BOWERY WORK
God moves in a mysterious way to work out His ends, and I can testify
that His dealings with me have been wonderful indeed,--far beyond
anything that I have ever merited. During all the years since my
conversion I had always kept in touch with Dr. A. F. Schauffler,
Superintendent of the City Mission and Tract Society, visiting him at
his office once in a while, and he was always glad to see me. He would
ask me about my work and we would have a little talk together.
LODGING-HOUSE MISSIONARY
One day I said, "Dr. Schauffler, do you know I'm a protege of the New
York City Mission?" He said, "I know it, and we have kept our eyes on
you for the last ten years, and have decided to make you Lodging-House
Missionary to the Bowery, if you accept."
Praise God! Wasn't it wonderful, after thirteen years of God's grace in
my life, to get such an appointment! Lodging-House Missionary--I
couldn't understand it! It struck me as being queer in this way; the man
who under God was the means of my salvation, who was a missionary when I
was converted, had resigned a few years after to become a minister, and
now here was Ranney, the ex-crook and drunk, being asked to take the
same position!
We don't understand God's ways and purposes; they are too wonderful for
us; but here I am on the Bowery, my old stamping-ground, telling the
story of Jesus and His love. And I don't believe there's a man in this
big world that has a greater story to tell of God's love and mercies
than I have. I'm writing this seventeen years after being saved, and
I'll still say it's a grand thing to be a Christian. I would not go
back to the old life for anything in the world.
Part of my work has been in Mariners' Temple, corner of Oliver and Henry
Streets, Chatham Square, New York City, right on the spot where I did
everything on the calendar but murder. There I could see the men every
night, for we had a meeting all the year round, and every day from 1 to
2 P. M. We invited all those who were in trouble to come, and if we
could help them we gladly did so. If they wanted to go to the hospital
we placed them there and would do whatever we could for them, always
telling them of Jesus the Mighty to save.
FROM NOTHING TO $5000 A YEAR
I remember and love a man who was my partner in the Tuesday night
meetings in the Mariners' Temple, when we fed the poor fellows during
the winter--a fine Christian gentleman. You would never think to look
at him he was once such a drunkard! He told me his story. He had spent
months hanging out in the back room of a saloon on Park Row, only going
out once in a while to beg a little food. He had sold everything he
could sell and he was a case to look at. He must have been, or the
proprietor would never have said, "Say, you are a disgrace to this
place! Get out and don't come in here again!" The poor fellow went out.
He was down and out sure enough! He thought he would end it all, and he
bent his steps toward the East River, intending to jump in, but was
chased from the dock by the watchman.
He passed a Mission, heard the singing, and went in. He heard men that
were once drunkards get up and testify to the power of God to save a
man. He knew a few of the men and thought, "If God can save them He
surely can me!" What a lot there is in testimony for the other fellow!
He went out that night and slept in a hallway. He waited until the
Mission opened, and going in, heard the same thing again. When the
invitation was given he went forward and was gloriously saved. He did
not walk the street that night nor has he since. He went to work at his
trade--he was a printer--and he and his dear wife, who had always prayed
for her husband, were united and are now working together in the
Master's vineyard.
This was over three years ago. Today this man has a position at a salary
of $5000 a year! Three years ago ordered out of a Park Row saloon as a
disgrace! Doesn't it pay to be a Christian and be on the level! I could
go right on and tell of hundreds that have come up and are on top now.
God never leaves nor forsakes us if we do our part.
The Bowery boys are queer propositions. You can't push or drive them;
they will resent it and give you back as good. But if, on the other
hand, you use a little tact spiced with a little kindness, you will win
out with the Bowery boy every time.
It was a kind word and a kind act that were the means of saving me, and
I never tire of giving the same.
A MISSIONARY IN COURT
I remember a few years ago a fellow was arrested for holding up a man on
Chatham Square. Now this fellow was an ex-convict and had a very bad
record, but he came to our meeting one night to see the pictures of
Christ, and was so touched by them that he came again and finally raised
his hand for prayers, and when the invitation was given went up to the
mercy seat and was saved. At the time he was arrested he had been a
grand Christian for two years.
