you dead and in your coffin beside your poor mother, and know you were going to be buried to-day, than to know you would ever drink or be like your father was. Bill, don't you ever take the first glass of beer or whiskey! Ask God to keep you from it."

I wondered what was coming next, but I didn't have to wait long. The boy said, "The people are watching you and say you won't come back from the grave without having a drink, and that you won't be sober a week from now. Pop, trust in the God that saved you ten years ago, won't you? You know we promised to meet mother. Fool these people and let them see that you are the man and father I love."

I straightened up, looked at the lad, and out went my hand. We shook hands and I said, "Son, with the help of God I'll never drink again." And there at the head of the coffin we knelt and asked God to help us and make us men such as He would have us be; we asked it in the name and for the sake of the Christ who died for us.

That was March 17, 1902, and we have kept the faith up to the present time.

I'll never forget that prayer. Don't you think it pays to be on the level with God? If you ask Him to help you He will. Just trust Him and have a little backbone, and you will win out every time. I know now that this experience was God teaching me a lesson and drawing me closer to Him.

Things went differently now; I could not run the church very well alone, so after a few months I handed in my resignation. The trustees wanted me to stay, but I couldn't; sad memories would come up, and I simply had to go. I left the old church where I had spent so many happy days with a record of ten years that money could not buy. I go there once in a while even now.



CHAPTER VII

THE MISSION IN CHINATOWN

About two years previous to my wife's death a man, Mr. H. Gould, called on me and asked me if I was the Ranney that was converted on the Bowery. I said, "Yes, I was saved about ten years ago." He said, "I've a proposal to make. I hear you are a natural-born leader of men, and I think you look it. I'm one of the trustees of the Midnight Mission in Chinatown. It's a hard place, but will you come and take charge of it? I can't keep any one there longer than a few weeks; they get drunk or are licked or done up some way. I want some one with backbone; will you take it?" I thanked him. He had said enough to make any one refuse a job like that, but I knew all the ins and outs of that quarter, and I thought I'd like the work. I asked God's guidance, and I spoke with Mr. Dennison, the pastor of the Church of Sea and Land, and he said it was wonderful the way God was leading me. "Go and see what it's like," he said. "Try it. You can run the church also, but if you see you can't get along, give it up."

My wife and boy were planning to go on a visit to Ireland to see if it would improve her health, and when I told her of Mr. Gould's proposal she did not want me to go: she was afraid I'd get killed. But I said it would help to pass the time away until she came back. So in 1900 I took charge of the Chinatown Midnight Mission, remained there six years, and left to be a lodging-house missionary.

I well remember the first night. There sat some of the old gang. They gave me the glad hand, and asked me if I was going to be the bouncer; if so, I could count on them. I said. "Yes, I'm to be the 'main guy,' bouncer, etc." They were pleased, and gave me credit of always being on the level. I made lots of friends while there.

LEADING A MEETING

I never had to use force to keep order but once while in that Mission. I had been in charge two months or so when I got notice that the leader would not be there that night, so it was up to me to lead the meeting. I'll never forget that night. There are some things a person can't forget, and that was one of them.

It was snowing and very cold outside, and the Mission was packed with men and a few women. These poor creatures had no place to go, no home; they were outcasts, there through various sins, but mostly through love of rum. I hoped some visitor would come in and I would get him to lead, but no one came, and it was up to me to give the boys a talk. I had never forgotten my first sermon at the church, so, asking God to help me, I went on the platform. I read the story of the Prodigal Son. That was easy; the hard part was to come later on. I asked if some one would play the piano, and a young fellow came up that looked as though he hadn't had a meal or slept in a bed in a month, but when he touched the keys I knew he was a master. I found out later that he was a prodigal, had left home, spent all, and was on the Bowery living on the husks.

We began by singing a hymn, after which I got up and began to talk to the men. I gave my testimony, how God had saved me from a life of crookedness and crime, and that I was no better than the worst man on the Bowery, except by the grace of God. There was one big fellow sitting in the front row who was trying to guy me. While I was talking he would make all sorts of remarks, such as, "Oh, what do you know about it? Go away back and sit down," etc. I asked him to keep still or he would have to get out. I went on trying to talk, but that man would always answer back with some foolish remark. He was trying to stop the meeting—so he told me afterwards.

There I was. I could not go on if he did, and I told him that when I got through I would give him a chance to talk. Now there were over four hundred men looking at me, wondering what I would do. Some of my old pals shouted, "Put him out, Danny!" and the meeting was in an uproar. I knew if I did not run that meeting, or if I showed the "white feather," I was done as a leader or anything else connected with that place. I said to him, "My friend, if you don't keep still I'll make an example of you." I could have called the police and had him locked up, but I didn't want any one to go behind bars and know that I had him put there. I had been there and that was enough. I've never had one of these poor men arrested in my life. I used kindness.

I began to talk again, and he started in again, but before he got many words out of his mouth I gave him a swinging upper cut which landed on the point of his jaw, lifting him about two feet, and down he went on his back. My old pals came up to help, but I said, "Sit down, men; I can handle two like that fellow." I called out a hymn; then I told him to get up, and if he thought he could behave himself he might sit down, if not, he could get out. Well, he sat down and was as good as could be.

That was the making of me. The men all saw it. They knew that I was one of them, they saw that I could handle myself, and I never had any trouble after that. And the man I hit is to-day one of my best friends.

I told the men that the Devil sent in one of his angels once in a while, the same as to-night, to disturb the meeting-place of God. I said, "You men would be a marker for God if you would only take a stand for God and cut out your sins. I never in my palmy days disturbed a meeting, drunk or sober. I always respected God's house. If I didn't like it I went out, and I think, fellows, that's one of the reasons He picked me up when I was away down in sin and made me what I am to-night. He will do the same for any one here; why not give Him a chance?"

SOMETHING NEW

This was something new for the men. Here was a man that they knew, no stranger, but one of themselves eight years before. He had been in prison with them, drunk with them, stolen with them, and in fact had done everything that they did, and now here he was telling his old pals how they could be better men, how God would help them if they would only give Him a chance.

God was with me that night. It didn't seem to be Ranney at all. I asked who wanted to get this religion, who wanted me to pray for them, and about seventy-five hands went up. A number of men came forward and took a stand for Jesus. It was early in the morning when the meeting closed. It was cold and snowing outside.

It is a hard matter to get these men to declare themselves, for they are afraid of the laugh, but I told them not to mind that; that my pals gave me the laugh when I started out. "If we are honest and have sand and help ourselves after asking God's help," I told them, "we will take no notice of a grin or a sneer. My companions wagged their heads when I started out in the new life in September, 1892. They said, 'Oh, we'll give Danny a couple of weeks. He's trying to work the missionary; he'll be back again!' Don't you men see I'm still trusting? and there isn't a man in the Mission right now that can say I'm not on the level, that I've drank whiskey or beer or done an unmanly act since I gave my life into His keeping. Why? Because I'm trusting, not in man or woman, but I'm honestly trusting in God."

I was satisfied that among the whole roomful of men there were not half a dozen that had a bed to sleep on that night. I didn't have the money to put them to bed, but I departed from the rules, and calling them to order, said, "Boys, how many of you would like to be my guest for the night?" You ought to have seen them look at me! Never such a thing had been known. It set them to thinking. The saloon-keeper wouldn't do it; what did he care for them? I said, "Boys, I'm not doing this; I don't want you to think so. It's God through me."

