ON THE UP GRADE
Mr. Irvine paid for my lodging and meals for a week at 105 Bowery. I
thought he was great; I'd never run up against anything like him. He
said, "We must get you a job of some kind, and that quick. Will you
work?" Well, what do you think of that! Would I work? It struck me as
funny. Work and I had fallen out long ago. I could lie down beside work
and watch the other fellow do it. I had reached the point where, like a
good many others, I felt the world owed me a living, and I was bound to
get it. I had toiled hard and faithfully for the Devil, and taken a
great many chances, and I never thought of that as work. And I got the
wages the Devil always pays--cuts, shot, prison: I was paid good and
plenty. Here I was up against another proposition--work--and I hated
it!
Irvine said, "You must have something to occupy your mind and time, for
you know the Devil finds mischief for idlers." I said I'd tackle
anything; I'd work all right. A few days later he told me he had a job
for me. "Good," I said. I wondered what kind of work it was. I knew it
was not a position of great trust, not a cashier in a bank; that would
have to come later on. Well, the job was tending a furnace--get up steam
at 5 A. M., do the chores, and make myself generally useful; wages
$12.00 per month and my breakfast!
I did not like this for a starter, and I told Mr. Irvine so, and he had
to do some tall talking. He finally got angry and said, "Ranney, you
started out to let God help you. Well, you know God helps the man that
helps himself." That was so. I had asked God to help me, and here I was
at the start refusing to give Him a chance. That clinched it, and I
took the first honest job I had had in a good many years. I thank God I
did take it, for it was a stepping-stone.
FISHING FOR A DINNER
I started in working and was getting on fine, but I always felt I wasn't
getting money enough. I tried in my leisure time for another job, but in
all the places I was asked the same question: "Where did you work last?"
I could not tell them, "In prison and on the road," and that queered me.
So I stuck to the furnace, was always on time, and was pretty well liked
by the people. I had been there about two weeks, and seen the cook every
day and smelled the steak, etc., about noontime and at supper, but the
cook never asked me if I had a mouth on me. She was a good-natured
outspoken Irish woman with a good big heart, and I thought about this
time that I'd jolly her a little and get my dinner. One day I came up
from the cellar carrying a hod of coal in each hand, and going into the
kitchen I tried in every way to attract her attention, but she was busy
broiling a steak and never looked around. Finally I got tired and said,
"Cook, where will I put this coal?" Well, well, I'll never forget that
moment in years! She turned and looked at me and began, "I want you to
understand my name is Mrs. Cunningham. I'm none of your cooks, and if
you dare call me cook again while you're in this house I'll have you
sacked--discharged!" I thought I had been hit with a steam car. I did
not answer her back, and she kept right on: "I'm a lady, and I'll be
treated as such or I'll know why!" I never saw a person so mad in all my
life, and I couldn't understand why. There she was cooking, and yet she
was no cook! I thought to myself, "I guess she doesn't like her job." I
didn't blame her, because I didn't like mine either.
My heart went down into my boots. Here I had made a play for a dinner
and got left. About a week after this I was doing a little job in the
laundry when I ran across the cook, and she said, "Young man, would you
like a little bite to eat?" I answered quickly, "Yes, thank you, Mrs.
Cunningham," just as sweet as anything. No more "cook" for mine. I'll
never call people by their occupation again as long as I live. I'd had
my lesson; but I had won out on my dinner too. A short time after she
asked me if I could read, and would I read the news to her while she was
peeling potatoes. I answered very sweetly, "Yes, Mrs. Cunningham," and I
got my supper.
I would see Irvine once in a while, and I was always ready to give up my
job, but he would say, "Stay six months, get a recommend, and then you
can get something better. Just let God take care of you, and you'll come
out away on top of the heap. God is going to use you in His work. Just
keep on trusting and don't get discouraged." He always had a word of
cheer, and I thank God that I did trust, and things came out better than
I even thought.
You readers who are just starting out in the Christian life, just let
God have His way. Don't think you know it all. Go right ahead, have a
little sand, and trust Him. He will never leave you, and you will have
the best in this life and in the life to come. It's an everlasting joy,
and isn't it worth working for, boys?
PRAYERS IN A LODGING-HOUSE
I remember, when I knelt down in 105 Bowery beside my cot to ask God's
blessing and guidance, how a laugh used to go around the dormitory.
