“I resolved that the wolf of poverty should be driven from my door.”—Andrew Carnegie.

Our train was late, and would not reach Pittsburgh until noon.

The porter had given me a pillow, and while we were sliding smoothly down that great tongue of land between the Monongahela and Allegheny Rivers, where in 1754 stood an old French fort, and where to-day stands Pittsburg, the greatest industrial city of our nation with its population of 750,000 souls, I fell into a half wakeful reverie. I was thinking of its steel, and its iron, its glass, its coal, and its oil, of the mighty fortunes created there by the sweat of the working masses; of the few who had made those great fortunes, of the struggle, the worry, until the treasures of the earth were theirs, until they possessed gold and silver, and houses and lands, through the exploitation of those who must toil. We think or used to think of men who from poverty had achieved great wealth, that they were self-made and worthy of great honor, but that idea seems to be growing less significant nowadays. I thought of the scandals that are rife, and that have come to us from time to time from the great Iron City, and I saw that achievement had left in many cases, indelible marks in a wreckage of mutilated homes and lives. Then my dream changed to the blue jeans, to the great industrial army of bread winners who filled just as great a place of import in the building up of the city, and of its great fortunes, as did the few who exploit them. I thought, too, of their battles of the past for equity and justice, and of the one at that time going on at McKee’s Rocks; I thought of the lives sacrificed in such battles, of the contention and agony, of the suffering of body and mind for life’s simple necessities, and all to keep together humble homes, to protect the manhood of honorable American citizens, and to insure the safety of little children, to make a living wage possible.

We were nearing the city. Surely, I thought, this great city, with its vast wealth, must abound in privileges to labor. I have heard that people who achieve great wealth do not always forget. My first impulse was to pass right through without trying to investigate conditions in Pittsburg, for I had received many wounds of late from those in charge of “charitable” institutions. I had been misunderstood and severely criticised, called a seeker after notoriety, and my motives had been questioned. All because I dared to prove to the world that the institution maintained and assisted by private charity, especially the methods of the charity organization society, cannot stand the test of an honest and impartial investigation.

I was weary in mind and body, and had almost lost sight of what had stood out before me as duty. The silent voice which had been leading me on was scarcely perceptible. I had been reading Victor Hugo’s “Les Miserables,” and I held in my hand this great masterpiece. Aroused from my lethargy I opened the volume and read, “A man should not recoil from the good he may be able to do.” I looked, and my wounds were healed, and thus I stopped in Pittsburg.

I found a neat room in a respectable neighborhood, where a man in working clothes could walk in and out without comment. Soon I was on the street, an unemployed, destitute workingman, except, as I discovered afterwards, that I had in one of the pockets of my overalls a penny. My first object was to look for work. Inquiring I found that it was estimated, on good authority, that there were 50,000 unemployed men in Pittsburg and its environs at that time. At McKee’s Rocks alone there were 8,000.

I went first to Pittsburgh’s Street Railway Company, where I found one hundred and fifty young men in line putting in their applications for work at twenty-four cents an hour. If those applications were accepted, the men were obliged, and were willing, to work one whole week for nothing to become qualified. I did not file an application.

I picked up a paper and read: “Ten men wanted as supers at a theater. Apply at the stage door entrance.” I went to the place, and found fifty men waiting, although it was an hour before the appointed time. There were men of all ages and types, from some scarcely more than boys to old men of seventy. I talked with a dozen who had prospective work in sight and were willing to do anything to tide themselves over until their positions were secured. One man said, “I have a place in a wholesale grocery open for me the first of next week, and although this work will only pay fifty cents a performance, it will buy me enough to eat, and I can sleep any place until I get my job. I hope they will choose me.” Then the manager came out and chose his ten men, the largest, roughest of the lot. I was not among them, and the boy who was going to work in the wholesale grocery was still on the street. The men selected were as pleased as though they had received a Christmas gift that would not wear out, and one big, rough, tough looking fellow, with almost tears of joy in his eyes, said, “Who would have tought dey would have taken me wid dis front on?” as he looked down at his soiled and ragged clothes; and another just as happy replied, “What do ye tink dey want? A fellow with balloons on his legs and a cane? Naw, dey want a feller that can do somethin’.”

I then drifted around among the employment offices, and found a little army looking for, and getting, shipments to work. As I strolled about, I found a carpenter’s rule, which I picked up and slipped in the upper side pocket of my jumper. Strolling along a little further I saw on the sidewalk a bright new nail. I don’t know why I did it, but I picked it up also, and put it into the lower pocket on the other side. The night was coming down and I was very tired and hungry. I began, as an indigent man, to look for a place of rest and a meal, the latter a thing I never missed on these investigations, but often had to postpone for long periods. I was perfectly willing to work for that privilege if I could find such a place.