He used to pump the organ. On this Sunday night when he was arrested I
had gone over to the Chinatown Mission with him. When he left to go to
his lodging-house it was 10:30, and he was arrested right after leaving
the meeting on the charge of robbing a man on the Bowery at 9:30 P.M.
When he was arrested he sent for me and told me why he was arrested. Now
I knew he had not robbed any one while he was with me.
The day of his trial came on. Judge Crane was the judge--a good clean
man. After the man had sworn that J---- was the man who robbed him I was
asked to go on the stand and tell what I knew. I told him I was a
missionary to the Bowery, and that J----, the man arrested, was not the
man who did the robbing, for he was with me at the time the robbery took
place.
Judge Crane asked my name. I told him and gave him a brief history of my
past life. He was amazed. Then I spoke a few words to the jury. The case
was then given to the jury, and after twenty minutes they came in with
a verdict of not guilty.
My dear readers, suppose Reilly (Ranney), the crook of sixteen years
before, had been on that witness-stand. The Judge would have asked my
name and when I'd said, "Reilly, the crook," they would have sent both
of us off to prison for life. But the past has been blotted out through
Jesus, and it was the word of the redeemed crook that set J---- free.
There are lots of cases I could write about where men are arrested and
send for me. I go to the Tombs to see them, and as I go up the big stone
steps where the visitors go in, the big barred gate opens, and the
warden touches his hat and says, "How do you do, Mr. Ranney," and I go
in. There's always a queer feeling comes over me when that gate is shut
behind me. I realize that I am coming out in an hour or so, but there
was a time when I was shoved through the old gate, and didn't know when
I would come out.
A COUNT DISGUISED AS A TRAMP
One night in Mariners' Temple, on Chatham Square, I was leading a
meeting for men; it was near closing time and the invitation had been
given. There were three men at the front on their knees calling on God
to help them.
I look back to that night as one I never can forget. One of the men who
came up front had no coat; it had been stolen from him in some saloon
while he was in a drunken sleep, so he told me. After prayer had been
offered and we got on our feet we asked the men to give their testimony.
In fact, I think it is a good thing for them to testify, as it helps
them when they have declared themselves before the others. They each
gave a short testimony in which they said that they intended to lead a
better life, with God's help.
The man without a coat said he had but himself to blame for his
condition, and, if God would help him, he was going to be a better man.
I saw to it that the man had a lodging and something to eat, when out
from the audience stepped a fine-looking man with a coat in his hand and
told the man to put it on. I looked at the man in astonishment. He was
about five-feet-ten, of fine appearance, a little in need of a shave and
a little water, but the man sticking out of him all over.
It is not the clothes that make the man, for here was a man who hadn't
anything in the way of clothes, but you could tell by looking at him
that he was a gentleman. I just stood and looked at him as he helped the
other fellow on with the coat. I thought it one of the grandest acts I
ever saw. He was following Christ's command about the man having two
coats giving his brother one. I saw the man had on an overcoat, but,
even so, it was a grand act, and I told him so.
I did not see him again for some time, when one night, about a week
after the coat affair, I saw him sitting among the men at the Doyer
Street Midnight Mission, of which I had charge. I went over where he was
sitting and while shaking hands with him said, "Say, that was the
grandest act you ever did when you gave that man your coat. What did you
do it for? You don't seem to have any too much of this world's goods.
How did it happen? Are you a Christian? Who are you?" He looked at me a
moment and said, "Mr. Ranney, if I can go into your office I'll tell you
all about it."
We went into the office, and he said, "How did you find me out?" Well,
the question was a queer one to me. How did I find him out? I didn't
know what he meant, but I didn't tell him so; I just smiled.
Well, he said he was a French Count (which was true), over here writing
a book about the charitable institutions in the United States. He had
been in Chicago, San Francisco, and in fact, all over the States, for
points for his book. He told me what he had and hadn't done. He had
worked in wood-yards for charity organizations; had given himself up and
gone to the Island; stood in bread-lines; in fact, he had done
everything the tramp does when he is "down and out."
