ar way. The shop is
fitted out with benches and all the necessary tools. A class in
type-setting vies with the young carpenters in excellence of workmanship
and devotion to business. The printers have ambitious designs upon the
reading public. They intend to start a monthly "organ" of their club, an
experiment that was tried once but frustrated by a change of base from
Twenty-first Street to the present quarters at No. 650 East Fourteenth
Street. The club grew up under the eaves of St. George's Church eight
years ago, and was known by the name of the St. George's Boys' Club after
it had been forced to move away to make room for the erection of the
Parish House. Some of the boys work in the daytime at the trades which
they are taught at the club in the evening, and the instruction thus
received has helped them to earn better salaries in many cases. One of the
managers keeps a bank account for those who can save money and want to
invest it, and more than one of them has a snug little sum to his credit.
There are fifty boys in each class, and always plenty waiting for
vacancies to occur. The best pupils receive medals at the end of the year,
and once every summer the managers, who are young men of position and
character, take them out in the country for an outing, and are boys with
them in their games and in their delight over the new sights they see
there.

Mr. Wendell tells of one of these trips down to see "Buffalo Bill" on
Staten Island. There was a big crowd of excursionists on the boat going
down, and the captain took a fatherly interest in the boys, who were
gathered together in the bow of the boat, quiet as lambs. The return trip
was not so peaceful, though the captain good-naturedly delayed the boat
beyond the starting time for fear some of "our boys" would get left, as
indeed proved to be the fate of several. But by the time this was
discovered it was no longer a source of regret to him. The Indians and the
bucking broncos had made the boys restless. They stood around the brass
band, and one of them attempted to relieve his pent-up feelings by
sticking a button into the big trombone, with the effect of nearly
strangling the stout gentleman who was playing on it. The enraged musician
made a wild dive for the boy, who dodged around the smokestack and caught
up a chair to defend himself with. In a moment a first-class riot was in
progress, chairs flying, the band men swearing, and the boys yelling like
Comanches. Wh