There were about seventy beds in the place, and it was something unusual
to see a man on his knees praying. But when I started out to be a man I
meant business, and I said I would say my prayers every night. I don't
think God can think much of a man who says his prayers lying on his
back, unless he's sick. I believe God expects us to get on our knees,
for if a thing is worth getting it's worth thanks. I didn't mind the
laugh so much, but I did some: it was sort of cutting. I'm no coward
physically, and can handle myself fairly well at the present time, but
when it came to getting on my knees I was a rank coward.
A lodging-house is a queer affair. Men of all nations sleep there--some
drunk, some dreaming aloud, others snoring. The cots are about two feet
apart--just room for you to pass between them. It takes a lot of grit
and plenty of God's grace to live a Christian life in a lodging-house. I
go in them every day now to look after the other fellow: if he is sick
or wants to go to the hospital I'll see to that; but I never can forget
the time when I was one of those, inmates.
One night I had just got on my knees when boots, shoes, and pillows
came sailing at me; one boot hit me, and it did hurt for fair. Then a
whiskey flask hit me, and that hurt. I was boiling with rage. I got up,
but I didn't say anything; no one would have answered me if I had; they
were all asleep, by the way. We call such business hazing, but it's mean
and dirty.
I went to work as usual the next day, and thought and planned all day
how to catch one of those fellows. I figured out the following plan: I
did not go to bed that night until quite late; the gas was turned down
low, and I made noise enough for them to hear me. When I was ready for
bed I knelt down and turned my head as quick as a flash to catch the
throwers, for I knew they would throw again. Just as I turned I caught
the fellow in the act of throwing a bottle. It seemed as though the
Devil had got me for fair again, for I made a rush for that fellow, got
him by the throat, pulled him out of bed and jumped on him, and I think
if it hadn't been for the watchman I would have killed him; but he said,
"Dan, for God's sake don't kill him!" I let up, and, standing upon that
dormitory floor, beds all around, every one awake, about 11 P. M., I
gave my first testimony, which was something like this: "Men, I've quit
drinking--been off the stuff about two weeks, a thing I have not done in
years unless locked up. I've knelt and asked God to keep me sober and
have thanked Him for His kindness to me. Now if you men don't let me
alone in the future I'll lick you or you will me."
I went to my cot and knelt down, but I was so stirred up I couldn't
pray. I wondered if there was going to be any more throwing, but that
night finished it. I went up in the opinion of those men one hundred per
cent. I lived there until the place burned down, and was one of the
fortunate ones that got out alive when so many lost their lives, and I
always said my prayers and was respected by the men. I was making lots
of friends and attending Sunday-school, prayer-meeting, and mission
services.
THE STORY OF AN OVERCOAT
One Thanksgiving-time I was hired to carry dinners to the poor families
by the New York City Mission. Mrs. Lucy Bainbridge was the
superintendent. God bless her, for she was and is one good woman! I
didn't have any overcoat and it was cold; but I didn't mind, as I was
moving about carrying the dinners. This was about two months after I had
decided to follow Christ, and I still had the furnace job when I met
Mrs. Bainbridge.
She knew me by sight and asked me how I was getting on, and where was my
overcoat? I told her I was getting along all right, but I had no
overcoat. She said, "That's too bad! Come with me and we will see if
there's one in the Dorcas Room"--a place where clothes are kept that
good people send in for the poor who haven't so much. There were quite a
few coats there, any one of which would have suited me, but they didn't
please Mrs. Bainbridge. She said, "David, come into the office." She
gave me a letter to Rogers, Peet & Co., and told me to take it down
there and wait for an answer.
I went down and gave the letter to a clerk, and it was great to see him
eye me up. I didn't know then how the letter read, but have since
learned that the contents were as follows: "Give this man about the best
overcoat you have in the store." No wonder he looked me over!
We began trying on coats, found one that suited us, and he said, "You
might as well wear it home." "Not on your natural!" I said. "Put it in
paper or a box." I didn't think that coat was for me, for it was fifty
dollars if a cent. Picture me with twelve dollars per month and three
meals, and a fifty-dollar overcoat!
I went back to Mrs. Bainbridge, and she told me to try the coat on,
which I did. Then she said, "David, that coat is for you, but listen,
David; that coat is mine. Now I wouldn't go into a saloon, and I want
you to promise me that you will never enter a saloon while you wear it."
I promised, and that coat never went into a saloon, and I wore it for
five years. Then I sent it to old Ireland, to my wife's father, and
perhaps he is still wearing it. I often see Mrs. Bainbridge, and she is
always the same kind friend, God bless her! I have entry to the Dorcas
Room when I need anything to help a man that I'm trying to put on his
feet, and that's often.
