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

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s of the worst haunts of wickedness were closed and vice became less conspicuous. The Bowery, however, still maintains its individuality as a breeding-place of crime. It is still the cesspool for all things bad. From all over the world they come to the Bowery. The lodging-houses give them cheap q

l classes, from the petty thief to the Western train-wrecker, loafers, drug-fiends, perhaps a one-time college man, who through the curse of drink has got there. But they are not all bad on the Bowery. No one not knowing the conditions can imagi

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men would know that. They would bring a couple bottles of the stuff, as though for a social time, and then ask him questions pertaining to the case in hand. Then he would imagine himself the lawyer of old days, and plead as he saw the case, and he was right nine times out of ten! Oh, what a future that man had thrown away for the Devil's

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l he gets work. I wish I had more clothes so I could help more men, but at least I can give them a handshake, a kind word, and a prayer, and that, by God's grace, can work wonders for the poor fellows. There's not a man or boy comes in that I

a collar, and that's a good sign. I beckoned him to come over to me and I pointed to a chair, telling him to sit down

good name. "I used to take an odd drink, but always thought I could do without it," said he. "Eighteen years ago I lost my wife and to drown my sorrow I got drunk. I had never been intoxicated before, and I kept at it for over three months

since then, sometimes hungry, sometimes in pretty good shape, but I'll never f

punish that saloon-keeper. I told him I'd been through something like the same experience, a man whose word I trusted selling me some Harbor Chart stock and making me think he was d

a point where he took Jesus as his guide and friend, and to-day he is a fine Christian gentleman. I have had him testif

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and wearing good clothes. I looked at him a moment and thought, "He has got into the wrong place." I spoke to him, as is my habit, and asked him what he was doing there. I brought him over an

a "run in," as he called it, at home, and had determined to get out. His mother had married a second time, and his stepfather and he could not agree on a single thing. He loved his mother,

show," he said, "and went into a restaurant to eat, and when I went to pay the cashier I did not have a cent in my pocket. The boss of the place said that was an old story. He was not there to feed people for nothing. I said I had been robbed or lost my money somehow, but he

idn't want to. The night before was pay-night, and he was always expected to give in his

he went on in the course he was starting. He said, "Indeed I don't!" "Well, then," I said, "take my advice and go home. Be a man and face the music. It will mean a sco

him a lodging for the night, and we would go up to Washington Heights the next day. I put him in about as tough a lodging as I could ge

d slept. "Oh," he said, "it was something awful! I could not sleep any, th

d, when I asked if she had a son. "Tell me quick, for God's sake!" I told them that Eddie was all right, and I called to him. He came in, and like a manly boy, after kissing his mother, he turned to his stepfather and said, "Forgive me; I'll be a better boy and I'll make everything all right

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left home and took his journey to t

sons and a daughter, all good church members. It is of the younger boy I want to spe

what a grand place it is, and, if a fellow had a little money, he could make a fortune. He succeeds in arousing the fancies of this

had better stay at home and perhaps later on he would have a chance to start a business in the village where he was born. No, nothing but New York will do for him. He teases his f

y and be sure to write home often. Oh, he promises all right, and is anxious to get away in a hurry. I can see them in the railroad station when

the Grand Central Station." You may be sure Ed meets him at the station-Ed is not working-and he gives him the hello and the glad hand. He takes Tom's grip and they start for t

as left and going to a furnished room at $1.50 a week. Tom is beginning to think and worry a bit. He has lost the letter to the merchant hi

nt where, like the prodigal, he says, "I will arise and go to my father." No, he has not as yet reached the end of his rope. I can see him pawning the watch a

othes, walking the streets night after night--"carrying the banner." Sometimes he slips into a saloon where they have free lunch

a friend in the big city, and he doesn't know which way to turn. He says, "I'll write home." But no, he is too proud. He wants to go home the same as he left it. And th

the company that misery loves. God knows there's plenty of it there! I've seen men that you could no

despair on his face, looking as though he hadn't had a square meal in many a day. It was Tom. I didn't know him then. There are so many such cases on the Bowery one gets used to them.

of my own life and dreaded the future for him. I spoke to him, gained his conf

riends who had enough and to spare. The servants had a better time and more to eat than he. "Tom," I said, "why don't you go home?" "Oh, Mr. Ranney," he said, "I wish I co

ter telling him about his son's condition, etc. In a few days I received a letter from his father inclosing a check f

l times to help, but we must do something-meet the conditions. Tom's father w

ed the streets and went hungry. I corresponded with his father and told him how his son was getting along.

ess. He was coming on finely. Many's the talk we would have together about home. The tears would come to his eyes an

ilroad ticket, etc. And one night I said, "Tom, would you like to go home?" You can imagine Tom's answer! I took him out and bought him clothes, got back his watch and chai

have a grand time fishing, boating, driving, etc. I asked him, "Do you want to go back to New York, Tom?" and he smiled and said, "Not for mine!" If any one comes from New Yor

asting one. He is now a man; he goes to church and Sunday-school, where he teaches a class of boys. Once in a while h

as Tom's-college men some of them-who are without hope and wit

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rl just beginning to walk. I'm younger, happier, and a better man in mind and body than I w

off on a technical point. I said, "Helen, let me introduce you to the policeman that arrested me one time." He had changed some; his hair was getting gray. He knew me, and when

in Atlantic City where there was any amount of silverware, etc., in a wealthy man's summer home, so we undertook to go there and see if we could get any of the good things that were in the house. We reached the city with our kit of tools, and my pal went and hid them a little way from

and I said, "It's none of your business." He was as cool as could be. "Oh, yes," he said, "it is my business," and turning the lapel of his coat he held a Pinkerton badge under my nose, at the same time saying, "The game's called, and I know you. Where's the tools?" I told him

r times; I've been entertained at one of the best hotels there, the Chalfonte, for a week at a time. What a change! Twenty years ago, whe

leaving a lot of friends. If at any time you are on the Bowery-not down and out-and want to see me