Many's the night after that I kept the Mission open and let the poor fellows sleep there, on the chairs and on the floor, and they appreciated it. I was winning them through kindness. When I was ready to go home to my nice warm bed, I'd read them a little riot act telling them there were always a few among a lot of men that would spoil a good thing, ending up, "Be good, boys, and have a good sleep. Good-night," and they would say so heartily, "Good-night, Danny! God bless you and keep you!"

Letting the men stay didn't cost me a cent, and there was a big fire to keep them warm and it meant much to them, poor fellows. I had the Board of Health get after me quite a few times, but I'd explain things to them, and they would go away saying, "You're all right." Big hard men said, "If people who want to do good would only get a place to house the poor unfortunates, there would be less crime and misery." I knew that was true, and I'm praying for the day when we can have just such a place, and God is going to give it in His own good time.

I had won the boys, and I stayed in that Mission over six years and saw lots of men and women saved and living good lives. Many times well-dressed men will come into my place and say, "Mr. Ranney, don't you know me?" and when I can't place them they will tell me how I was the means of saving their lives by letting them stay in out of the cold, and giving them a cup of coffee and a piece of bread in the morning. I could count them by the hundreds. Praise His name!

A POOR OUTCAST

One night just as the doors opened, there came into the Mission a woman who evidently had seen better days. She was one of the poor unfortunates of Chinatown. She asked if she might sit down, as she was very tired and did not feel well. "Go in, Anna," I said, and she went in and took a seat. When I passed her way she said, "Mr. Ranney, will you please give me a drink of water?"

Now this woman had caused me lots of trouble. She would get drunk and carry on, but when sober she would be good and feel sorry. I gave her a cup of water and she said, "Thank you, Dan, and may God bless you!" An hour after that I gave her another cup, and she thanked me again, saying, "God bless you for your patience!" The next time I looked at her she had her head on the seat in front and I thought she was sleeping. Now I never wake any sleepers. I feel that an hour's sleep will do them good, for when the Mission closes and they go out they have no place to sleep. They have to find a truck or a hallway or walk up and down the Bowery all night. I've been there, and it takes one that has been through the mill to sympathize with the "down-and-outs." So I did not disturb this woman.

The meeting was over and the people were all out, when I noticed Anna still in the same position. I went over and called her, and receiving no answer shook her a little, but she never moved. I bent over and raised her head; a pair of sightless eyes seemed to look at me, and I knew she was dead. I never had such a start in my life. Two hours before alive—now dead! I learned that she was from a town in Connecticut, of good parents, who took her to her last resting-place in the family plot—a wayward girl who ran away from home. Her "God bless you, Dan!" still rings in my ears and her dead face I'll never forget.

Here was a case that, so far as I knew, did not come under the influence of God's Spirit, and I could only say, "God have mercy on her poor soul!" but there have been scores of other women whom I have been able to reach and help by the grace of God. I shall never forget the "white slave."

RESCUED FROM A DIVE

When I had charge of the Chinatown Mission a party of three came down to see the sights and do a little slumming in the district, and they asked me to show them around. Now there wasn't a hole or joint in Chinatown or on the Bowery that I didn't know, but I didn't as a rule take women to such places. I don't like the idea of their looking at other people's misery, and there's nothing but woe and want to be seen when you go slumming. Lots of it is brought on by the people themselves, but still they are human and do not like to be looked at.

However, this night was an exception, and away we went to see the sights. I took them to the Joss House—the temple where the Chinese pray to Confucius—and other places down on Cherry Hill. But they wanted to see something hard, so I took them to a place that I thought was hard enough. If you were a stranger and went into this place and displayed a roll of "the green" you would be done up.

We went into one of the worst places on the Bowery, the women being as anxious to go as the rest. The waiter piloted us to a small round table, and we sat down and called for some soda. I'd been there before to bring out a man or a woman or a girl as the case might be, and was pretty well known as "Sky-Pilot Dan."

The party with me were astonished and wondered how such things as they saw could exist in a city like New York. There were all classes in the place, sailors, men, women, and girls, who had lost all self-respect and thought of nothing but the drink and the dance.

While sitting there the lady's attention was drawn to a girl at the next table who sat there looking at the lady, with the tears streaming down her cheeks. The lady said, "Mr. Ranney, what is the matter with that girl? Ask her to join us." I got another chair and asked the girl to come over and sit beside the lady, who asked her how she came to be there, and why she was crying.

At that the girl began to cry harder and sobbed as though her heart would break. After she became a little more quiet she said, "You look like my mother, and I'll never see her again! Oh, I wish I was dead!" We asked her why she didn't go home to her mother. She cried out, "I can't! They won't let me! And if I could get away how could I get to Cincinnati, Ohio, where my mother lives?"

We got her story from the girl, and this is how it ran: She got into conversation with a well-dressed woman in Cincinnati one day who said that she could get her a position as stenographer and typewriter at a fine salary. After telling her mother about it, she and the woman started for New York, the woman paying the fare. The woman gave her an address of a party, but when the poor girl got there, there was no job for a typewriter; it was a very different position. The young girl had been lured from home on false promises, and here she was a "white slave" through no fault of her own.

A difficult situation confronted us. The girl was in trouble and needed help, and what were we going to do about it? She was as pretty a girl as I ever saw, with large black eyes, a regular Southern type of beauty, and just beginning the downward career. That means, as the girls on the Bowery put it, first the Tenderloin, then the white lights and lots of so-called pleasure, until her beauty begins to fade, which usually takes about a year. Second, Fourteenth Street, a little lower down the grade. Third, the Bowery, still lower, where they get nothing but blows and kicks. The fourth and last step, some joint like this, the back room of a saloon, down and out, all respect gone, nothing to live for; some mother's girl picked up some morning frozen stiff; the patrol, the morgue, and then Potter's Field. Some mother away in a country town is waiting for her girl who never comes back.

God help the mothers who read this, for it's true. Look to your girls and don't trust the first strange woman who comes into your house, for she may be a wolf in sheep's clothing. She wants your daughter's fresh young beauty, that's her trade, and the Devil pays good and plenty.

I asked the girl whether she had any friends near, and she said she had an aunt living on Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, that she thought might take her. Then looking around the room she said, "But he won't let me go anyhow." I followed her look, and there standing with his back to the wall was a man I knew. Here was this young girl made to slave and earn a living for this cur! There's lots of it done in New York—well-dressed men doing no work, living on the earnings of young girls.

We got the address of the aunt in Philadelphia, and I went out and sent a message over the wire, asking if she would receive Annie if she came to Philadelphia. I received an answer in forty-two minutes saying, "Yes, send her on. I'll meet her at the station."

I hurried back, thanking God for the answer, and found them sitting at the same table. Annie was looking better than when we first met her. I said, "It's all right; her aunt will take care of her; now all we have to do is to get her to the ferry and buy her ticket."

There was a tap on my shoulder, and looking around I saw the man she had pointed out, and he said, "You want to keep your hands off that girl, Dan, or there's going to be trouble." Now I knew this kind of man; I knew he would do me if he got a chance, and he was a big fellow at that; but I thought I could hold my own with him or any of his class. I didn't mind what he said; all I was thinking about was getting the girl to Cortlandt Street Ferry.

