the men who had reached the bottom--and the bunk-house was the bottom
rung of the social ladder. Every day he had his story to tell--of the
newcomers and their possibilities. His conversion was a matter of slow
work. Indeed, I don't know what conversion meant in his case. It
certainly was not the working out of any theological formula that I
had preached to him.

The telling of this man's story in churches helped the work a great
deal. It was the kind of thing that appealed to the churches--rather
graphic and striking; so, unconsciously we exploited him. We could
have gotten a hundred dollars to help a man like this--whose life
after all was past or nearly past--to one dollar we could get for the
work of saving a boy from such a life!

Among the most interesting characters that I came in contact with in
those days was Dave Ranney; he is now himself a missionary to the
Bowery lodging houses. I was going across Chatham Square one night,
when this man tapped me on the shoulder--"touched me"--he would call
it. He was "a puddler from Pittsburg," so he said.

"Show me your hands," I replied. Instead, he stuck them deep into his
trouser pockets, and I told him to try again. He said he was hungry,
so I took him to a restaurant, but he couldn't eat. He wanted a drink,
but I wouldn't give that to him. He walked the streets that night, but
he came to me later and I helped him; and every time he came, he got a
little nearer the truth in telling his story. Finally I got it all. He
squared himself and began the fight of his life.

Another convert of the bunk-house was Edward Dowling. "Der's an old
gazabo here," said the bouncer to me one day, "and he's got de angel