Dave Ranney / Or, Thirty Years on the Bowery; An Autobiography

ever merited. During all the years since my conversion I had always kept in touch with Dr. A. F. Schauffler, Superintendent of the City Mission and Tract So

HOUSE MI

ion?" He said, "I know it, and we have kept our eyes on you for the last ten years,

understand it! It struck me as being queer in this way; the man who under God was the means of my salvation, who was a missionary when I was conv

and His love. And I don't believe there's a man in this big world that has a greater story to tell of God's love and mercies than I have. I'm writing this

er. There I could see the men every night, for we had a meeting all the year round, and every day from 1 to 2 P. M. We invited all those who were in trouble to come, and if we co

ING TO $5

had spent months hanging out in the back room of a saloon on Park Row, only going out once in a while to beg a little food. He had sold everything he could sell and he was a case to look at. He must have been, or the proprietor would never have said, "Say, you are a

et up and testify to the power of God to save a man. He knew a few of the men and thought, "

n was given he went forward and was gloriously saved. He did not walk the street that night nor has he since. He went to work at his trade-he w

d out of a Park Row saloon as a disgrace! Doesn't it pay to be a Christian and be on the level! I could go right

esent it and give you back as good. But if, on the other hand, you use a little t

that were the means of saving me,

ONARY I

but he came to our meeting one night to see the pictures of Christ, and was so touched by them that he came again and finally raised his hand for pray

inatown Mission with him. When he left to go to his lodging-house it was 10:30, and he was arr

ld me why he was arrested. Now I knew he h

who robbed him I was asked to go on the stand and tell what I knew. I told him I was a missionary to the Bowery, and

fe. He was amazed. Then I spoke a few words to the jury. The case was then given

ge would have asked my name and when I'd said, "Reilly, the crook," they would have sent both of us off to prison fo

in, the big barred gate opens, and the warden touches his hat and says, "How do you do, Mr. Ranney," and I go in. There's always a queer feeling comes over me when that g

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for men; it was near closing time and the invitation had been given. The

so he told me. After prayer had been offered and we got on our feet we asked the men to give their testimony. In fact, I think it is a good thing for them to testify, as it

f to blame for his condition, and, if God wou

with a coat in his hand and told the man to put it on. I looked at the man in astonishment. He was about five-fee

ntleman. I just stood and looked at him as he helped the other fellow on with the coat. I thought it one of the grandest acts I ever saw. He was following C

ver where he was sitting and while shaking hands with him said, "Say, that was the grandest act you ever did when you gave that man your coat. What did you do it for? You don't seem to have an

ell, the question was a queer one to me. How did I find him out? I

o, San Francisco, and in fact, all over the States, for points for his book. He told me what he had and hadn't done. He had worked in wood-yards for charity

s so I wouldn't be known. We would stand in the bread-line just like the rest of them and get our roll and coffee. It reminded me of my old life, and sometimes I would imagine I was "down and out" agai

y he showed me a cable dispatch from Paris telling him he was wanted and to

uld do for me. I thought a moment, then said, "Give the poor fellows a feed Sunday night." I was the Sunda

said, "Yes." He had four large hampers filled with sandwiches, which we carried into the Mission. He said he was the Count's valet and the Coun

o I sent my assistant to the office and told the reporters that a real French Count was going t

er, then the sandwiches and tea were passed around. The Count, wearing a dress-suit, was sitting on the platform. I

re. Now the Bowery men are sharp, and over seventy-five hands went up.

ondon for all I know, studying up something else. But I'm sure he enjoyed himself when feeding the men. And I have often thought, no m

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had to go on and have a meeting without music. I generally asked if any one could play, and I did so this night. Presently a man came up the aisle. I asked, "Can you play?" He said, "A little. What number shall I play?" I said, "I guess we will sing my favorite hymn, 'When the Roll Is Called up Yonder, I'll Be Ther

t you are going to say: why don't I cut it out? Well, I can't. I have tried time and again. I'll go on drinking until I die." I told him to stop trying and ask God to help him,

stimony. I've had him over to my home many times. He takes great delight in our garden there and waits with longing for Thursday t

many a time, drank and walked the streets lots of nights. I've written home to my mother and told her I had taken her Jesus as mine, and, Mr. Ranney, here's a letter from her." I read the letter. It was the same old letter, the kind those loving mothers write to their wayward boys,