I was compelled to try the so-called “Christian Missions,” and they made a good starting point for my investigations,—investigations which proved to me that they prey upon the gullible with a pretense of helping the homeless.

I went first to the Salvation Army and asked for a bed. The attendant told me he could not give me one as their lodging house was run for profit and not for charity.

“I am willing to work for it. Have you no such place.”

“We have,” was the answer, “but it is closed.” Then I went to the old Liberty Mission on Fourth Street and I read the following inscription over the door, “The man who belongs nowhere belongs here.” Prayers were being said on the inside, and the doorway was blocked by a desk behind which sat a negro. I asked if I could get a free bed. He answered, “You can for ten cents.”

Still on the street, I made my way to the Volunteers of America on Second Avenue, made an appeal for a bed, and was flatly denied that comfort unless I had twenty-five cents to pay for it.

So, touched by the lack of hospitality offered by “Christian” institutions in Pittsburg to an indigent man, I looked straight at this Volunteer, and said earnestly, “Is there no place in all this great city where a destitute man can find an asylum for only one night?” and started for the door. I think my ardent manner created a little suspicion, for he called me back and said, “You might ask the Captain; he is out there holding service in the street.”

I stepped out just as they concluded their service. I addressed one of the followers and asked for the Captain. “He has just gone,” was the answer, “but what do you want of him?”

“I am without means, and I wanted to know if he would give me a bed for the night.”

The follower said, “No, I don’t think we can, but I can give you work. Do you want work?”

“I do, where is it, and what is it?” The work proved to be driving one of their wagons four miles out in the country.

“And what do they pay?” I asked.

“I don’t know.”

I said, “It is late and I am tired, and I want to be taken care of just for to-night. I may find work at my trade to-morrow. Do you see?”

He replied with a sneer, “Oh, yes I see,” and abruptly turned his back upon me and went in to pray. All that was left for me was the public park.

Pittsburg has no breathing spots, squares, or parks down in the city, although there is a large fine park, I am told, several miles out. Just across the Allegheny River in Allegheny City (Greater Pittsburg) is a beautiful park with many statues, fountains, flowers, and trees; but I must cross the bridge and the toll was one cent. I reached down in my jeans for my last penny, paid my toll, and went over. How lucky I was in having that one last penny! It was one of the places where “the penny counts.” I had been told during the day that one of the inducements offered to Allegheny City for coming into Pittsburg was that this toll, a mighty revenue, would be abolished, but as yet it still exists.

What a night of midsummer beauty it was! No singer ever sung, or artist ever portrayed, a fairer scene! I was very tired and hungry, and dropped down on a seat to rest. “And the cares that infest the day seem to fold up their tents like the Arabs and as silently steal away.” I could have dropped to sleep and slept with the peace of a little child; with no covering but the boughs of the green trees, with no watcher but the stars in the sea of blue above me, with no company but the song of the night bird that could sing all night.

Many people were seated on the benches. Near me were two men. I drew a little nearer to them and engaged them in conversation.

“Are you out of a job, too?” one of them asked. “You can’t remain here all night, if you are thinking of sleeping in the park, for the police will drive you out. This would be a fine place to rest, wouldn’t it? We would like to remain here until daylight. We have work promised us at Homestead. We might as well walk out there to-night, and go before we are told to go.” The last words were to his partner. They turned to me again saying, “Good-night, old man, hope you’ll have luck,” and were gone.

I then walked a long way up the park, noticing that already it had been cleared of its weary ones, that they had been driven from these haunts of nature back into the black holes of the city. I saw but one old white-haired man sitting with his head in his hands, sound asleep.

I stepped up to him, and touching him, said, “Why don’t you lie down on the bench and sleep; you would rest so much more comfortably?” He awoke with a startled look, and said, “I am afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

In a frightened manner he replied, “I don’t know.”

I knew he was afraid of the police.

“I don’t think anyone will trouble you.” He laid his old, exhausted, worn-out frame down upon the seat, and was almost immediately lost in the slumber he so needed. I had left him but a moment when I saw a policeman in the distance who stopped and viewed me closely, then turned and went in the direction of the old man. I was inclined to follow him, but I did not dare, nor could I wait to see the pathetic finish. I strolled back down the park and saw by a light in a distant tower that it was midnight. The park seemed utterly deserted but for a dog sleeping under a bush.

