dn't be known. We would stand in the bread-line just like the rest
of them and get our roll and coffee. It reminded me of my old life, and
sometimes I would imagine I was "down and out" again, but it's different
when you have a little change in your pocket. A dollar makes a big
difference, and you can never appreciate the feelings of a poor "down
and out" if you never were there yourself.

We had been going around together for about three or four weeks when
one day he showed me a cable dispatch from Paris telling him he was
wanted and to come at once. We had had a nice time together and I was
sorry he was going.

He asked me for one of my pictures to put in his book, which I gave him.
Then he wanted to know what he could do for me. I thought a moment, then
said, "Give the poor fellows a feed Sunday night." I was the Sunday
night leader and I wanted him on the platform. He said, "All right. Be
at the Mission Sunday afternoon."

About 5 P. M. there drove up to the Mission door a carriage with a man
in it who said, "Is this 17 Dover Street, and is your name Mr. Ranney?"
I said, "Yes." He had four large hampers filled with sandwiches, which
we carried into the Mission. He said he was the Count's valet and the
Count wished him to make tea for the men. I said, "All right." I
thought it would be a change for the men, although coffee would have
been all right.

The tea was made and everything was ready for the feed. I wanted the
papers to know about it, so I sent my assistant to the office and told
the reporters that a real French Count was going to give a feed that
night. They were on hand and the next day the papers all had an account
of it.

As soon as the doors opened the men came in and the place was jammed to
the limit. The meeting was opened with prayer, then the sandwiches and
tea were passed around. The Count, wearing a dress-suit, was sitting on
the platform. I introduced him as the "man of the hour" who had given
the lay-out to the boys. They thanked him with three cheers.

I asked the men to look him over and see if they had ever seen him
before. Now the Bowery men are sharp, and over seventy-five hands went
up. They had seen him somewhere, in Mission bread-lines and different
places.

The Count spoke for about five minutes and then sat down. He sailed on
the following Tuesday and I never met him again. He may be in London for
all I know, studying up something else. But I'm sure he enjoyed himself
when feed