He had risen at 8 A. M. intending to get work before his eight dollars was all gone.  Well, the money was burning a hole in his pocket.  He wanted to see a show and he came down on the Bowery and got into a cheap vaudeville show, and quite enjoyed himself.  “I came out of that 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 wouldn’t believe me.  He wanted his twenty cents, or he would have me arrested.  Oh, he was mad for fair, Mr. Ranney.  He got me by my coat-collar and shook me and said I was a thief, and he finished up by kicking me through the door, and here I am down on the Bowery homeless.”

Another young fellow gone wrong!  Could I help him?  I urged him to go back home, but he didn’t want to.  The night before was pay-night, and he was always expected to give in his share towards the home expenses, and now here was his money all gone.  What could he do?

I took him around the room and pointed out the hard cases there, wretched, miserable specimens of men, and asked him if he wanted to be like them, as he surely would if 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 scolding from your father, but take it.  Tell them both that you will make up the money as soon as you get work, and that you are going to be obedient and good from now on.”

At last he said he would go if I would go with him, but I couldn’t that night, for I had a meeting to address.  I told him I would give 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 get, for I wanted him to realize the life he would drift into, told him to meet me at one o’clock the next day, and said good-night to him.

The next day I met him; we had something to eat, and I asked him how he had slept.  “Oh,” he said, “it was something awful!  I could not sleep any, there was such a cursing and drinking and scrapping.  Oh, I wish I was home!”

We went up to Washington Heights, around 165th Street, and found the place.  We got there about six o’clock.  I went in and knocked at the door, which opened very quickly.  The mother and father came forward; they had been crying, I could see that.  “Oh, has anything happened to my boy!” she cried, 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 when I get a job.  This is Mr. Ranney, the Bowery missionary.”  I went in and was asked to stay for supper, and we had an earnest talk, leading to the father giving up beer.  What he was going to drink for supper was thrown into the sink.  I see these people occasionally, and they are doing well.