"'My Gott, my Gott!' I say. 'Can this be true?' I wait one, two, three
minutes; it comes not. I scream for joy--I scream loud! I feel an iron
hand on me. I am put in prison. Yet is the prison filled with
light--yet am I in heaven. The guns are silent!"

One day a big letter with several patches of red sealing-wax and an
aristocratic monogram arrived at the bunk-house. Nearly two hundred
men handled it and stood around until the Graf arrived. Every one felt
a personal interest in the contents. It was "One-eyed Dutchy," who
handed it to the owner, and stood there watching out of his single eye
the face of his former master. The old man smiled as he folded the
letter and put it into his pocket, saying as he did so: "By next ship
I leave for Hamburg to take life up where I laid it down."

* * * * *

The only man now living of those bunk-house days is Thomas J.
Callahan. He has been attached for many years to Yale University and
doing the work of a janitor. Many Yale men will never forget how "Doc"
cared for Dwight Hall. He is now in charge of Yale Hall. The
circumstances under which I met Doc were rather peculiar.

"Say, bub," said Gar, the bouncer, to me one day, "what ungodly hour
of the mornin' d'ye git up?"

"At the godly hour of necessity," I replied.

"Wal, I hev a pal I want ter interjooce to ye at six."

I met the bouncer and his "pal" at the corner of Broome Street and the