Furnished with a ticket, I went to No. 30 Hawkins Street, and there
fell in line with a crowd of the same kind of people I was working
with and for on the Bowery. We had about an hour to wait. When it came
my turn for examination, I was rather disturbed to find the
representative of the committee sitting beside the superintendent,
investigating the tramps as they passed. I knew he could not recognize
me by my clothes, but I was not so certain about my voice, so I spoke
in a low tone.

"Open your mouth," the superintendent said. "Where are you from?"

I kept my eyes on the ground and answered a little louder, "Ireland."

"You are lying," the superintendent said. "Where are you from?"

"Ireland," I answered again in the same tone.

Two kinds of checks lay on the table in front of him--one pile green,
the other red. After answering the rest of the questions, I was given
a red check and taken to a cell where a black man stripped me to the
skin.

"Why did I get a red card while most of the others got a green card?"
I asked.

"You're lousy, boss, dat's why."

"Well, what are you going to do about it?"