I went back to the gate by which I had entered, and sat down near it. Between there and the bridge was the part of the city given over to dens of vice, which are open all night, among them being scattered places of legitimate business which are open only in the light of day, and in the night afford a deeper shelter for crime and the criminal. I took a seat near the entrance thinking that I would wait until an officer came along, and get an actual example of his treatment to a man in my position.

The moon was setting behind the towers of the city. The shadows were lengthening; that part of the city near at hand looked grewsome. The park was silent and somber. As I waited I saw two men standing in the shadow just outside the park; from their manner, I knew they were discussing me. Presently they started through the entrance toward me, and as they did so one of the men put his hand in his lower coat pocket. Half protruding from the pocket I caught the gleam of a revolver. As they approached, my heart for a moment seemed to stand still. I did not dare to run or cry out. I simply arose and stood behind the bench. They walked rapidly and directly toward me. When they came near enough to observe me closely they stopped. Then one of them said in a disgusted manner, “I told you so; it’s only a hobo,” and they hurriedly turned and left me.

I had to get back to Pittsburg, and learn what it means to the fullest to be a homeless man in this great industrial center. It came to me that I had spent my last penny coming over. How could I get back? Surely it was the place where the penny counts! During the day I had been told that the only free crossing between Pittsburg and Allegheny was the railroad bridge, used by the railroad employees. I must find that. In spite of my startling experience, I was compelled to thread the gloom of this black part of the city to find the bridge.

I found it and started to walk the ties, fearing at any moment that the headlight of a fast approaching train might flash upon me. Suddenly I slipped on an oiled tie, falling. In the darkness I threw out my hand, clutching an iron rod. In my stumble I discovered for the first time that two planks had been laid on the side of the bridge where one could safely walk. With a feeling of relief and security, I quickly stepped upon them, and the rest of my walk upon the bridge was filled with a feeling of gratitude for my escape.

Shortly after crossing the bridge, I saw a policeman and asked him where I could get a free bed, or if I would be allowed to sleep in the park. He gave me a severe look and in a harsh manner said, “No, there is no free beds in this town, and you can’t sleep in the park, either.”

I said I knew some people on Fifth Avenue who, perhaps, would take me in, but I did not care to trouble them at that hour. I asked him the way to the Avenue and he directed me. I had gone scarcely half a block when he commanded me to stop.

He came up to me and said roughly, “Who are you, anyway? I don’t believe you have a place to go.”

I replied that I was an honest man.

“What is your business? What do you do?” were his next questions.

With no other thought, except that I must answer something, I told him that I was a carpenter. He started to search me and all he found was the carpenter’s rule and the nail which I had picked up the previous day.

After that process, which by the way was quite illegal, he softened toward me somewhat and said, “Well, you seem to be an honest man, and if you have no other place to go you can go to the city prison,” and pointing to a bright light some distance down an alley, added, “It is over there. They’ll give you a cell.”

With his eye upon me, in spite of some hesitation I had to go as he directed. I reached the prison and entered, and, as I had done in other cities, asked for a place to lie down until daylight.

I was asked no questions. The night sergeant simply said, “Come this way,” and he locked me in a cell which, although it was not of the bull-pen type, was little better than one in its general appearance and condition of uncleanliness. The only places in it where I could lie down were the floor or an iron slab which partly covered the lantine. I could hear the groanings of the unfortunate men and women who, for reasons of their own, were compelled to spend their nights in prison. I could hear other prisoners appealing to the jailers for medical aid, water, or release from their cells. One young fellow in a cell opposite mine, for about two hours hung in one position to the bars of his cell in an endeavor to attract some attention. Every little while I heard the crying of a young girl, one who had “forgotten her mother and her God.”

Never in any prison did I feel such oppression. I came near swooning. The thread of endurance as I lay on the stone floor snapped, and the darkness that came upon me brought forgetfullness.

My sleep was of short duration. Long before daylight I asked to be released. The jailer, who seemed to hold a spark of humanity, said, “I wouldn’t go out if I were you for the police are liable to pick you up.” Shortly after dawn I was released.

Taking my belongings from my lodging house I left for more comfortable quarters. After a refreshing bath and a restful sleep I interviewed the Mayor of Pittsburg and the members of the City Council, and gave an interview to the newspapers.

On the following morning, while passing by a newspaper office, I noticed on the bulletin board a headliner reading:

“Free beds for the homeless poor of Pittsburg.”