any pity, leave me."

"Pardon me," I said, "for intruding."

That night the Ex-Club invited him to take part in their
deliberations. He refused, and his manner showed that he considered
the invitation an insult. I had known this man as a brilliant orator,
a religious leader, the champion of a sect. In a city across the sea I
had sat as a barelegged boy on an upturned barrel, part of an immense
crowd, listening to the flow of his oratory. Next day he left the
bunk-house. Some weeks afterward I found him on a curbstone, preaching
to whoever of the pedestrians would listen.

At the close of his address, I introduced myself again. He took me to
his new lodging, and I put the questions that filled my mind. For
answer he gave me the House of Commons Blue Book, which explained the
charge hanging over him. Almost daily, for weeks, I heard him on his
knees proclaim his innocence of the unmentionable crime with which he
was charged. After some weeks of daily association, he said to me:

"I believe you are sent of God to guide me, and I am prepared to take
your advice."

My advice was ready. He turned pale as I told him to pack his trunk
and take the next ship for England.

"Face the storm like a man!" I urged, and he said:

"It will kill me, but I will do it."

He did it, and it swept him to prison, to shame, and to oblivion.

Nothing in the life of the bunk-house was more noticeable than the way
men of intelligence grouped themselves together. Besides the Judge,
there were an ex-lawyer, an ex-soldier of Victoria and a German Graf.
I named them the "Ex-Club." Every morning they separated as though
forever. Every night they returned and looked at one another in
surprise.

At election-time both political parties had access to the register,
and every lodger was the recipient of two letters. Between elections a
letter was always a matter of sensational interest; it lay on the
clerk's table, waiting to be claimed, and every lodger inspected it as
he passed. Scores of men who never expected a letter would pick it up,
handle it in a wistful and affectionate manner, and regretfully lay it
down again. I have often wished I could analyze the thoughts of these
men as they tenderly handled these rare visitors conducted by Uncle
Sam into the bunk-house.

It was a big letter with red seals and an aristocratic monogram that
first drew attention to a new-comer who had signed himself "Hans
Schwanen." "One-eyed Dutchy" had whispered