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DAVE RANNEY
Or, Thirty Years on the Bowery
An Autobiography
Introduction by Rev. A. F. Schauffler, D. D.
1910
[Illustration: Cover of Dave Ranney]
This story of my life is dedicated to
DR. A. F. SCHAUFFLER
Who stuck by me through thick and thin
Honest endeavor is ne'er thrown away;
God gathers the failures day by day,
And weaves them into His perfect plan
In ways that are not for us to scan.
--Lucy Whittemore Myrick, 1876.
INTRODUCTION
The autobiography which this book contains is that of a man who through
the wonderful dealings of Providence has had a most remarkable
experience. I have known the writer for about seventeen years, and
always most favorably. For a number of years past he has been Bowery
Missionary for the New York City Mission and Tract Society, and has
shown himself faithful, capable and conscientious. His story simply
illustrates how the gospel of the grace of God can go down as far as man
can fall, and can uplift, purify, and beautify that which was degraded
and "well nigh unto cursing."
As a testimony as to what God can work, and how He can transform a man
from being a curse to himself and to the world into being a blessing,
the story is certainly fascinating, and ought to encourage any who have
lost hope to turn to Him who alone is able to save. It ought also to
encourage all workers for the downfallen to realize that God is able to
save unto the uttermost all who come to Him through Jesus Christ, the
all-sufficient Saviour.
With confidence I recommend this book to those who are interested in the
rescue of the fallen, knowing that they will praise God for what has
been wrought and will trust Him for future wonderful redemptions.
A. F. SCHAUFFLER.
New York City.
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
I. BOYHOOD DAYS
II. FIRST STEPS IN CRIME
III. INTO THE DEPTHS
IV. "SAVED BY GRACE"
V. ON THE UP GRADE
VI. PROMOTED
VII. THE MISSION IN CHINATOWN
VIII. BOWERY WORK
IX. PRODIGAL SONS
"Let me live in a house by the side of the road,
Where the race of men go by.
Men that are good and men that are bad, as good and as bad as I.
I would not sit in the scorner's seat,
Nor hurl the cynic's ban.
Let me live in a house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man."
CHAPTER I
BOYHOOD DAYS
I have often been asked the question, "Why don't you write a book?" And
I have said, "What is the use? What good will it do?" I have thought
about it time and time again, and have come to the conclusion to write a
story of my life, the good and the bad, and if the story will be a help,
and check some one that's just going wrong, set him thinking, and point
him on the right road, praise God!
I was born in Hudson City, N. J., over forty years ago, when there were
not as many houses in that town as there are now. I was born in old
Dutch Row, now called Beacon Avenue, in a two-story frame house. In
those days there was an Irish Row and a Dutch Row. The Irish lived by
themselves, and the Dutch by themselves.
Quite frequently the boys of the two colonies would have a battle royal,
and there would be things doing. Sometimes the Dutch would win out,
sometimes the Irish, and many's the time there was a cut head and other
bruises. Sometimes a prisoner would be taken, and then we would play
Indian with him, and do everything with him except burn him. We were all
boys born in America, but if we lived in Dutch Row, why, we had to be
Dutch; but if, on the other hand, we happened to live in Irish Row, we
had to be Irish. I remember moving one time to Irish Row, and I wondered
what would happen when I went to play with the old crowd. They said, "Go
and stay with the Irish." I did not know what to do. I would not fight
my old comrades, so I was neutral and fought with neither.
We had a good many ring battles in those days, and many's the fight we
had without gloves, and many's the black eye I got, and also gave a
few. I believe nothing does a boy or girl so much good as lots of play
in the open air. I never had a serious sickness in my life except the
measles, and that was easy, for I was up before the doctor said I ought
to get out of bed. Those were happy days, and little did I think then
that I would become the hard man I turned out to be.
I had a good Christian mother, one who loved her boy and thought there
was nothing too good for him, and I could always jolly her into getting
me anything I wanted. God bless the mothers! How true the saying is, "A
boy's best friend is his mother." My father I won't say so much about.
He was a rough man who loved his cups, and died, as you might say, a
young man through his own waywardness. I did love my mother, and would
give anything now to have her here with me as I am writing this story.
She has gone to heaven, and I was the means of sending her to an early
grave through my wrong-doings. She did not live to see her boy saved.
Many's the time I would promise her to lead a different life, and I
meant it too, but after all I could not give up my evil ways.
