Let us glance at the personnel of the group in the center of which I found myself. Poorly clothed? Yes, many of them, but by no means all. Physically unfit to work? Very few. Truly and hopelessly homeless? Not many more. Of society; coarser and lower tenth? All, undoubtedly. I am sure I am not overstating the facts when I affirm that fully three-fourths of the men here were being given food that they ought to have paid for. Many appeared to be workingmen, many more appeared to be men who occasionally work but who were out of a job; others were clearly able to work if they wanted to. Some had evidently come in after a night's dissipation at one of the near-by saloons. They showed that they had been drinking. Some had money in their pockets; one man had a loaf of bread that he had received at twelve o'clock in Fleischman's "bread line." With possibly a few exceptions, all could have earned food and lodging if they had cared to go to the woodyard for an honest half-day's work. They would prefer, however, to wait around half the night, and to get something for nothing in the end, than to do this.

It was now nearly two o'clock. Save for a few stragglers hanging about the door, the crowd had all disappeared. As it was part of our plan to learn where the men spent the night, we had picked out three of the worst looking characters with this end in view. They bore all the external markings of the vagrant, both in dress and in physical appearance. We followed them at as close a distance as we could without creating suspicion. Once they stopped on a street corner, apparently to argue as to where they should go. Then they walked on again. Finally they halted in front of the door of one of the darkest and dingiest of the Bowery Lodging Houses. Not a sign of life could be seen from the street; all was apparently dark inside. After some indecision one of the men stepped to the door and gave a signal, but received no answer. Another signal was tried. After a little waiting, the door opened and the men disappeared inside.

When we were near enough, we read the words "Alligator Hotel" over the doorway. As we waited, others came along and after giving what seemed to be the same sort of signal, they, too, were admitted.

At this juncture a policeman appeared. We asked him the nature of the place inside.

"I don't know; never have been in there," said he. 'A lodging house, restaurant, and 'gin-mill,' probably, of the cheapest sort."

"Do you think it safe for anyone to go inside?"

"Oh, yes, undoubtedly, if you can get in," said he. "Go ahead and try it, if you want to. I'll wait out here on the sidewalk."

This was precisely what I did want to do. So, leaving my companion with the policeman a little distance up the street, I stepped to the door and rang the bell once. No answer. I rang again, this time twice, whereupon the door quietly opened and I found myself standing in the dark hallway. While walking through this long, narrow, unlighted passageway, I could hear voices in the distance and could see glints of light coming through the cracks and keyhole of a door at the end. Relying on my disguise for protection, I opened the door and entered the room beyond. Here I found a large dimly-lighted back room, a bar extending along one side, with doors entering the darkened restaurant in front. The floor was strewn with sawdust, and a large round, old-fashioned stove stood

in the center of the room. Standing around the stove and sitting at the tables were perhaps a hundred men, some talking, some smoking, some drinking, some dozing, some asleep-all of the lowest crust of humanity, forlorn, homeless, and one would almost be tempted to say hopeless.

My entrance was unnoticed, save by a waiter who happened to be passing as I opened the door. I ordered a cigar, put it in my pocket, and joined the group of men near the stove. Soon I gave one man some tobacco with which to make a cigarette and another filled his pipe at my expense. This act seemingly removed all social barriers and I was readily admitted to equal fellowship with the rest. Even here the men had money to spend for drinks. In fact, nothing else could be bought at this hour. I saw requests for soup and sandwiches refused, but big schooners of soapy-looking beer were being served, as well as something that passed for whiskey at five cents a glass.

My friend of the cigarette was the most communicative, and I soon found myself in his good graces. He had a somewhat superior air from which I inferred that he condescended to enter such a place as this only under conditions of extreme necessity. Later I found this to be the case. He said he was trying to get through the winter by shoveling coal. He had had hard luck this week and had not earned enough to live on. He worked for twenty-five cents a load and relied on the people for whom he worked to supply him with a dinner or a tip now and then. "But it's mighty hard pulling this winter, my friend. This ain't the first time I have been obliged to come in here."

"Why don't you go to the Municipal Lodging House?" I suggested. "Municipal Lodging House? Not much for this chap! He knows better than to go to that place and be 'chucked' to the 'Island.' If your head's level, you won't go there more than once. Do you know what they do with a feller? Why, whenever help runs short on the 'Island' they make a raid on the 'Dump.' That's what we call the Municipal Lodging House. They did it the other night and got ten men shipped over to work for 'em the next day. Stay clear of that place is my advice to you."

"I've just been down to the Bowery Mission," he continued. "That's a 'cinch' place to get something to eat."

"So've I been there too, old man," I replied, feeling that I had at last struck common ground. "I got round twice."

"H'm, that's nothing; I went 'round four times. I've got this much left for breakfast," said he, as he pulled a couple of rolls out of his pocket. want to know how I did it?"

"Yes, I rather think I would like to know."

"Do you

"Well, you see, you have to work fast. I ate my first roll and drank my coffee, but after that I didn't stop for coffee. I just took my roll and skipped out to get in line again as quick as I could. When the line ain't too big, you can do this. Then I came up here, and I've got to hang around all night, because I haven't the price of a bed."

"How do you do it? I'm a bit green at this business," was my next inquiry. "Oh, it's easy enough. You just stay where you are. If you get a chance to sit down, take it. If not, you'll have to stand up or lie on the floor. No one will bother you till half-past five to-morrow morning, when the porter will come

and wake you up. Then you can buy a cup of coffee for two cents, and nothing more will be said. That's all you have to do. That's what all these fellows are going to do. That's what I suppose I've got to do to-night."

What other secrets may have been disclosed, I cannot tell; for at this point in the conversation my friend, who had been waiting outside with the policeman, entered and signaled for me to join him. I had already learned many things that I wanted to know-enough for one night, at least. So, with a manufactured excuse, I left my new acquaintance to his prospects of a bunk on the floor, while I went on to a cleaner and a more comfortable bed.

Had I yielded to the impulse to give him the price of a lodging on the spot, I might have disclosed my identity, which I was not yet ready to do. More than all this, I would have been guilty myself of the same offense that I am charging so many societies of committing against this vagrant class.

INDEX OF NAMES

ABBREVIATIONS.-In the Index the following Abbreviations have been used: pap., prin-
cipal paper by the person named; com., communication by the person named; b, review of
book of which the person named is the author; n., note by the person named; r., review by
the person named.