a week before he had been sent to prison for theft, and that morning she had been turned into the street by her landlord.  I saw Bob take from his pocket his memorandum-book, write something upon a leaf, tear it out and hand it to the woman, touch his hat, and before she could stop him, stride away.  I saw her look at the paper, clap her hands to her forehead, look at the paper again and at the retreating form of Bob Brownley.  Then I saw her, yes, there in the old Battery Park, in the drizzling rain and under the eyes of all, drop upon her knees in prayer.  How long she prayed I do not know.  I only know that as I followed Bob I looked back and the woman was still upon her knees.  I thought at the time how queer and unnatural the whole thing seemed.  Later, I learned to know that nothing is queer and unnatural in the world of human suffering; that great human suffering turns all that is queer and unnatural into commonplace.  Next day Bessie Brown came to our office to see Bob.  Not being able to get at him she asked for me.

“Mr. Randolph, tell me, please, what shall I do with this paper?” she said.  “I met Mr. Brownley in the Battery yesterday.  He saw I was in distress and he gave me this, but I cannot believe he meant it,” and she showed me an order on Randolph & Randolph for a thousand dollars.  I cashed her check and she went away.

From the Battery Bob sought the wharves, the Bowery, Five Points, the hothouses of the under-worldlings of America.  He seemed bent on picking out the haunts of misery in the misery-infested metropolis of the new world.  For two hours he tramped and I followed.  A number of times I thought to speak to him and try to win him from his mood, but I refrained.  I could see there was a soul battle waging and I realised that upon its outcome might depend Bob’s salvation.  Some seek the quiet of the woods, the soothing rustle of the leaves, the peaceful ripple of the brook when battling for their soul, but Bob’s woods appeared to be the shadowy places of misery, his rustling leaves the hoarse din of the multitude, and his brook’s ripple the tears and tales of the man-damned of the great city, for he stopped and conversed with many human derelicts that he met on his course.  The hand of the clock on Trinity’s steeple pointed to four as we again approached the office of Randolph & Randolph.  Bob was now moving with a long, hurried stride, as though consumed with a fever of desire to get to Beulah Sands.  For the last fifteen minutes I had with difficulty kept him in sight.  Had he arrived at a decision, and if so, what was it?  I asked myself over and over again as I plowed through the crowds.