I took quite a fancy to him. He took me up to his room in Eighteenth
Street, showed me his credentials, and we became quite chummy. We used
to do the slums act, and I would put on an old suit of clothes so I
wouldn't be known. We would stand in the bread-line just like the rest
of them and get our roll and coffee. It reminded me of my old life, and
sometimes I would imagine I was "down and out" again, but it's different
when you have a little change in your pocket. A dollar makes a big
difference, and you can never appreciate the feelings of a poor "down
and out" if you never were there yourself.
We had been going around together for about three or four weeks when
one day he showed me a cable dispatch from Paris telling him he was
wanted and to come at once. We had had a nice time together and I was
sorry he was going.
He asked me for one of my pictures to put in his book, which I gave him.
Then he wanted to know what he could do for me. I thought a moment, then
said, "Give the poor fellows a feed Sunday night." I was the Sunday
night leader and I wanted him on the platform. He said, "All right. Be
at the Mission Sunday afternoon."
About 5 P. M. there drove up to the Mission door a carriage with a man
in it who said, "Is this 17 Dover Street, and is your name Mr. Ranney?"
I said, "Yes." He had four large hampers filled with sandwiches, which
we carried into the Mission. He said he was the Count's valet and the
Count wished him to make tea for the men. I said, "All right." I
thought it would be a change for the men, although coffee would have
been all right.
The tea was made and everything was ready for the feed. I wanted the
papers to know about it, so I sent my assistant to the office and told
the reporters that a real French Count was going to give a feed that
night. They were on hand and the next day the papers all had an account
of it.
As soon as the doors opened the men came in and the place was jammed to
the limit. The meeting was opened with prayer, then the sandwiches and
tea were passed around. The Count, wearing a dress-suit, was sitting on
the platform. I introduced him as the "man of the hour" who had given
the lay-out to the boys. They thanked him with three cheers.
I asked the men to look him over and see if they had ever seen him
before. Now the Bowery men are sharp, and over seventy-five hands went
up. They had seen him somewhere, in Mission bread-lines and different
places.
The Count spoke for about five minutes and then sat down. He sailed on
the following Tuesday and I never met him again. He may be in London for
all I know, studying up something else. But I'm sure he enjoyed himself
when feeding the men. And I have often thought, no matter who or what he
was, he had his heart in the right spot. God wants men of his stamp, for
He can use them for His honor and glory.
A MUSICIAN WON TO CHRIST
There isn't a week passes in my work that there are not some specially
interesting happenings. One Wednesday night about six months ago we were
having our usual Wednesday night meeting. I found I did not have any one
to play the piano; my player had not yet come. I did not worry over
that, however, as sometimes we had to go on and have a meeting without
music. I generally asked if any one could play, and I did so this night.
Presently a man came up the aisle. I asked, "Can you play?" He said, "A
little. What number shall I play?" I said, "I guess we will sing my
favorite hymn, 'When the Roll Is Called up Yonder, I'll Be There.'" He
found the hymn and when he began to play I saw that he was a real
musician. He made that old piano fairly talk. "Ah," said I, "here is
another 'volunteer organist.'" I had seen the man and talked with him
lots of times before, but always took him for a common drunkard. You
can't tell what an old coat covers.
After the meeting I had a little talk with him and asked him why he was
in such a condition. "Oh," he answered, "it's the old, old story, Mr.
Ranney--the drink habit. I know what you are going to say: why don't I
cut it out? Well, I can't. I have tried time and again. I'll go on
drinking until I die." I told him to stop trying and ask God to help
him, just to lean on His arm, He wouldn't let him fall. I left him
thinking it over, and I kept track of him, getting in an odd word here
and there and giving him food and lodging.
In four weeks we won out and he became a good Christian man. Now he
plays at our meetings and takes a share in them, giving his testimony.
I've had him over to my home many times. He takes great delight in our
garden there and waits with longing for Thursday to come, for that's the
day he visits us, the best one in the week for him. There's nothing like
the country for building a man up.
This man came from a good German family, and can play three instruments,
piano, violin, and clarinet. I asked him if he was married. "No," he
answered, "thank God I never was married. I have not that sin on my
soul! I've done nearly everything any one else has done: been in prison
many a time, drank and walked the streets lots of nights. I've written
home to my mother and told her I had taken her Jesus as mine, and, Mr.
