wn his back,
and his clothes were threadbare and green with age. His shoes were
tied to his feet with wire, and stockings he had none. He was a
New-Englander, and had studied medicine until his sheep-skin was
almost in his hand. Then Doc slipped a cog and went down, down, down,
until he landed at Halloran's dive. For twelve years he had been
selling penny song-sheets on the streets and in saloons. He was
usually in rags, but a score of the wildest inhabitants of that awful
dive told me that Doc was their "good angel." He could play the songs
of their childhood, he was kind and gentle, and men couldn't be vulgar
in his presence.

I saw in Doc an unusual man, and was able to persuade him to go home
with me. In a week he was a new man, clothed and in his right mind. He
became librarian of a big church library, and our volunteer organist
at all the Sunday meetings.

After two years of uninterrupted service as librarian, during which
time Doc had been of great service in the bunk-house, I lost him. Five
years later, crossing Brooklyn Bridge on a car, I passed Doc, who was
walking in the same direction. At the end of the bridge, I planted
myself in front of him. "Doc," I said, "you will never get away from
me again!" I took him to New Haven, where he has been janitor of a
hall in Yale University ever since.

_Gar, Bouncer of the Bismarck_

I have mentioned Gar, or Garfield, bouncer of the Bismarck. A strong,
primitive man, he is worth a chapter in himself. When I met him
first, I was scrubbing. Before I came, the Bismarck floor, like the
Bismarck linen, was cleaned once a month. Having made the house my
headquarters, I took some pride in it. I got permission to scrub
that floor mid-month, and, dressed in a suitable outfit, I proceeded
with the job. I hadn't gone far when a tall, gaunt form lurched into
the room.

"Hello," he grunted.

"Hello," I said, as I paused for a moment.

"What's up?" he asked.

"You haven't seen me before, have you?" I asked.

"Don't know ye from a hole in the ground!"

"Well, I'm the missionary, and as there's a vital connection between
soap and salvation, I'm making a beginning on the floor. When I finish
this, I'll try my hand on you."

He laughed a hoarse, guttural laugh, and said:

"Don't git bug-house, boss; ye'd wind up jest whar ye've begun!"

[Illustration: ST. FRANCIS OF THE BUNK-HOUSE]

He had several names; his real name was Brady. In the bunk-house
they called him "Ga