When we got on our feet to make a start he came over and said, "She don't go out of this place; if she does there's going to be trouble." I said, "Well, if you're looking for trouble you will get all that's coming to you, and you'll get it good and plenty." And I started toward the door. He came after me, asking me what I was going to do. I said, "I'm not going to bother with you, I'm merely going to get a couple of 'Bulls'—policemen—and they will give you all the trouble you want. But that girl goes with me."

He weakened. He knew his record was bad and he did not want to go up to 300 Mulberry Street (Police Headquarters), so he said, "All right, Danny, take her, but you are doing me dirty."

We got down to the ferry all right, and the lady and I went to Philadelphia and placed Annie in her aunt's house and bid her good-by.

Frequently I get a letter from Cincinnati from Annie. She is home with her mother, and a team of oxen couldn't pull her away from home again. She writes, "God bless and keep you, Dan! I thank God for the night you found me on the Bowery!"

"TELL HER THE LATCH-STRING IS OUT"

I was in a Baptist church one Sunday night speaking before a large audience and had in the course of my talk told the above story. The meeting had been a grand one. I felt that God had been with us all the way through. I noticed one man in particular in the audience while I was telling this story. Tears were running down his cheeks and he was greatly agitated. I was shaking hands all around after the meeting was over when this man came and said, "Mr. Ranney, can I have a little talk with you?" I said, "Yes." "Wait till I get the pastor," he said, and in a few minutes the minister joined us in the vestry. The man could not speak. I saw there was something on his heart and mind, and wondered what it could be. I've had lots of men come and tell me all about themselves, how they were going to give up stealing, drinking, and all other sins, but here was something different, so I waited. He tried to speak, but could only sob. Finally he cried out with a choking sob, "Sister!" The minister's hand went out to his shoulder, mine also, and we tried to comfort him; I never saw a man in such agony. After a little he told this story:

"Mr. Ranney, I am sure God sent you here to-night. I had a lovely sister; she may be living yet; I don't know. Seventeen years ago she went out to take a music lesson, and we have never laid eyes on her since, and have never had the first line from her. Oh, if I only knew where she is! She was one of the sweetest girls you ever saw, just like the girl you spoke about to-night. She was enticed away from home by a man old enough to be her father, who left his own family to starve. I've hunted for them all over. I've never passed a poor girl on the street without giving a helping hand, always thinking of my own sweet sister, who might perhaps be in worse circumstances. Mr. Ranney, will you promise me whenever you tell that story—which I hope will be very often—just to mention that girl who left a New Jersey town some years ago? Say that mother is waiting for her daughter with arms open. Say the latch-string is out and there's a welcome. Perhaps—who can tell?—you may be the means of sending that daughter back to home and mother!"

He gave me his name and address, the girl's name also, and I promised what he wanted. Would to God this book might be the means of uniting these separated ones and sending the gray-haired mother home to heaven rejoicing! Oh, how many a mother's girl is in bondage to-night for the want of a helping hand and some kind friend to give advice!



CHAPTER VIII

BOWERY WORK

God moves in a mysterious way to work out His ends, and I can testify that His dealings with me have been wonderful indeed,—far beyond anything that I have ever merited. During all the years since my conversion I had always kept in touch with Dr. A. F. Schauffler, Superintendent of the City Mission and Tract Society, visiting him at his office once in a while, and he was always glad to see me. He would ask me about my work and we would have a little talk together.

LODGING-HOUSE MISSIONARY

One day I said, "Dr. Schauffler, do you know I'm a protege of the New York City Mission?" He said, "I know it, and we have kept our eyes on you for the last ten years, and have decided to make you Lodging-House Missionary to the Bowery, if you accept."

Praise God! Wasn't it wonderful, after thirteen years of God's grace in my life, to get such an appointment! Lodging-House Missionary—I couldn't understand it! It struck me as being queer in this way; the man who under God was the means of my salvation, who was a missionary when I was converted, had resigned a few years after to become a minister, and now here was Ranney, the ex-crook and drunk, being asked to take the same position!

We don't understand God's ways and purposes; they are too wonderful for us; but here I am on the Bowery, my old stamping-ground, telling the story of Jesus and His love. And I don't believe there's a man in this big world that has a greater story to tell of God's love and mercies than I have. I'm writing this seventeen years after being saved, and I'll still say it's a grand thing to be a Christian. I would not go back to the old life for anything in the world.

Part of my work has been in Mariners' Temple, corner of Oliver and Henry Streets, Chatham Square, New York City, right on the spot where I did everything on the calendar but murder. There I could see the men every night, for we had a meeting all the year round, and every day from 1 to 2 P. M. We invited all those who were in trouble to come, and if we could help them we gladly did so. If they wanted to go to the hospital we placed them there and would do whatever we could for them, always telling them of Jesus the Mighty to save.

FROM NOTHING TO $5000 A YEAR

I remember and love a man who was my partner in the Tuesday night meetings in the Mariners' Temple, when we fed the poor fellows during the winter—a fine Christian gentleman. You would never think to look at him he was once such a drunkard! He told me his story. He had spent months hanging out in the back room of a saloon on Park Row, only going out once in a while to beg a little food. He had sold everything he could sell and he was a case to look at. He must have been, or the proprietor would never have said, "Say, you are a disgrace to this place! Get out and don't come in here again!" The poor fellow went out. He was down and out sure enough! He thought he would end it all, and he bent his steps toward the East River, intending to jump in, but was chased from the dock by the watchman.

He passed a Mission, heard the singing, and went in. He heard men that were once drunkards get up and testify to the power of God to save a man. He knew a few of the men and thought, "If God can save them He surely can me!" What a lot there is in testimony for the other fellow!

He went out that night and slept in a hallway. He waited until the Mission opened, and going in, heard the same thing again. When the invitation was given he went forward and was gloriously saved. He did not walk the street that night nor has he since. He went to work at his trade—he was a printer—and he and his dear wife, who had always prayed for her husband, were united and are now working together in the Master's vineyard.

This was over three years ago. Today this man has a position at a salary of $5000 a year! Three years ago ordered out of a Park Row saloon as a disgrace! Doesn't it pay to be a Christian and be on the level! I could go right on and tell of hundreds that have come up and are on top now. God never leaves nor forsakes us if we do our part.

The Bowery boys are queer propositions. You can't push or drive them; they will resent it and give you back as good. But if, on the other hand, you use a little tact spiced with a little kindness, you will win out with the Bowery boy every time.

It was a kind word and a kind act that were the means of saving me, and I never tire of giving the same.

A MISSIONARY IN COURT

I remember a few years ago a fellow was arrested for holding up a man on Chatham Square. Now this fellow was an ex-convict and had a very bad record, but he came to our meeting one night to see the pictures of Christ, and was so touched by them that he came again and finally raised his hand for prayers, and when the invitation was given went up to the mercy seat and was saved. At the time he was arrested he had been a grand Christian for two years.

He used to pump the organ. On this Sunday night when he was arrested I had gone over to the Chinatown Mission with him. When he left to go to his lodging-house it was 10:30, and he was arrested right after leaving the meeting on the charge of robbing a man on the Bowery at 9:30 P.M.

When he was arrested he sent for me and told me why he was arrested. Now I knew he had not robbed any one while he was with me.

The day of his trial came on. Judge Crane was the judge—a good clean man. After the man had sworn that J—— was the man who robbed him I was asked to go on the stand and tell what I knew. I told him I was a missionary to the Bowery, and that J——, the man arrested, was not the man who did the robbing, for he was with me at the time the robbery took place.