Ranney, here's a letter from her." I read the letter. It was the same
old letter, the kind those loving mothers write to their wayward boys,
thanking God that she lived to see her boy converted and telling him the
door was always open, and for him to come home. How many mothers all
over the world are praying for their boys that they have not seen for
years, boys who perhaps are dead or in prison! God help those mothers!
SAVED THROUGH AN OUTDOOR MEETING
Part of my work consists in holding outdoor meetings. Through my friend
Dan Sullivan I received a license for street preaching, so whenever an
opportunity opens I speak a word for the Master, sometimes on a
temporary platform, sometimes standing on a truck, and sometimes from
the Gospel Wagon. It is "in season and out of season," here, there, and
everywhere, if we are to get hold of the men who don't go near the
churches or even the missions.
One night while holding an outdoor meeting on the Bowery at Bleecker
Street, I was speaking along the line of drink and the terrible curse it
was, how it made men brutes and all that was mean, telling about the
prodigal and how God saved him and would save to the uttermost. There
were quite a number of men around listening.
The meeting ended and we had given all an invitation to come into the
Mission. One young man, well dressed, came up to me and, taking my hand,
said he believed every word I said. I saw at a glance he was not of the
Bowery type. I got to talking to him and asked him into the Mission. He
said he had never been into a place like that in his life and did not
take any stock in them, but my talk had interested him. He could not
understand how I had given up such a life as I said I had led and had
not taken a drink in sixteen years. I said I had not done this in my own
strength, but that God had helped me win out, and that God would help
any one that wanted to be helped.
We got quite friendly and he told me all about himself. He had just got
his two weeks' salary, which amounted to $36.00. He was married and had
two sweet little children and a loving wife waiting for him uptown. He
told me he had taken a few drinks, as I could plainly see, and he was
going down to see the Bowery and do a little sight-seeing in Chinatown.
I knew if he went any further he would be a marker for the pickpocket or
others and would know nothing in a little while, so I tried to get him
into the Mission, and after quite a while succeeded, and we took a seat
right by the door. He was just tipsy enough to fall asleep, and I let
him do it, for a little sleep often does these men a great deal of good,
changing all their thoughts when they wake. When he woke the testimonies
were being given. I rose to my feet and gave my testimony, and sat down
again. The invitation came next, for all those that wanted this Jesus to
stand. I tried to get him on his feet, but he would not take a stand;
still the seed had been sown.
He told me where he was working and where he lived--wrote it down for
me. He was bent on going, so I said I would go up to the corner with
him. He wanted one more drink--the Devil's temptation!--but at last I
coaxed him to the Elevated Station at Houston Street. He said, "I wish
you could see my home and family. Will you come up with me?" It was 10
P. M. and going would mean home for me about the early hours. But I went
up to the Bronx, got to his home, saw him in, was bidding him
good-night; nothing would do but I should come in. He had a nice little
flat of five rooms. I was introduced to his wife, who was a perfect
lady. He wanted to send out for beer. I objected, and his wife said,
"George, don't drink any more! I think you have had enough."
Now was the time for me to get in a little of God's work, so I told him
my life, and what drink did for me, and I had an attentive audience.
When I finished, his wife said, "I wish my husband would take your
Jesus, Mr. Ranney. I'm a Christian, but, oh, I'd give anything if George
would take Christ and give up his drinking!" He made all kinds of
objections and excuses, but we pleaded and prayed. God was working with
that man, and at 3 o'clock in the morning we knelt down, the wife, the
husband and I, way up in the Bronx, and God did mightily save George. He
went to his business on Monday sober. That was three years ago, and he
has held out well. He has been advanced twice, with a raise in salary,
and comes down to help me in my work on the Bowery. God has blessed him
wonderfully, and He will any one who has faith to believe.
JIM THE BRICKLAYER
Where I meet so many men every day and have so many confessions and try
to lend a helping hand in so many places, I do forget some of the men,
for it seems as though there was an endless procession of them through
the Bowery. But some cases stand out so prominently that I shall never
forget them. I remember one man in particular who used to come into the
Mission. He was one of the regulars and was nearly always drunk. He used
to want us to sing all the time. He was a fine fellow, but down and out,
and every cent he could earn went to the saloons. I would talk to him
nearly every night and ask him why he did not stop his drinking. He
would listen, but the next night he would be drunk just the same.