THE FIRST TASTE FOR DRINK
I remember when I first acquired the taste for drink. My grandfather
lived with us, and he liked his mixed ale and would send me for a pint
two or three times a day. In those days the beer was weighed so many
pounds to the quart. Every time I went for the beer I used to take a
swallow before I came back, and sometimes two, and after a while I
really began to enjoy it. Do you know, I was laying the foundation right
there and then for being what I turned out to be--a drunkard. I remember
one time--yes, lots of times--that I was under the influence of the vile
stuff when I was not more than ten years of age.
I received a public school education. My school-days were grand good
days. I had all the sport that comes to any boy going to school. I would
rather play ball than go home to dinner. In those days the game was
different from what it is at the present time. I was up in all athletic
sports when I was a boy. I could jump three quick jumps and go
twenty-eight and a half feet; that was considered great for a schoolboy.
There was one game I really did enjoy; the name of it was "How many
miles?" It is played something like this: You choose sides, and it
doesn't matter how many there are on a side. Of course each side would
be eager to get the quickest and fastest runner on their side. How I did
like that game! We then tossed to see who would be the outs and who
would chase the outs, and many's the mile we boys would run. We would be
late for school and would be kept in after three o'clock; that would
break my heart, but I would forget all about it the next day and do the
same thing again.
Our teacher, J. W. Wakeman--God bless him!--is living yet, and I hope he
will live a good many years more. A boy doesn't always like his teacher,
and I was no exception; I did not like him very much. He gave me more
whippings than any other boy in the school. All the learning I received
was, you might say, pounded into me. He used to say to me, "David, why
don't you be good and study your lessons? There is the making of a man
in you, but if you don't study you will be fit for nothing else than the
pick and shovel." How those words rang in my ears many a time in after
years when they came true, when I had to use the pick and shovel! I am
not saying anything against that sort of labor; it has its place. We
must fill in somewhere, in some groove, but that was not mine.
How I did enjoy in after years, when I was roaming over the world,
thinking of my old schoolmates! I could name over a dozen who were
filling positions of trust in their own city; lawyers, surrogates,
judges, and some in business for themselves, making a name and doing
something, while I was no earthly use to myself or to any one else. Some
people say, "Such is life; as you make your bed so you must lie." How
true it was in my case! I made my bed and had to lie on it, but I can
truthfully say I did not enjoy it.
There are many men that are down and out now who had a chance to be
splendid men. They are now on the Bowery "carrying the banner"--which
means walking the streets without a place to call home--without food or
shelter, but they could, if they looked back to their early life, see
that they were making their beds then, or as the Bible reads, sowing the
seed. Listen, young people, and take heed. Don't believe the saying, "A
fellow must sow his wild oats." The truth is just this: as you sow so
shall you reap. I was sowing when I was drinking out of the pail of
beer, and I surely did reap the drunkard's portion--misery.
A TRUANT
I was a great hand at playing hookey--that is, staying away from school
and not telling your parents. I would start for school in the morning,
but instead of going would meet a couple of boys and we would hide our
books until closing-time. If any boy was sent to my home with a note, I
would see that boy and tell him if he went he knew what he would get. He
knew it meant a good punching, and he would not go. I would write a note
so that the boy could take it back to the teacher saying that I was sick
and would be at school when I got better.
I remember how I was found out one time. We met as usual--the
hookey-players, I mean--and started down to the Hackensack River to have
a good day. Little did I know what would happen before the day was
over. One of the boys with us went out beyond his depth and was drowned.
I can still hear his cries and see his face as he sank for the last
lime. We all could swim a little, and we tried our best to save him, but
his time had come.
That wound up his hookey-playing, and you would think it would make me
stop too; but no, I went right along sowing the seed, and planting it
good and deep for the Devil.
I recollect the first time I went away from home. It happened this way:
The teacher got tired of receiving notes saying I was sick, and she
determined to see for herself--for I had a lady for teacher in that
class--what the trouble was.
One afternoon whom should I see coming in the gate but my teacher, and
now I was in a fix for fair. I knew if she saw mother it was all up with
me, so I ran and met her and told her mother was out and would not be
back until late. She asked me how I was getting on. I said I was better
and would be at school in the morning. She said, "I am glad of that."
When she turned to go I could have flung my cap in the air and shouted.
I thought I had fooled her and could go on playing hookey, but you know
the old adage, "There's many a slip." Just at this time my mother looked
out of the window and asked who was there and what she wanted. Well,
mother came down, and things were made straight as far as she and the
teacher were concerned; but I was in for it; I knew that by the way
mother looked at me. The jig was up, I was found out, and I knew things
would happen; and I did not want to be around when mother said, "You
just wait!" I knew what that meant, so I determined to go out into the
world and make my own way.