Judge Crane asked my name. I told him and gave him a brief history of my past life. He was amazed. Then I spoke a few words to the jury. The case was then given to the jury, and after twenty minutes they came in with a verdict of not guilty.

My dear readers, suppose Reilly (Ranney), the crook of sixteen years before, had been on that witness-stand. The Judge would have asked my name and when I'd said, "Reilly, the crook," they would have sent both of us off to prison for life. But the past has been blotted out through Jesus, and it was the word of the redeemed crook that set J—— free.

There are lots of cases I could write about where men are arrested and send for me. I go to the Tombs to see them, and as I go up the big stone steps where the visitors go in, the big barred gate opens, and the warden touches his hat and says, "How do you do, Mr. Ranney," and I go in. There's always a queer feeling comes over me when that gate is shut behind me. I realize that I am coming out in an hour or so, but there was a time when I was shoved through the old gate, and didn't know when I would come out.

A COUNT DISGUISED AS A TRAMP

One night in Mariners' Temple, on Chatham Square, I was leading a meeting for men; it was near closing time and the invitation had been given. There were three men at the front on their knees calling on God to help them.

I look back to that night as one I never can forget. One of the men who came up front had no coat; it had been stolen from him in some saloon while he was in a drunken sleep, so he told me. After prayer had been offered and we got on our feet we asked the men to give their testimony. In fact, I think it is a good thing for them to testify, as it helps them when they have declared themselves before the others. They each gave a short testimony in which they said that they intended to lead a better life, with God's help.

The man without a coat said he had but himself to blame for his condition, and, if God would help him, he was going to be a better man.

I saw to it that the man had a lodging and something to eat, when out from the audience stepped a fine-looking man with a coat in his hand and told the man to put it on. I looked at the man in astonishment. He was about five-feet-ten, of fine appearance, a little in need of a shave and a little water, but the man sticking out of him all over.

It is not the clothes that make the man, for here was a man who hadn't anything in the way of clothes, but you could tell by looking at him that he was a gentleman. I just stood and looked at him as he helped the other fellow on with the coat. I thought it one of the grandest acts I ever saw. He was following Christ's command about the man having two coats giving his brother one. I saw the man had on an overcoat, but, even so, it was a grand act, and I told him so.

I did not see him again for some time, when one night, about a week after the coat affair, I saw him sitting among the men at the Doyer Street Midnight Mission, of which I had charge. I went over where he was sitting and while shaking hands with him said, "Say, that was the grandest act you ever did when you gave that man your coat. What did you do it for? You don't seem to have any too much of this world's goods. How did it happen? Are you a Christian? Who are you?" He looked at me a moment and said, "Mr. Ranney, if I can go into your office I'll tell you all about it."

We went into the office, and he said, "How did you find me out?" Well, the question was a queer one to me. How did I find him out? I didn't know what he meant, but I didn't tell him so; I just smiled.

Well, he said he was a French Count (which was true), over here writing a book about the charitable institutions in the United States. He had been in Chicago, San Francisco, and in fact, all over the States, for points for his book. He told me what he had and hadn't done. He had worked in wood-yards for charity organizations; had given himself up and gone to the Island; stood in bread-lines; in fact, he had done everything the tramp does when he is "down and out."

I took quite a fancy to him. He took me up to his room in Eighteenth Street, showed me his credentials, and we became quite chummy. We used to do the slums act, and I would put on an old suit of clothes so I wouldn't be known. We would stand in the bread-line just like the rest of them and get our roll and coffee. It reminded me of my old life, and sometimes I would imagine I was "down and out" again, but it's different when you have a little change in your pocket. A dollar makes a big difference, and you can never appreciate the feelings of a poor "down and out" if you never were there yourself.

We had been going around together for about three or four weeks when one day he showed me a cable dispatch from Paris telling him he was wanted and to come at once. We had had a nice time together and I was sorry he was going.

He asked me for one of my pictures to put in his book, which I gave him. Then he wanted to know what he could do for me. I thought a moment, then said, "Give the poor fellows a feed Sunday night." I was the Sunday night leader and I wanted him on the platform. He said, "All right. Be at the Mission Sunday afternoon."

About 5 P. M. there drove up to the Mission door a carriage with a man in it who said, "Is this 17 Dover Street, and is your name Mr. Ranney?" I said, "Yes." He had four large hampers filled with sandwiches, which we carried into the Mission. He said he was the Count's valet and the Count wished him to make tea for the men. I said, "All right." I thought it would be a change for the men, although coffee would have been all right.

The tea was made and everything was ready for the feed. I wanted the papers to know about it, so I sent my assistant to the office and told the reporters that a real French Count was going to give a feed that night. They were on hand and the next day the papers all had an account of it.

As soon as the doors opened the men came in and the place was jammed to the limit. The meeting was opened with prayer, then the sandwiches and tea were passed around. The Count, wearing a dress-suit, was sitting on the platform. I introduced him as the "man of the hour" who had given the lay-out to the boys. They thanked him with three cheers.

I asked the men to look him over and see if they had ever seen him before. Now the Bowery men are sharp, and over seventy-five hands went up. They had seen him somewhere, in Mission bread-lines and different places.

The Count spoke for about five minutes and then sat down. He sailed on the following Tuesday and I never met him again. He may be in London for all I know, studying up something else. But I'm sure he enjoyed himself when feeding the men. And I have often thought, no matter who or what he was, he had his heart in the right spot. God wants men of his stamp, for He can use them for His honor and glory.

A MUSICIAN WON TO CHRIST

There isn't a week passes in my work that there are not some specially interesting happenings. One Wednesday night about six months ago we were having our usual Wednesday night meeting. I found I did not have any one to play the piano; my player had not yet come. I did not worry over that, however, as sometimes we had to go on and have a meeting without music. I generally asked if any one could play, and I did so this night. Presently a man came up the aisle. I asked, "Can you play?" He said, "A little. What number shall I play?" I said, "I guess we will sing my favorite hymn, 'When the Roll Is Called up Yonder, I'll Be There.'" He found the hymn and when he began to play I saw that he was a real musician. He made that old piano fairly talk. "Ah," said I, "here is another 'volunteer organist.'" I had seen the man and talked with him lots of times before, but always took him for a common drunkard. You can't tell what an old coat covers.

After the meeting I had a little talk with him and asked him why he was in such a condition. "Oh," he answered, "it's the old, old story, Mr. Ranney—the drink habit. I know what you are going to say: why don't I cut it out? Well, I can't. I have tried time and again. I'll go on drinking until I die." I told him to stop trying and ask God to help him, just to lean on His arm, He wouldn't let him fall. I left him thinking it over, and I kept track of him, getting in an odd word here and there and giving him food and lodging.

In four weeks we won out and he became a good Christian man. Now he plays at our meetings and takes a share in them, giving his testimony. I've had him over to my home many times. He takes great delight in our garden there and waits with longing for Thursday to come, for that's the day he visits us, the best one in the week for him. There's nothing like the country for building a man up.

This man came from a good German family, and can play three instruments, piano, violin, and clarinet. I asked him if he was married. "No," he answered, "thank God I never was married. I have not that sin on my soul! I've done nearly everything any one else has done: been in prison many a time, drank and walked the streets lots of nights. I've written home to my mother and told her I had taken her Jesus as mine, and, Mr. Ranney, here's a letter from her." I read the letter. It was the same old letter, the kind those loving mothers write to their wayward boys, thanking God that she lived to see her boy converted and telling him the door was always open, and for him to come home. How many mothers all over the world are praying for their boys that they have not seen for years, boys who perhaps are dead or in prison! God help those mothers!