There was good stuff in him, for he was a good bricklayer and could make
from $5.00 to $6.00 per day. He told me he was married, and his wife and
two children were in Syracuse, living perhaps on charity, while he,
instead of making a living for them and giving them a good home, was
here on the Bowery drinking himself to death.
He would often say, "Danny, if I could only sober up and be a man and go
back to my family, I'd give anything. But what's the use of trying? I
can't stop, and I wish sometimes that I was dead. And sometimes, Mr.
Ranney, I'm tempted to end it all in the river."
I reasoned with this man time and time again, but with no effect. He
knew it was the right way to live, but thought it was not for him, and I
thought that if a man was ever gone it was that young man.
One night as the invitation was being given I caught his eye and I
said, "Jim, come up front and get rid of that drink." But he said,
"What's the use?" I went down, took him by the hand, led him up front,
and we all knelt down and asked God to save these poor men. I asked them
all to pray for themselves and when I got to Jim I said, "Jim, now
pray." And he said, "Lord, help me to be a man and cut the 'booze' out
of my life for Jesus' sake. Amen."
He meant business that night and was as sincere as could be. We all got
up from our knees, and I put the usual question to them all, now that
they had taken Jesus, what were they going to do? It came Jim's turn,
and he said, "Mr. Ranney, I've asked God to help me, and I'm going out
of this Mission and I'm not going to drink any more whiskey." Then
almost in the same breath he said, "I wonder if God will give me a pair
of pants." That created a smile in the audience. I knew I could get Jim
a pair of pants, and he needed them badly. Just imagine a man six feet
tall with a pair of pants on that reached just below the knees, and you
have Jim.
I said, "Jim, you have asked God to help you, and He will if you let
him. If you keep sober until Friday night, and come in here every night
and give your testimony, no matter how short, God will send you a pair
of pants." This was on Monday night, my own special night. I knew if Jim
came in every night sober, something was doing. Tuesday night came, and
sure enough there was Jim with his testimony. He got up and thanked God
for being one day without taking a drink. I said, "Praise God! Keep it
up, Jim!" Wednesday night Jim thanked God for two days' victory. He was
doing finely. Thursday came, and Jim was there with his testimony of
three days saved. He had one more day to go before he got his pants.
Friday night came and I had gone up and got the pants, but no Jim made
his appearance. Near closing time the door opened and in walked Jim. He
stood back and just roared out, "Danny, I'm as drunk as a fool; I've
lost the pants!" then walked out.
I did not see him for a couple of nights, then he came into the Mission,
sat down and was fairly quiet. I reached him in the course of the
evening and shook hands with him, but I did not say a word about his
going back. That worried him a good deal, for he said, "Dan, are you mad
with me?" I said, "No, Jim, I'm mad with the Devil, and I wish I could
kick him out of you and kill him." Jim smiled and said, "You're a queer
one."
I did not give Jim up, but I did not say anything to him about giving up
the drink again for about a week. He would always be in the meeting and
I would notice him with a handshake and a smile. I could see he was
thinking quite hard and he was not drinking as much as he had been. I
was praying for that man, and I was sure that He was going to give me
Jim.
One night about a month after Jim had tried the first time, I was giving
the invitation to the men, as usual, for all who wanted this salvation
to come forward and let us pray with them. After coaxing and pleading
with them there were six fellows that came forward and knelt down, when
to my astonishment who came walking up the aisle but Jim! He knelt down
with the others and prayed. I did not know what the prayer was, but when
he rose he went back and took his seat and said nothing.
A month went by to a day. There were testimonies every night from all
over the Mission about what God had done and was doing, but Jim never
gave the first word of testimony. I often wondered why. This night he
got on his feet, and this is what he said: "Men, I've been everything
that's bad and mean, a crook and a drunkard, separated from wife and
children, a good-for-nothing man. I want to stand here before you
people and thank God for keeping me for one whole month; and, men, this
is the happiest month I've spent in my life. I asked God to help me and
He is doing so. I only wish some of you men would take Jesus as your
friend and keeper the same as I have. I'm going to stick, with God's
help. I want you Christian people to keep on praying for me, as I feel
some one has," and he sat down. Oh, how I did thank God for that
testimony! You know a person can tell the true ring of anything, gold,
silver, brass, everything, and I knew the ring of that testimony.
