PRODIGAL SONS
A CESSPOOL
The Bowery has always been a notorious thoroughfare. Twenty years ago
there were few places in the world that for crime, vice and degradation
could be compared with it. Many changes for the better have taken place
in the last few years, however. Following the Lexow Commission
investigation, scores of the worst haunts of wickedness were closed and
vice became less conspicuous. The Bowery, however, still maintains its
individuality as a breeding-place of crime. It is still the cesspool for
all things bad. From all over the world they come to the Bowery. The
lodging-houses give them cheap quarters, from 7 cents to 50 cents per
night. These places shelter 30,000 to 40,000 men and boys nightly, to
breathe a fetid and polluted air. Those who have not the price--and God
knows they are many--homeless and weary, "about ready to die," sleep in
hallways, empty trucks, any place for a lie-down.
Some of the lodging-houses are fairly respectable and run on a good
scale, and others are the resort of the lowest kind of human outcasts.
On one floor, the air poisoned beyond description, the beds dirty, will
be found over a hundred men, of all classes, from the petty thief to the
Western train-wrecker, loafers, drug-fiends, perhaps a one-time college
man, who through the curse of drink has got there. But they are not all
bad on the Bowery. No one not knowing the conditions can imagine what a
large class there is who would work if they could get it, but once down
it's hard to get up. A few weeks of this life wrecks them and makes old
men of them. No one but God can help them, and most of them go down to
early graves unknown.
A REMARKABLE DRUNKARD
I knew once one of the best lawyers of his day, living here a little off
Chatham Square, in a lodging-house, brought there through rum. I've
known men, lawyers, coming to see this man and getting his opinion on
legal matters. He had many such visitors in his room, but he wasn't
worth anything unless he was about half full of whiskey. These men would
know that. They would bring a couple bottles of the stuff, as though for
a social time, and then ask him questions pertaining to the case in
hand. Then he would imagine himself the lawyer of old days, and plead as
he saw the case, and he was right nine times out of ten! Oh, what a
future that man had thrown away for the Devil's stuff, rum! Those
lawyers would go away with advice from that man worth thousands of
dollars, bought with a few bottles of whiskey. He told me he had left
his wife and family to save them from shame. He has sons and daughters
in good standing. They never see him want for anything and pay his
room-rent yearly, only he must not go near them.
FORGIVING FOR CHRIST'S SAKE
Where I am located at this writing, at the Squirrel Inn, No. 131 Bowery,
is a grand place for my work. I come in touch with all classes, and when
I see a man or a boy that I think will stick, I rig him up, put a front
on him and back him until he gets work. I wish I had more clothes so I
could help more men, but at least I can give them a handshake, a kind
word, and a prayer, and that, by God's grace, can work wonders for the
poor fellows. There's not a man or boy comes in that I do not see, and I
mingle with them and get their hard-luck stories, also their good-luck
ones. Sitting there at my desk, I glance down the room, and I can tell
at a glance the newcomers and the regulars. I can tell what has brought
them there.
Over at one of the tables trying to read sat one day a man about fifty,
his clothes worn and threadbare, but wearing a collar, and that's a good
sign. I beckoned him to come over to me and I pointed to a chair,
telling him to sit down. If that chair could only speak, what a tale it
could tell of the men who have sat there and told their life stories!
I asked him how he came to be there, and he told me the same old story
that can be summed up in one word--drink! He came from up the State, at
one time owned a farm outside of Oswego, and was living happily. He was
a church member and bore a good name. "I used to take an odd drink, but
always thought I could do without it," said he. "Eighteen years ago I
lost my wife and to drown my sorrow I got drunk. I had never been
intoxicated before, and I kept at it for over three months, and when I
began to come to myself, I was told that I had to get out of my home. I
couldn't understand it, but I was told I had sold my farm and everything
I owned for a paltry $200 to a saloon-keeper, who I thought was my
dearest friend!