SAVED THROUGH AN OUTDOOR MEETING

Part of my work consists in holding outdoor meetings. Through my friend Dan Sullivan I received a license for street preaching, so whenever an opportunity opens I speak a word for the Master, sometimes on a temporary platform, sometimes standing on a truck, and sometimes from the Gospel Wagon. It is "in season and out of season," here, there, and everywhere, if we are to get hold of the men who don't go near the churches or even the missions.

One night while holding an outdoor meeting on the Bowery at Bleecker Street, I was speaking along the line of drink and the terrible curse it was, how it made men brutes and all that was mean, telling about the prodigal and how God saved him and would save to the uttermost. There were quite a number of men around listening.

The meeting ended and we had given all an invitation to come into the Mission. One young man, well dressed, came up to me and, taking my hand, said he believed every word I said. I saw at a glance he was not of the Bowery type. I got to talking to him and asked him into the Mission. He said he had never been into a place like that in his life and did not take any stock in them, but my talk had interested him. He could not understand how I had given up such a life as I said I had led and had not taken a drink in sixteen years. I said I had not done this in my own strength, but that God had helped me win out, and that God would help any one that wanted to be helped.

We got quite friendly and he told me all about himself. He had just got his two weeks' salary, which amounted to $36.00. He was married and had two sweet little children and a loving wife waiting for him uptown. He told me he had taken a few drinks, as I could plainly see, and he was going down to see the Bowery and do a little sight-seeing in Chinatown. I knew if he went any further he would be a marker for the pickpocket or others and would know nothing in a little while, so I tried to get him into the Mission, and after quite a while succeeded, and we took a seat right by the door. He was just tipsy enough to fall asleep, and I let him do it, for a little sleep often does these men a great deal of good, changing all their thoughts when they wake. When he woke the testimonies were being given. I rose to my feet and gave my testimony, and sat down again. The invitation came next, for all those that wanted this Jesus to stand. I tried to get him on his feet, but he would not take a stand; still the seed had been sown.

He told me where he was working and where he lived—wrote it down for me. He was bent on going, so I said I would go up to the corner with him. He wanted one more drink—the Devil's temptation!—but at last I coaxed him to the Elevated Station at Houston Street. He said, "I wish you could see my home and family. Will you come up with me?" It was 10 P. M. and going would mean home for me about the early hours. But I went up to the Bronx, got to his home, saw him in, was bidding him good-night; nothing would do but I should come in. He had a nice little flat of five rooms. I was introduced to his wife, who was a perfect lady. He wanted to send out for beer. I objected, and his wife said, "George, don't drink any more! I think you have had enough."

Now was the time for me to get in a little of God's work, so I told him my life, and what drink did for me, and I had an attentive audience. When I finished, his wife said, "I wish my husband would take your Jesus, Mr. Ranney. I'm a Christian, but, oh, I'd give anything if George would take Christ and give up his drinking!" He made all kinds of objections and excuses, but we pleaded and prayed. God was working with that man, and at 3 o'clock in the morning we knelt down, the wife, the husband and I, way up in the Bronx, and God did mightily save George. He went to his business on Monday sober. That was three years ago, and he has held out well. He has been advanced twice, with a raise in salary, and comes down to help me in my work on the Bowery. God has blessed him wonderfully, and He will any one who has faith to believe.

JIM THE BRICKLAYER

Where I meet so many men every day and have so many confessions and try to lend a helping hand in so many places, I do forget some of the men, for it seems as though there was an endless procession of them through the Bowery. But some cases stand out so prominently that I shall never forget them. I remember one man in particular who used to come into the Mission. He was one of the regulars and was nearly always drunk. He used to want us to sing all the time. He was a fine fellow, but down and out, and every cent he could earn went to the saloons. I would talk to him nearly every night and ask him why he did not stop his drinking. He would listen, but the next night he would be drunk just the same.

There was good stuff in him, for he was a good bricklayer and could make from $5.00 to $6.00 per day. He told me he was married, and his wife and two children were in Syracuse, living perhaps on charity, while he, instead of making a living for them and giving them a good home, was here on the Bowery drinking himself to death.

He would often say, "Danny, if I could only sober up and be a man and go back to my family, I'd give anything. But what's the use of trying? I can't stop, and I wish sometimes that I was dead. And sometimes, Mr. Ranney, I'm tempted to end it all in the river."

I reasoned with this man time and time again, but with no effect. He knew it was the right way to live, but thought it was not for him, and I thought that if a man was ever gone it was that young man.

One night as the invitation was being given I caught his eye and I said, "Jim, come up front and get rid of that drink." But he said, "What's the use?" I went down, took him by the hand, led him up front, and we all knelt down and asked God to save these poor men. I asked them all to pray for themselves and when I got to Jim I said, "Jim, now pray." And he said, "Lord, help me to be a man and cut the 'booze' out of my life for Jesus' sake. Amen."

He meant business that night and was as sincere as could be. We all got up from our knees, and I put the usual question to them all, now that they had taken Jesus, what were they going to do? It came Jim's turn, and he said, "Mr. Ranney, I've asked God to help me, and I'm going out of this Mission and I'm not going to drink any more whiskey." Then almost in the same breath he said, "I wonder if God will give me a pair of pants." That created a smile in the audience. I knew I could get Jim a pair of pants, and he needed them badly. Just imagine a man six feet tall with a pair of pants on that reached just below the knees, and you have Jim.

I said, "Jim, you have asked God to help you, and He will if you let him. If you keep sober until Friday night, and come in here every night and give your testimony, no matter how short, God will send you a pair of pants." This was on Monday night, my own special night. I knew if Jim came in every night sober, something was doing. Tuesday night came, and sure enough there was Jim with his testimony. He got up and thanked God for being one day without taking a drink. I said, "Praise God! Keep it up, Jim!" Wednesday night Jim thanked God for two days' victory. He was doing finely. Thursday came, and Jim was there with his testimony of three days saved. He had one more day to go before he got his pants. Friday night came and I had gone up and got the pants, but no Jim made his appearance. Near closing time the door opened and in walked Jim. He stood back and just roared out, "Danny, I'm as drunk as a fool; I've lost the pants!" then walked out.

I did not see him for a couple of nights, then he came into the Mission, sat down and was fairly quiet. I reached him in the course of the evening and shook hands with him, but I did not say a word about his going back. That worried him a good deal, for he said, "Dan, are you mad with me?" I said, "No, Jim, I'm mad with the Devil, and I wish I could kick him out of you and kill him." Jim smiled and said, "You're a queer one."

I did not give Jim up, but I did not say anything to him about giving up the drink again for about a week. He would always be in the meeting and I would notice him with a handshake and a smile. I could see he was thinking quite hard and he was not drinking as much as he had been. I was praying for that man, and I was sure that He was going to give me Jim.

One night about a month after Jim had tried the first time, I was giving the invitation to the men, as usual, for all who wanted this salvation to come forward and let us pray with them. After coaxing and pleading with them there were six fellows that came forward and knelt down, when to my astonishment who came walking up the aisle but Jim! He knelt down with the others and prayed. I did not know what the prayer was, but when he rose he went back and took his seat and said nothing.

