After two years of uninterrupted service as librarian, during which
time Doc had been of great service in the bunk-house, I lost him. Five
years later, crossing Brooklyn Bridge on a car, I passed Doc who was
walking in the same direction. At the end of the bridge I planted
myself in front of him. "Doc," I said, "you will never get away from
me again." I took him to New Haven, where he has been ever since.

It is needless to say that several years' work in the midst of such
surroundings gives one a hopeless outlook for that kind of work. In
1891 a movement to establish a municipal lodging house was organized,
and I became part of it. A committee composed largely of business men
met in the office of Killaen Van Ransellaer, 56 Wall Street. In
discussing the plan of a municipal lodging house, the "Wayfarers
Lodge" in Boston, an institution of the character under discussion,
was pointed out as a model, and it was decided to send a
representative to Boston to investigate and make a report on it.

I was suspicious of the printed report of the Boston place. It spoke
of the men getting clean bedding, clean sheets and good meals; and
experience was teaching me that that kind of catering for the tramp
would swamp any institution. Then, I knew something about the padding
of charitable reports. I did not care to offer any objection to the
sending of a representative, but I determined to go myself; so,
dressed in an old cotton shirt with collar attached, a ragged coat, a
battered hat and with exactly the railroad fare in my pocket, I went
to Boston. I stopped a policeman on the street, told him I was
homeless and hungry. "Go to the Police Station," he said, and knowing
that at each Police Station tickets of admission were served, I
presented myself to the Sergeant at the desk.