"That happened eighteen years ago, and I've been pretty near all over
the world since then, sometimes hungry, sometimes in pretty good shape,
but I'll never forget that saloon-keeper. I'll see him again, and he
will pay for what he did!"
I gave that man a ticket for lodging and a couple of meals. We talked
about his early life, and I asked why he didn't start out and be a
Christian and not harbor a grudge; to let God punish that saloon-keeper.
I told him I'd been through something like the same experience, a man
whose word I trusted selling me some Harbor Chart stock and making me
think he was doing me a good turn, and I lost several hundred dollars.
That was in the years when I first started to be a Christian. I had the
hardest time to forgive this man, but thank God I did!
I reasoned with that man day after day and saw that the light was
breaking in his heart. Weeks went on, and he came to a point where he
took Jesus as his guide and friend, and to-day he is a fine Christian
gentleman. I have had him testifying in the church to the power of
Christ to save a man. He tells me he has forgiven that saloon-man for
Christ's sake.
SAVED ON THE THRESHOLD OF VICE
One afternoon about 5 o'clock I was sitting at my desk at the Mission
Room when I noticed among the men who came there to read and rest and
perhaps take a nap, a young man, a boy rather, clean and wearing good
clothes. I looked at him a moment and thought, "He has got into the
wrong place." I spoke to him, as is my habit, and asked him what he was
doing there. I brought him over and got him to sit down in that old
chair where so many confessions are made to me and said kindly, "Well,
what's your story?" I thought of my own boy, and my heart went out to
this young fellow.
He said, "You are Mr. Ranney. I've often heard about you, and I'm glad
to see you now." He told me how he had given up his job on Eighth Avenue
around 125th Street the day before. He had had a "run in," as he called
it, at home, and had determined to get out. His mother had married a
second time, and his stepfather and he could not agree on a single
thing. He loved his mother, but could not stand the stepfather. He had
drawn his pay at the jewelry store where he was working and had spent
the night before at a hotel uptown, intending to look for a job the next
day.
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.
THE PRODIGAL SON ON THE BOWERY
Here is a picture story of a boy who left home and took his journey to
the "far country." It is a true story.
Away up in northern New York there is a rich man whose family consists
of a wife, two sons and a daughter, all good church members. It is of
the younger boy I want to speak. He is a little wayward, but good at
heart, and would do anything to help any one.
Now, there has lately come back from New York a young man who has
started the drink habit. This man is telling all about New York, what a
grand place it is, and, if a fellow had a little money, he could make a
fortune. He succeeds in arousing the fancies of this young boy, and he
believes all the fellow says. People up the State look on a man as sort
of a hero because he has been to New York.
Tom thinks he would like to go to the city, and when he gets home he
broaches the subject to his mother. He says, "I'll get a job and make a
man of myself." The mother tells him he had better stay at home and
perhaps later on he would have a chance to start a business in the
village where he was born. No, nothing but New York will do for him. He
teases his father and mother nearly to death, until his father says,
"Well, my boy, if you will, you will." Then he gives him a couple
hundred dollars and a letter to a merchant whom he knows.
Tom packs his valise and is all ready to start. I can see the mother
putting a Testament into her boy's hand and telling him to read it once
a day and be sure to write home often. Oh, he promises all right, and is
anxious to get away in a hurry. I can see them in the railroad station
when the mother takes him to her bosom and kisses him. There's a dry
choking in the father's throat when he bids him good-by--and then the
train is off!
Now, Tom has a chum in New York, so at the first station at which they
stop he gets off and sends a telegram to his friend, saying: "Ed, I'm
coming on the 2.30 train. Meet me at the Grand Central Station." You may
be sure Ed meets him at the station--Ed is not working--and he gives him
the hello and the glad hand. He takes Tom's grip and they start for the
hotel. I can see them going into a saloon and having a couple of beers,
then going to the hotel, getting a room and supper, and having a good
time at the theatre and elsewhere.