A month went by to a day. There were testimonies every night from all over the Mission about what God had done and was doing, but Jim never gave the first word of testimony. I often wondered why. This night he got on his feet, and this is what he said: "Men, I've been everything that's bad and mean, a crook and a drunkard, separated from wife and children, a good-for-nothing man. I want to stand here before you people and thank God for keeping me for one whole month; and, men, this is the happiest month I've spent in my life. I asked God to help me and He is doing so. I only wish some of you men would take Jesus as your friend and keeper the same as I have. I'm going to stick, with God's help. I want you Christian people to keep on praying for me, as I feel some one has," and he sat down. Oh, how I did thank God for that testimony! You know a person can tell the true ring of anything, gold, silver, brass, everything, and I knew the ring of that testimony.

Jim stayed after the meeting and we talked things over pretty well. He was a mechanic, but his tools were in pawn. I said, "Jim, I'll meet you to-morrow and we will go and get your tools out." In the morning Jim and I went down to the pawnbroker in New Chambers Street, and Jim produced the tickets, paid the money due, with interest, and received his stock in trade, the tools.

The next thing was a job. I knew a boss mason who was putting up a building in Catherine Street. We saw the boss and he took Jim on. He went to work and made good. He would always come and see me at night, and always testify to God's keeping power. He would ask me, "Do you think I can get back to my wife and children again?" "Yes," I would answer; "wait a little while. Have you written to her?" "Yes." "Got any answer?" "Yes, a couple of letters, but I don't think she takes any stock in my conversion. Dan, can't we have our pictures taken together? I have written my wife a lot about you. I told her you were worse than I ever was. Perhaps if she sees our faces and sees how I look, she may think of old times and give me one more chance."

Jim had been four months converted at this time, and God had him by the hand. It was great to see that big strong man, like a little child in God's love. We went out and had our pictures taken and Jim asked me to write and urge his wife to give him one more chance. I did as Jim wanted me; in fact, I wrote her about everything he said and enclosed the picture.

Every night Jim would come around with the question, "Danny, any word from up State yet?" "Not yet, Jim: have a little patience, she will write soon." We finally got the longed-for letter, but it wasn't favorable. Among other things she said she took no stock in her husband, and that she knew he was the same old good-for-nothing, etc. It was hard lines for poor Jim, who was reading that letter over my shoulder. I looked at him. I could see some of the old Devil come into his eyes. The wife little knew what an escape Jim had then and there. I cheered him up and we got on our knees and prayed good and hard, and God heard the prayer and Jim was sailing straight once more and trusting Jesus.

A thought flashed through my mind, and I said, "Jim, have you any money?" "Yes," he said, "I have over sixty dollars." He gave me the money and we went to the postoffice and I took out a money-order to Mrs. Jim, Syracuse, N. Y., for sixty dollars and sent it on signed by Jim and took the receipt and put it in my pocket.

Five days after I was sitting at my desk in the Mission. A knock came to the door. I said, "Come in," and a woman with two little girls entered. I placed a chair and waited. She said, "You are Mr. Ranney. I recognize you from your picture." She was Jim's wife, as she told me. Then she began about her troubles with her husband: he was a good man, but he would drink. She said, "I begin to think that Jim has religion, for if he hadn't something near it, he would never have sent me the money. Do you think he is all right, Mr. Ranney?" To which I answered that I really believed he was, and that he would be a good husband and father. I asked her if she was a Christian, and she said, "Yes, I go to church and do the best I can." I told her going to church was a good thing, but to have Jesus in your heart and home is a better one.

She wanted to see Jim, so we went round to where he was working. There he was up four stories laying front brick. I watched him, so did his wife. Finally I put my hands like a trumpet and called, "Hello, Jim!" Jim looked down, seeing me, and then looking at the woman and children a moment he dropped everything, and to watch that man come down that ladder was a sight. He rushed over, threw his arms around his wife, then took the little girls in his arm, and what joy there was! There was no more work that day.

Jim showed her the saloons he used to get drunk in, and he did not forget to show the place where he was converted, and on that very spot we all had a nice little prayer-meeting, and as a finale, Mrs. Jim took Jesus, saying, "If He did all that for Jim, I want Him too."

They are back in Syracuse, living happily. Jim has a class of boys in the Sunday-school and is a deacon in the church. I had the pleasure of eating dinner in their home. I often get a letter from Jim, telling of God's goodness. He says he will never forget the fight he made for the pants or his friend Danny Ranney.



CHAPTER IX

PRODIGAL SONS

A CESSPOOL

The Bowery has always been a notorious thoroughfare. Twenty years ago there were few places in the world that for crime, vice and degradation could be compared with it. Many changes for the better have taken place in the last few years, however. Following the Lexow Commission investigation, scores of the worst haunts of wickedness were closed and vice became less conspicuous. The Bowery, however, still maintains its individuality as a breeding-place of crime. It is still the cesspool for all things bad. From all over the world they come to the Bowery. The lodging-houses give them cheap quarters, from 7 cents to 50 cents per night. These places shelter 30,000 to 40,000 men and boys nightly, to breathe a fetid and polluted air. Those who have not the price—and God knows they are many—homeless and weary, "about ready to die," sleep in hallways, empty trucks, any place for a lie-down.

Some of the lodging-houses are fairly respectable and run on a good scale, and others are the resort of the lowest kind of human outcasts. On one floor, the air poisoned beyond description, the beds dirty, will be found over a hundred men, of all classes, from the petty thief to the Western train-wrecker, loafers, drug-fiends, perhaps a one-time college man, who through the curse of drink has got there. But they are not all bad on the Bowery. No one not knowing the conditions can imagine what a large class there is who would work if they could get it, but once down it's hard to get up. A few weeks of this life wrecks them and makes old men of them. No one but God can help them, and most of them go down to early graves unknown.

A REMARKABLE DRUNKARD

I knew once one of the best lawyers of his day, living here a little off Chatham Square, in a lodging-house, brought there through rum. I've known men, lawyers, coming to see this man and getting his opinion on legal matters. He had many such visitors in his room, but he wasn't worth anything unless he was about half full of whiskey. These men would know that. They would bring a couple bottles of the stuff, as though for a social time, and then ask him questions pertaining to the case in hand. Then he would imagine himself the lawyer of old days, and plead as he saw the case, and he was right nine times out of ten! Oh, what a future that man had thrown away for the Devil's stuff, rum! Those lawyers would go away with advice from that man worth thousands of dollars, bought with a few bottles of whiskey. He told me he had left his wife and family to save them from shame. He has sons and daughters in good standing. They never see him want for anything and pay his room-rent yearly, only he must not go near them.

FORGIVING FOR CHRIST'S SAKE

Where I am located at this writing, at the Squirrel Inn, No. 131 Bowery, is a grand place for my work. I come in touch with all classes, and when I see a man or a boy that I think will stick, I rig him up, put a front on him and back him until he gets work. I wish I had more clothes so I could help more men, but at least I can give them a handshake, a kind word, and a prayer, and that, by God's grace, can work wonders for the poor fellows. There's not a man or boy comes in that I do not see, and I mingle with them and get their hard-luck stories, also their good-luck ones. Sitting there at my desk, I glance down the room, and I can tell at a glance the newcomers and the regulars. I can tell what has brought them there.

