I have called "the waste forces of Benevolence." It is
odd, Mr. Roosevelt, that we should both have come to that conclusion.'

MR. ROOSEVELT: 'Yes, that's the term. You see the reason is that we
are both sensible men who understand.'

'That is very important,' said General Booth, when he had heard this
extract. '"Make use of all this charitable energy, now often
misdirected for national ends!" Why not, indeed? Heaven knows it is
often misdirected. The Salvation Army has made mistakes enough. If
only that could be done it would be a great thing. But first we have
got to make other people "understand" besides Roosevelt and yourself.'

That, at least, was the sense of his words.

Once more I see him addressing a crowded meeting of City men in
London, on a murky winter afternoon. In five minutes he has gripped
his audience with his tale of things that are new to most of them,
quite outside of their experience. He lifts a curtain as it were, and
shows them the awful misery that lies often at their very office
doors, and the duty which is theirs to aid the fallen and the
suffering. It is a long address, very long, but none of the hearers
are wearied.

At the end of it I had cause to meet him in his office about a certain
matter. He had stripped off his coat, and stood in the red jersey of
his uniform, the perspiration still streaming from him after the
exertion of his prolonged effort in that packed hall. As he spoke he
ate his simple meal of vegetables (mushrooms they were, I remember),
and tea, for, like most of his family, he never touches meat. Either
he must see me while he ate or not at all; and when there is work to
be done, General Booth does not think of convenience or of rest;
moreover, as usual, there was a train to catch. One of his
peculiarities is that he seems always to be starting for somewhere,
often at the other side of the world.

Lastly, I see him on one of his tours. He is due to speak in a small
country town. His Officers have arrived to make arrangements, and are
waiting with the audience. It pours with rain, and he is late. At
length the motors dash up through the mud and wet, and out of the
first of them he appears, a tall, cloaked figure. Already that day he
has addressed two such meetings besides several roadside gatherings,
and at night he must speak to a great audience in a city fourteen
miles away; also stop at this place and at that before he gets there,
for a like purpose. He is to appe