DELIVERING TELEPHONE BOOKS
It was coming spring and I was no longer needed at the furnace. I left
with a recommendation for six months and a standing invitation from the
cook for my meals, and she never went back on me. I don't know where she
is now, but if she reads this book I want her to know that I appreciated
all she did for me when I started this new life and I am sure she will
be delighted to know that she helped a little.
I got another job delivering telephone books. When you see a poor
seedy-looking man delivering these books, give him a kind word, for
there's many a good man at that job to-day hoping for something better.
This job was a hard one and you had to hustle to make a dollar a day,
but I did not mind the hustling: I was strong, the drink had gone out of
me, and I felt good. I was anxious to get a job as porter in some
wholesale house, and delivering these books gave me a good chance to
ask, and ask I did in nearly every store where I delivered a book. I
always got the same reply, "No one wanted." I stayed at this about
three months, and was getting discouraged. It looked as though I'd never
get a steady position.
I had only a few more days of work, and was just finishing my deliveries
one afternoon. I had Twenty-second Street and North River as my last
delivery, which took me into the lumber district and into the office of
John McC----. I asked the young man in charge of the office if they
wanted a young fellow to work. He asked me what I could do, and I said,
"Anything." Now it's an old saying, "A man that can do everything can't
do much of anything."
We went down into the yard and he asked me the different qualities of
lumber and their names. I'll never forget the first question he asked
me, which was, "What's the name of that piece of timber?" I said, "Oak,"
and I was right. After testing me on the other piles he asked me if I
could measure, and could I tally? I told him I could, and he said,
"I'll give you $9.00. Is that enough?" I said that would do for a
starter, and he told me to be on hand at seven o'clock in the morning.
I delivered the few books I had left, drew my money, got a shave, bought
a leather apron, and went to bed. I was up and at John McC----'s yard at
6:30.
He was Police Commissioner then, and one of the whitest men I ever ran
up against.
I started in at my third job since I had been converted. I was at home
in the lumber yard, as I had learned the business While roughing it in
Tonawanda, Troy, Syracuse, Buffalo, and on the Lakes. And when a man
learns anything, if he isn't a fool he can always work at it again. Here
I was at a business few could tell me much about.
TESTIFYING IN A LUMBER YARD
The lumber-handlers as a rule are a free and easy set, nearly all
drinking men. It's warm work, and when a man is piling all day, pulling
up plank after plank, he thinks a pint of beer does him good. They rush
the can--first the piler, then the stager, and then the ground man, then
the piler again, and so on. I've counted as many as twenty pints in one
day among one gang. I soon got the run of the yard and made friends with
all the men; but if ever I was up against temptation it was there in
that yard, where I worked a long time. They would ask me to have a
drink, but I told them time and time again that I did not care about it;
I was off the stuff.
Often when I was sweating after pushing down a load of lumber from the
pile and keeping tally at the same time, the Devil would whisper to me,
"Oh, have a glass of beer; it won't hurt you; it will do you good," and
I was tempted to join with the men and drink. I had to keep praying hard
and fast, for I was sorely tempted. But, thank God, I've yet to take my
first drink since 1892!
God was always near me, and He often said, "Tell the men all about it,
how you have asked Me to help you, and they won't ask you to drink any
more." I wondered what the men would say if I told them. I was a little
timid about doing it. I had testified once or twice in a meeting, but
that was easy compared with this. But after a while I got up courage and
told the men why I did not drink. I said, "I have been a hard man and
loved drink so much that it separated me from family and friends, put me
in prison, and took my manhood away. One year ago I took Jesus as my
helper and asked Him to take away this love for drink, and He did. I
would rather lose my right arm than go back again, and with God's help
I'll win out and never drink again." I often talked with them about it,
told them it was a good way to live, and to think it over. I found out
in a little while that the men thought better of me, and respected me
more than before. I have heard some of them say, "I wish I could give up
the drink," and some did, and are living good lives without the cursed
stuff.
I've met some of these men on the Bowery, "down and out," and I've stood
by them and tried to point them in the right direction. There's one man,
a fine noble fellow, who used to work with me in my lumber days, who is
on the Bowery at the present time, unable to give up the drink. He is
always glad to see me and says, "God bless you, Dan, and keep you away
from the stuff. I wish I could!" I tell him to ask God and have faith,
and then I slip him a meal ticket and give him a God bless you!
[Illustration: MR. RANNEY AND ONE OF HIS "BOYS." DAVE RANNEY, ALIAS
DANNY REILLY.]