Over at one of the tables trying to read sat one day a man about fifty, his clothes worn and threadbare, but wearing a collar, and that's a good sign. I beckoned him to come over to me and I pointed to a chair, telling him to sit down. If that chair could only speak, what a tale it could tell of the men who have sat there and told their life stories!

I asked him how he came to be there, and he told me the same old story that can be summed up in one word—drink! He came from up the State, at one time owned a farm outside of Oswego, and was living happily. He was a church member and bore a good name. "I used to take an odd drink, but always thought I could do without it," said he. "Eighteen years ago I lost my wife and to drown my sorrow I got drunk. I had never been intoxicated before, and I kept at it for over three months, and when I began to come to myself, I was told that I had to get out of my home. I couldn't understand it, but I was told I had sold my farm and everything I owned for a paltry $200 to a saloon-keeper, who I thought was my dearest friend!

"That happened eighteen years ago, and I've been pretty near all over the world since then, sometimes hungry, sometimes in pretty good shape, but I'll never forget that saloon-keeper. I'll see him again, and he will pay for what he did!"

I gave that man a ticket for lodging and a couple of meals. We talked about his early life, and I asked why he didn't start out and be a Christian and not harbor a grudge; to let God punish that saloon-keeper. I told him I'd been through something like the same experience, a man whose word I trusted selling me some Harbor Chart stock and making me think he was doing me a good turn, and I lost several hundred dollars. That was in the years when I first started to be a Christian. I had the hardest time to forgive this man, but thank God I did!

I reasoned with that man day after day and saw that the light was breaking in his heart. Weeks went on, and he came to a point where he took Jesus as his guide and friend, and to-day he is a fine Christian gentleman. I have had him testifying in the church to the power of Christ to save a man. He tells me he has forgiven that saloon-man for Christ's sake.

SAVED ON THE THRESHOLD OF VICE

One afternoon about 5 o'clock I was sitting at my desk at the Mission Room when I noticed among the men who came there to read and rest and perhaps take a nap, a young man, a boy rather, clean and wearing good clothes. I looked at him a moment and thought, "He has got into the wrong place." I spoke to him, as is my habit, and asked him what he was doing there. I brought him over and got him to sit down in that old chair where so many confessions are made to me and said kindly, "Well, what's your story?" I thought of my own boy, and my heart went out to this young fellow.

He said, "You are Mr. Ranney. I've often heard about you, and I'm glad to see you now." He told me how he had given up his job on Eighth Avenue around 125th Street the day before. He had had a "run in," as he called it, at home, and had determined to get out. His mother had married a second time, and his stepfather and he could not agree on a single thing. He loved his mother, but could not stand the stepfather. He had drawn his pay at the jewelry store where he was working and had spent the night before at a hotel uptown, intending to look for a job the next day.

He had risen at 8 A. M. intending to get work before his eight dollars was all gone. Well, the money was burning a hole in his pocket. He wanted to see a show and he came down on the Bowery and got into a cheap vaudeville show, and quite enjoyed himself. "I came out of that show," he said, "and went into a restaurant to eat, and when I went to pay the cashier I did not have a cent in my pocket. The boss of the place said that was an old story. He was not there to feed people for nothing. I said I had been robbed or lost my money somehow, but he wouldn't believe me. He wanted his twenty cents, or he would have me arrested. Oh, he was mad for fair, Mr. Ranney. He got me by my coat-collar and shook me and said I was a thief, and he finished up by kicking me through the door, and here I am down on the Bowery homeless."

Another young fellow gone wrong! Could I help him? I urged him to go back home, but he didn't want to. The night before was pay-night, and he was always expected to give in his share towards the home expenses, and now here was his money all gone. What could he do?

I took him around the room and pointed out the hard cases there, wretched, miserable specimens of men, and asked him if he wanted to be like them, as he surely would if he went on in the course he was starting. He said, "Indeed I don't!" "Well, then," I said, "take my advice and go home. Be a man and face the music. It will mean a scolding from your father, but take it. Tell them both that you will make up the money as soon as you get work, and that you are going to be obedient and good from now on."

At last he said he would go if I would go with him, but I couldn't that night, for I had a meeting to address. I told him I would give him a lodging for the night, and we would go up to Washington Heights the next day. I put him in about as tough a lodging as I could get, for I wanted him to realize the life he would drift into, told him to meet me at one o'clock the next day, and said good-night to him.

The next day I met him; we had something to eat, and I asked him how he had slept. "Oh," he said, "it was something awful! I could not sleep any, there was such a cursing and drinking and scrapping. Oh, I wish I was home!"

We went up to Washington Heights, around 165th Street, and found the place. We got there about six o'clock. I went in and knocked at the door, which opened very quickly. The mother and father came forward; they had been crying, I could see that. "Oh, has anything happened to my boy!" she cried, when I asked if she had a son. "Tell me quick, for God's sake!" I told them that Eddie was all right, and I called to him. He came in, and like a manly boy, after kissing his mother, he turned to his stepfather and said, "Forgive me; I'll be a better boy and I'll make everything all right when I get a job. This is Mr. Ranney, the Bowery missionary." I went in and was asked to stay for supper, and we had an earnest talk, leading to the father giving up beer. What he was going to drink for supper was thrown into the sink. I see these people occasionally, and they are doing well.

THE PRODIGAL SON ON THE BOWERY

Here is a picture story of a boy who left home and took his journey to the "far country." It is a true story.

Away up in northern New York there is a rich man whose family consists of a wife, two sons and a daughter, all good church members. It is of the younger boy I want to speak. He is a little wayward, but good at heart, and would do anything to help any one.

Now, there has lately come back from New York a young man who has started the drink habit. This man is telling all about New York, what a grand place it is, and, if a fellow had a little money, he could make a fortune. He succeeds in arousing the fancies of this young boy, and he believes all the fellow says. People up the State look on a man as sort of a hero because he has been to New York.

Tom thinks he would like to go to the city, and when he gets home he broaches the subject to his mother. He says, "I'll get a job and make a man of myself." The mother tells him he had better stay at home and perhaps later on he would have a chance to start a business in the village where he was born. No, nothing but New York will do for him. He teases his father and mother nearly to death, until his father says, "Well, my boy, if you will, you will." Then he gives him a couple hundred dollars and a letter to a merchant whom he knows.

Tom packs his valise and is all ready to start. I can see the mother putting a Testament into her boy's hand and telling him to read it once a day and be sure to write home often. Oh, he promises all right, and is anxious to get away in a hurry. I can see them in the railroad station when the mother takes him to her bosom and kisses him. There's a dry choking in the father's throat when he bids him good-by—and then the train is off!

Now, Tom has a chum in New York, so at the first station at which they stop he gets off and sends a telegram to his friend, saying: "Ed, I'm coming on the 2.30 train. Meet me at the Grand Central Station." You may be sure Ed meets him at the station—Ed is not working—and he gives him the hello and the glad hand. He takes Tom's grip and they start for the hotel. I can see them going into a saloon and having a couple of beers, then going to the hotel, getting a room and supper, and having a good time at the theatre and elsewhere.

Time goes on. Two hundred doesn't last long. I can see Ed shaking Tom when the money is running low. I can see Tom counting the little he has left and going to a furnished room at $1.50 a week. Tom is beginning to think and worry a bit. He has lost the letter to the merchant his father gave him, and he doesn't know where to find him. No wonder he is down in the mouth! He looks for work, but can't get anything to do.