Time goes on. Two hundred doesn't last long. I can see Ed shaking Tom
when the money is running low. I can see Tom counting the little he has
left and going to a furnished room at $1.50 a week. Tom is beginning to
think and worry a bit. He has lost the letter to the merchant his father
gave him, and he doesn't know where to find him. No wonder he is down in
the mouth! He looks for work, but can't get anything to do.
Now, all he has to do is to write home and tell his father the facts,
and he will send back a railroad ticket. But Tom is proud, and he hasn't
reached the point where, like the prodigal, he says, "I will arise and
go to my father." No, he has not as yet reached the end of his rope. I
can see him pawning the watch and chain given him by his parents. This
tides him over for a little while. When that money is gone, his overcoat
goes, and, in fact, everything he has is gone.
He goes down and down, and finally reaches the Bowery, where they all
go in the end. He is down and out, without a cent in his clothes,
walking the streets night after night---"carrying the banner." Sometimes
he slips into a saloon where they have free lunch and picks up a piece
of bread here and a piece of cheese there. Sometimes he is lucky to fill
in on a beef stew, but very seldom.
Now, if that isn't living on husks, I don't know what you call it! His
clothes are getting filthy and he is in despair. How he wishes he had
never left home! He hasn't a friend in the big city, and he doesn't know
which way to turn. He says, "I'll write home." But no, he is too proud.
He wants to go home the same as he left it. And the longer he waits the
worse he will be. No one grows any better, either bodily or morally, by
being on the Bowery. So the quicker they go to some other place the
better.
But the Bowery draws men by its own strange attraction. They get into
the swing of its life, and find the company that misery loves. God
knows there's plenty of it there! I've seen men that you could not drive
from the Bowery. But when a man takes Jesus as his guide he wants to
search for better grounds.
Well, Tom had hit the pace that kills. And one night--about five years
ago--there wandered into the Mission where I was leading a meeting a
young man with pale cheeks and a look of utter despair on his face,
looking as though he hadn't had a square meal in many a day. It was Tom.
I didn't know him then. There are so many such cases on the Bowery one
gets used to them. But I took particular notice of this young man. He
sat down and listened to the services, and when the invitation was given
to those who wanted to lead better lives he put up his hand.
Now there was something striking about his face, and I took to him. I
thought of my own life and dreaded the future for him. I spoke to him,
gained his confidence by degrees, and he told me his story as written in
the preceding pages.
Here was a prodigal just as bad as the one in the Bible story. Well, he
was converted that night and took Jesus as his helper. He told me all
about his home, mother, and friends who had enough and to spare. The
servants had a better time and more to eat than he. "Tom," I said, "why
don't you go home?" "Oh, Mr. Ranney," he said, "I wish I could, but I
want to go back a little better than I am now." And God knows he was in
bad shape; the clothes he had on you couldn't sell to a rag-man; in
fact, he had nothing!
I pitied the poor fellow from my heart. I was interested. I got his
father's address and sat down and wrote him a letter telling him about
his son's condition, etc. In a few days I received a letter from his
father inclosing a check for $10, and saying, "Don't let my son starve;
do all you can for him, but don't let him know his father is doing
this."
Can't you see plainly the conditions? Our Father in heaven stands ready
at all times to help, but we must do something--meet the conditions.
Tom's father was ready to forgive and take him back, but he wanted Tom
to make the surrender.
I looked after Tom to a certain extent, but I wanted him to learn his
lesson. There were times when he walked the streets and went hungry. I
corresponded with his father and told him how his son was getting along.
I got Tom a job washing dishes in a restaurant--the Bowery's main
employment--at $2.50 per week, and he stuck.
I watched him closely. He would come to the Mission nearly every night
and would stand up and testify to God's goodness. He was coming on
finely. Many's the talk we would have together about home. The tears
would come to his eyes and he would say, "Oh, if I ever go home I'll be
such a different boy! Do you think father will forgive me, Mr. Ranney?"