I was a little over thirteen years of age, and you know a boy does not
know much at that age, but I thought I did. I went over the fence with
mother after me. If dad had been home I guess he could have caught me,
that is if he had been sober. Mother could not run very fast, so I got
clear of the whip for that time at least. I got a good distance from the
house and then I sat down to think. I knew if I went home a whipping was
waiting for me, and that I could do without.
There was a boy just a little older than myself, Mike ----,[1] that was
"on the bum," as we used to say. The boys would give him some of the
lunch they had brought to school, and I thought I would join forces with
and be his pal. I saw Mike and told him all about the licking, and Mike
said, "Don't go home; you are a fool if you do." We went around, and I
was getting hungry, when we thought of a plan by which we could get
something to eat. Mother ran a book in a grocery store, and Mike said,
"Go to the store and get a few things, and say you don't have the book
but will bring it when you come again." I went to the store and got a
ham, a pound of butter, two loaves of bread and one box of sardines.
[Footnote 1: Where proper names are left blank they refer to real
persons or places.]
Some people will ask how I can remember so many years back. I remember
my first night away from home as though it was yesterday, and I'll never
forget it as long as I live. After I got the things the grocer said,
"Where is the book?" I told him mother had mislaid it, and he said,
"Bring it the next time." We built a fire and cooked the ham and had
lots to eat.
Up to this time it had all been smooth sailing; it was warm and we had a
good time in general. We had a swim with some other boys, and after
telling them not to say that they saw me, we left them. I asked Mike
where we were going to sleep, and he said, "I'll show you when it's
time."
After a while Mike said, "I guess we had better go to bed." Off we
started across the lots until we came to a big haystack, and Mike
stooped down and began to pull hay out of the stack and work his way
inside. Remember I was green at the business; I had never been away from
home before; and Mike, though only a little older, was used to this kind
of life. Well, I pulled out hay enough, as I thought, and crawled in,
but there was no sleep for me. I kept thinking and thinking. I would
call Mike and ask him if he was asleep, and he would say, "Oh, shut up
and let a fellow sleep!"
I am no coward, never was, but I was scared that night for fair. About
midnight I must have dozed off to sleep when something seemed to be
pushing at my feet. I was wide awake now, and shook Mike, but he only
turned over and seemed to sleep all the sounder. I could hear the
grunting and pushing outside all the time. My head was under and my feet
covered with the hay, when something took hold of my foot and began to
chew. My hair stood on end, and I gave a yell that would have awakened
"The Seven Sleepers." It woke Mike, and the last I heard of him that
night he was laughing as though he would split his sides, and all he
could shout was, "Pigs, pigs!" as I went flying toward home. I got there
as soon as my feet would carry me. I found the house up and mother and
sister crying, while father was trying to make them stop. When I shook
the door it opened and I was home again, and I was mighty glad.
The reason for the crying was that when it got late and the folks began
to look for me, one of the boys said that the last time he saw me I was
swimming with Mike ----. When I did not come home they thought surely I
was drowned, but I was born for a different fate. Sometimes in my years
of roaming afterwards I wished I had been drowned as they thought. They
were so glad to see me again that there was no whipping, and I went to
school next morning promising to be a better boy.
A BASEBALL GAME
I was fast becoming initiated in the ways of the Devil. There was
nothing that I would not do. I remember one time when mother thought I
was going to school but found out I was "on the hook." She decided to
punish me, and that night after I had gone to sleep she came into my
room and took all my clothes except my shirt. I certainly was in a fix.
I had to catch for my team and I would not miss that game of ball for
anything in the world; I simply had to go. In looking around the room I
found a skirt belonging to my sister that I thought would answer my
purpose. I had my shirt on and I put the skirt on over my head. Then I
ripped the skirt up the center and tied it around each leg with a piece
of cord--anything for that game!--and there I was with a pair of
trousers manufactured out of a girl's skirt. But I had to catch that
game of ball that day at any cost. Getting to the ground was easy. I
opened the window and let myself down as far as I could and then
dropped. I arrived all right, a little shaken up, but what is that to a
boy who has a ball game in his head!
I got to the game all right and some of the boys fixed me up. I don't
remember which side won that game, but when it was finished I went home
and met mother, and the interview was not a pleasant one, though she did
not give me a whipping.
I used to read novels, any number of them, in those days--all about
Indians, pirates, and all those blood-and-thunder tales--lies. You can
not get any good out of them, and they do corrupt your mind. I would
advise the young people who read these lines, and older folks also, if
this is your style of reading, to stop right where you are. Get some
good books--there are plenty of them--and don't fill your mind with
stuff that only unfits you for the real life of the years to come.
[Illustration: A NOON SHOP MEETING ADDRESSED BY MR. RANNEY.]