UGH AN OUT

tunity opens I speak a word for the Master, sometimes on a temporary platform, sometimes standing on a truck, and sometimes from the Gospel Wagon. I

f drink and the terrible curse it was, how it made men brutes and all that was mean, telling about the prodi

pe. I got to talking to him and asked him into the Mission. He said he had never been into a place like that in his life and did not take any stock in them, but my talk had interested him. He could not understand how I had g

n Chinatown. I knew if he went any further he would be a marker for the pickpocket or others and would know nothing in a little while, so I tried to get him into the Mission, and after quite a while succeeded, and we took a seat right by the door. He was just tipsy enough to fall asleep, and I let him do it, for a little sleep often does thes

n Street. He said, "I wish you could see my home and family. Will you come up with me?" It was 10 P. M. and going would mean home for me about the early hours. But I went up to the Bronx, got to his home, saw him in, was bidding him good-night; nothi

ge would take Christ and give up his drinking!" He made all kinds of objections and excuses, but we pleaded and prayed. God was working with that man, and at 3 o'clock in the morning we knelt down, the wife, the husband and I, way up in the Bronx, and God did mightily save Geor

E BRIC

cases stand out so prominently that I shall never forget them. I remember one man in particular who used to come into the Mission. He was one of the regulars and was nearly always drunk. He used to want us to sing all the time. He was

me he was married, and his wife and two children were in Syracuse, living perhaps on charity, while he, inst

mily, I'd give anything. But what's the use of trying? I can't stop, and I wish someti

He knew it was the right way to live, but thought it was not for h

" I went down, took him by the hand, led him up front, and we all knelt down and asked God to save these poor men. I asked them all to pray for themse

he said, "Mr. Ranney, I've asked God to help me, and I'm going out of this Mission and I'm not going to drink any more whiskey." Then almost in the same breath he said, "I wonder if God will give me a pair of pants

ing was doing. Tuesday night came, and sure enough there was Jim with his testimony. He got up and thanked God for being one day without taking a drink. I said, "Praise God! Keep it up, Jim!" Wednesday night Jim thanked God for two days' victory. He was doing finely. Thursday came, and Jim was there with his testimon

ing and shook hands with him, but I did not say a word about his going back. That worried him a good deal, for he said, "Dan, are you mad with

ays be in the meeting and I would notice him with a handshake and a smile. I could see he was thinking quite hard and h

d let us pray with them. After coaxing and pleading with them there were six fellows that came forward and knelt down, when to my astonishment who came walking up

, separated from wife and children, a good-for-nothing man. I want to stand here before you people and thank God for keeping me for one whole month; and, men, this is the happiest month I've spent in my life. I asked God to help me and He is doing so. I only wish some of you men would take Jesus as your friend and keeper

m, I'll meet you to-morrow and we will go and get your tools out." In the morning Jim and I went down to the pawnbroker in New

He would ask me, "Do you think I can get back to my wife and children again?" "Yes," I would answer; "wait a little while. Have you written to her?" "Yes." "Got any answer?" "Yes, a couple of letters, but I don't think she takes any stock in my co

ike a little child in God's love. We went out and had our pictures taken and Jim asked me to write and urge his wife to

she said she took no stock in her husband, and that she knew he was the same old good-for-nothing, etc. It was hard lines for poor Jim, who was reading that letter over my shoulder. I looked at him. I could see some of the old Devi

y dollars." He gave me the money and we went to the postoffice and I took out a money-order to Mrs. Jim, Sy

Then she began about her troubles with her husband: he was a good man, but he would drink. She said, "I begin to think that Jim has religion, for if he hadn't something near it, he would never have sent me the money. Do you think he is all right, Mr. Ranney?" To which I answer

ke a trumpet and called, "Hello, Jim!" Jim looked down, seeing me, and then looking at the woman and children a moment he dropped everything, and to watch that man come do

e where he was converted, and on that very spot we all had a nice little prayer-meeting, a

n the church. I had the pleasure of eating dinner in their home. I often get a letter from Jim, telling o

ANNEY'S OPEN