Well, eight months went on, and I thought it was time to get him off the
Bowery--he had had his lesson. So I wrote his father, and he sent the
necessary cash for clothes, railroad ticket, etc. And one night I said,
"Tom, would you like to go home?" You can imagine Tom's answer! I took
him out and bought him clothes, got back his watch and chain from the
pawnbroker, and went with him to the Grand Central Station. I got his
ticket, put him on the train, said "Good-by and God bless you!" and Tom
was bound for home.
I receive a letter from him every month or so. I have visited his home
and have been entertained right royally by his father and mother. I
visited Tom last summer, and we did have a grand time fishing, boating,
driving, etc. I asked him, "Do you want to go back to New York, Tom?"
and he smiled and said, "Not for mine!" If any one comes from New York
and happens to say it's a grand place to make your fortune, Tom says,
"New York is a grand place to keep away from." You couldn't pull him
away from home with a team of oxen.
"He arose and went to his father." Tom fed on husks. He learned his
lesson--not too dearly learned, because it was a lasting one. He is now
a man; he goes to church and Sunday-school, where he teaches a class of
boys. Once in a while he rings in his own experience when he was a
prodigal on the Bowery and far from God, and God's loving-kindness to
him.
There are other boys on the Bowery from just as good families as
Tom's--college men some of them--who are without hope and without God's
friendship or man's. What can you and I do for them?
LAST WORDS
I have married again, and have a good sweet Christian as companion, and
we have a little girl just beginning to walk. I'm younger, happier, and
a better man in mind and body than I was twenty years ago. I've a good
home and know that all good things are for those that trust.
I remember one night, when I was going home with my wife, I met a
policeman who had arrested me once. He had caught me dead to
rights--with the goods. After awaiting trial I got off on a technical
point. I said, "Helen, let me introduce you to the policeman that
arrested me one time." He had changed some; his hair was getting gray.
He knew me, and when I told him I was a missionary, he said, "God bless
you, Reilly" (that's the name I went under), "and keep you straight! You
did cause us fellows a lot of trouble in those days."
Indeed I did cause trouble! There wasn't a man under much closer watch
than I was twenty years ago. Just one incident will illustrate this and
show what a change God brings about in a man's life when he is soundly
converted. It was in 1890 that a pal of mine and I were told of a place
in Atlantic City where there was any amount of silverware, etc., in a
wealthy man's summer home, so we undertook to go there and see if we
could get any of the good things that were in the house. We reached the
city with our kit of tools, and my pal went and hid them a little way
from the station, waiting till night, as we did not want to carry them
around with us. Tom said, "Dan, I'm hungry; I'll go and see what I can
get in a bakery." We were not very flush and could not afford anything
great in the way of a dinner. Off he went, and I was to wait till he
came back.
I sat down in the waiting-room, when a man came up and sat down beside
me, giving me a good-day. "Nice weather," said he. I said, "Yes." Said
he, "How's little old New York?" "All right," I answered. "Have you got
your ticket back?" said he. I thought he was a little familiar, and I
said, "It's none of your business." He was as cool as could be. "Oh,
yes," he said, "it is my business," and turning the lapel of his coat he
held a Pinkerton badge under my nose, at the same time saying, "The
game's called, and I know you. Where's the tools?" I told him I did not
have any. "The only thing that saves you," said he. "Now you get out of
here when that next train goes, or there will be a little trouble." My
pal came in at this time, and I winked at him to say nothing. He
understood. We took that train all right, and lost our tools.
I never saw Atlantic City again until 1908, when I was asked to speak at
the Y. M. C. A. I told this story in my talk. I've been back four times;
I've been entertained at one of the best hotels there, the Chalfonte,
for a week at a time. What a change! Twenty years ago, when I was in the
Devil's employ, run out of town; now, redeemed by God, an invited guest
in that same place. See what God can do for a man!
It's a hard thing to close this record of the grace of God in my life,
for I feel as though I was leaving a lot of friends. If at any time you
are on the Bowery--not down and out--and want to see me, why, call at
No. 131, the Squirrel Inn Mission and Reading Room, and you'll find a
hearty welcome.