Now, all he has to do is to write home and tell his father the facts, and he will send back a railroad ticket. But Tom is proud, and he hasn't reached the point where, like the prodigal, he says, "I will arise and go to my father." No, he has not as yet reached the end of his rope. I can see him pawning the watch and chain given him by his parents. This tides him over for a little while. When that money is gone, his overcoat goes, and, in fact, everything he has is gone.

He goes down and down, and finally reaches the Bowery, where they all go in the end. He is down and out, without a cent in his clothes, walking the streets night after night—-"carrying the banner." Sometimes he slips into a saloon where they have free lunch and picks up a piece of bread here and a piece of cheese there. Sometimes he is lucky to fill in on a beef stew, but very seldom.

Now, if that isn't living on husks, I don't know what you call it! His clothes are getting filthy and he is in despair. How he wishes he had never left home! He hasn't a friend in the big city, and he doesn't know which way to turn. He says, "I'll write home." But no, he is too proud. He wants to go home the same as he left it. And the longer he waits the worse he will be. No one grows any better, either bodily or morally, by being on the Bowery. So the quicker they go to some other place the better.

But the Bowery draws men by its own strange attraction. They get into the swing of its life, and find the company that misery loves. God knows there's plenty of it there! I've seen men that you could not drive from the Bowery. But when a man takes Jesus as his guide he wants to search for better grounds.

Well, Tom had hit the pace that kills. And one night—about five years ago—there wandered into the Mission where I was leading a meeting a young man with pale cheeks and a look of utter despair on his face, looking as though he hadn't had a square meal in many a day. It was Tom. I didn't know him then. There are so many such cases on the Bowery one gets used to them. But I took particular notice of this young man. He sat down and listened to the services, and when the invitation was given to those who wanted to lead better lives he put up his hand.

Now there was something striking about his face, and I took to him. I thought of my own life and dreaded the future for him. I spoke to him, gained his confidence by degrees, and he told me his story as written in the preceding pages.

Here was a prodigal just as bad as the one in the Bible story. Well, he was converted that night and took Jesus as his helper. He told me all about his home, mother, and friends who had enough and to spare. The servants had a better time and more to eat than he. "Tom," I said, "why don't you go home?" "Oh, Mr. Ranney," he said, "I wish I could, but I want to go back a little better than I am now." And God knows he was in bad shape; the clothes he had on you couldn't sell to a rag-man; in fact, he had nothing!

I pitied the poor fellow from my heart. I was interested. I got his father's address and sat down and wrote him a letter telling him about his son's condition, etc. In a few days I received a letter from his father inclosing a check for $10, and saying, "Don't let my son starve; do all you can for him, but don't let him know his father is doing this."

Can't you see plainly the conditions? Our Father in heaven stands ready at all times to help, but we must do something—meet the conditions. Tom's father was ready to forgive and take him back, but he wanted Tom to make the surrender.

I looked after Tom to a certain extent, but I wanted him to learn his lesson. There were times when he walked the streets and went hungry. I corresponded with his father and told him how his son was getting along. I got Tom a job washing dishes in a restaurant—the Bowery's main employment—at $2.50 per week, and he stuck.

I watched him closely. He would come to the Mission nearly every night and would stand up and testify to God's goodness. He was coming on finely. Many's the talk we would have together about home. The tears would come to his eyes and he would say, "Oh, if I ever go home I'll be such a different boy! Do you think father will forgive me, Mr. Ranney?"

Well, eight months went on, and I thought it was time to get him off the Bowery—he had had his lesson. So I wrote his father, and he sent the necessary cash for clothes, railroad ticket, etc. And one night I said, "Tom, would you like to go home?" You can imagine Tom's answer! I took him out and bought him clothes, got back his watch and chain from the pawnbroker, and went with him to the Grand Central Station. I got his ticket, put him on the train, said "Good-by and God bless you!" and Tom was bound for home.

I receive a letter from him every month or so. I have visited his home and have been entertained right royally by his father and mother. I visited Tom last summer, and we did have a grand time fishing, boating, driving, etc. I asked him, "Do you want to go back to New York, Tom?" and he smiled and said, "Not for mine!" If any one comes from New York and happens to say it's a grand place to make your fortune, Tom says, "New York is a grand place to keep away from." You couldn't pull him away from home with a team of oxen.

"He arose and went to his father." Tom fed on husks. He learned his lesson—not too dearly learned, because it was a lasting one. He is now a man; he goes to church and Sunday-school, where he teaches a class of boys. Once in a while he rings in his own experience when he was a prodigal on the Bowery and far from God, and God's loving-kindness to him.

There are other boys on the Bowery from just as good families as Tom's—college men some of them—who are without hope and without God's friendship or man's. What can you and I do for them?

LAST WORDS

I have married again, and have a good sweet Christian as companion, and we have a little girl just beginning to walk. I'm younger, happier, and a better man in mind and body than I was twenty years ago. I've a good home and know that all good things are for those that trust.

I remember one night, when I was going home with my wife, I met a policeman who had arrested me once. He had caught me dead to rights—with the goods. After awaiting trial I got off on a technical point. I said, "Helen, let me introduce you to the policeman that arrested me one time." He had changed some; his hair was getting gray. He knew me, and when I told him I was a missionary, he said, "God bless you, Reilly" (that's the name I went under), "and keep you straight! You did cause us fellows a lot of trouble in those days."

Indeed I did cause trouble! There wasn't a man under much closer watch than I was twenty years ago. Just one incident will illustrate this and show what a change God brings about in a man's life when he is soundly converted. It was in 1890 that a pal of mine and I were told of a place in Atlantic City where there was any amount of silverware, etc., in a wealthy man's summer home, so we undertook to go there and see if we could get any of the good things that were in the house. We reached the city with our kit of tools, and my pal went and hid them a little way from the station, waiting till night, as we did not want to carry them around with us. Tom said, "Dan, I'm hungry; I'll go and see what I can get in a bakery." We were not very flush and could not afford anything great in the way of a dinner. Off he went, and I was to wait till he came back.

I sat down in the waiting-room, when a man came up and sat down beside me, giving me a good-day. "Nice weather," said he. I said, "Yes." Said he, "How's little old New York?" "All right," I answered. "Have you got your ticket back?" said he. I thought he was a little familiar, and I said, "It's none of your business." He was as cool as could be. "Oh, yes," he said, "it is my business," and turning the lapel of his coat he held a Pinkerton badge under my nose, at the same time saying, "The game's called, and I know you. Where's the tools?" I told him I did not have any. "The only thing that saves you," said he. "Now you get out of here when that next train goes, or there will be a little trouble." My pal came in at this time, and I winked at him to say nothing. He understood. We took that train all right, and lost our tools.

I never saw Atlantic City again until 1908, when I was asked to speak at the Y. M. C. A. I told this story in my talk. I've been back four times; I've been entertained at one of the best hotels there, the Chalfonte, for a week at a time. What a change! Twenty years ago, when I was in the Devil's employ, run out of town; now, redeemed by God, an invited guest in that same place. See what God can do for a man!

It's a hard thing to close this record of the grace of God in my life, for I feel as though I was leaving a lot of friends. If at any time you are on the Bowery—not down and out—and want to see me, why, call at No. 131, the Squirrel Inn Mission and Reading Room, and you'll find a hearty welcome.

THE END