Jim stayed after the meeting and we talked things over pretty well. He
was a mechanic, but his tools were in pawn. I said, "Jim, I'll meet you
to-morrow and we will go and get your tools out." In the morning Jim and
I went down to the pawnbroker in New Chambers Street, and Jim produced
the tickets, paid the money due, with interest, and received his stock
in trade, the tools.
The next thing was a job. I knew a boss mason who was putting up a
building in Catherine Street. We saw the boss and he took Jim on. He
went to work and made good. He would always come and see me at night,
and always testify to God's keeping power. He would ask me, "Do you
think I can get back to my wife and children again?" "Yes," I would
answer; "wait a little while. Have you written to her?" "Yes." "Got any
answer?" "Yes, a couple of letters, but I don't think she takes any
stock in my conversion. Dan, can't we have our pictures taken together?
I have written my wife a lot about you. I told her you were worse than I
ever was. Perhaps if she sees our faces and sees how I look, she may
think of old times and give me one more chance."
Jim had been four months converted at this time, and God had him by the
hand. It was great to see that big strong man, like a little child in
God's love. We went out and had our pictures taken and Jim asked me to
write and urge his wife to give him one more chance. I did as Jim wanted
me; in fact, I wrote her about everything he said and enclosed the
picture.
Every night Jim would come around with the question, "Danny, any word
from up State yet?" "Not yet, Jim: have a little patience, she will
write soon." We finally got the longed-for letter, but it wasn't
favorable. Among other things she said she took no stock in her husband,
and that she knew he was the same old good-for-nothing, etc. It was hard
lines for poor Jim, who was reading that letter over my shoulder. I
looked at him. I could see some of the old Devil come into his eyes. The
wife little knew what an escape Jim had then and there. I cheered him up
and we got on our knees and prayed good and hard, and God heard the
prayer and Jim was sailing straight once more and trusting Jesus.
A thought flashed through my mind, and I said, "Jim, have you any
money?" "Yes," he said, "I have over sixty dollars." He gave me the
money and we went to the postoffice and I took out a money-order to Mrs.
Jim, Syracuse, N. Y., for sixty dollars and sent it on signed by Jim and
took the receipt and put it in my pocket.
Five days after I was sitting at my desk in the Mission. A knock came to
the door. I said, "Come in," and a woman with two little girls entered.
I placed a chair and waited. She said, "You are Mr. Ranney. I recognize
you from your picture." She was Jim's wife, as she told me. Then she
began about her troubles with her husband: he was a good man, but he
would drink. She said, "I begin to think that Jim has religion, for if
he hadn't something near it, he would never have sent me the money. Do
you think he is all right, Mr. Ranney?" To which I answered that I
really believed he was, and that he would be a good husband and father.
I asked her if she was a Christian, and she said, "Yes, I go to church
and do the best I can." I told her going to church was a good thing, but
to have Jesus in your heart and home is a better one.
She wanted to see Jim, so we went round to where he was working. There
he was up four stories laying front brick. I watched him, so did his
wife. Finally I put my hands like a trumpet and called, "Hello, Jim!"
Jim looked down, seeing me, and then looking at the woman and children a
moment he dropped everything, and to watch that man come down that
ladder was a sight. He rushed over, threw his arms around his wife, then
took the little girls in his arm, and what joy there was! There was no
more work that day.
Jim showed her the saloons he used to get drunk in, and he did not
forget to show the place where he was converted, and on that very spot
we all had a nice little prayer-meeting, and as a finale, Mrs. Jim took
Jesus, saying, "If He did all that for Jim, I want Him too."
They are back in Syracuse, living happily. Jim has a class of boys in
the Sunday-school and is a deacon in the church. I had the pleasure of
eating dinner in their home. I often get a letter from Jim, telling of
God's goodness. He says he will never forget the fight he made for the
pants or his friend Danny Ranney.
[Illustration: ONE OF MR. RANNEY'S OPEN-AIR MEETINGS.]