and central. The first thing I did was to clean it. I proceeded with
soap and water to scrub it out, dressed in a pair of overalls. While
performing this operation, a tall gaunt figure lurched into the room
with his hands in his pockets--a slit for a mouth, shaggy eyebrows,
rather small eyes. He looked at me for a moment as if in astonishment,
and then he said:

"Hello, bub, what's de game?"

"I'm a missionary," I answered.

"Ye are, eh?"

"Yes. When I finish cleaning the floor, I am going to attempt to clean
up some other things around here."

"Me too, hey?"

"Yes; don't you think you need it?"

He laughed a hoarse, gutteral laugh, and said:

"Don't get bughouse, boss. Ye'd wind up just where ye begun--on the
floor."

This man, who was known in the bunk-house as "Gar," was known also by
the names of "McBriarty" and "Brady." He had been in the army, but
they could not drill him. He had spent fifteen years in State's Prison
for various offences, but for a good many years he had been bungling
around in cheap lodging houses, getting a living by his wits. He was