“There is no contending with necessity, and we should be very tender how we censure those who submit to it. It is one thing to be at liberty to do what we will and another thing to be tied up to do what we must.”

I entered the depot and sank wearily into a seat. I felt pretty well and had a clear conscience. Had I not honorably paid my way from Cleveland to Cincinnati instead of trespassing on the property of a mighty railroad company? I found a place to sit down, dropped my head forward and was soon fast asleep. But the sleep was of short duration for in a few minutes I was rudely awakened by the depot policeman.

“Where are you going?” he said.

“Nowhere,” I answered. “I have no money.”

“Well, what are you doing here?”

“Can’t you see? I am trying to sleep?”

“Have you a railroad ticket?”

“No.”

“Well, you can’t stay here.”

“Have they a Free Municipal Emergency Home in this city?” “No.”

“Where would you have me go?”

“Some other place.”

Knowing too well the result to the homeless, destitute wage-earner of disobedience to the scion of the law, I quickly left. To be absolutely alone on the streets of a great, strange city at midnight, penniless, without a friend or acquaintance, was nothing to me, a strong, well man. But to the homeless woman or girl, or the frail sick man or boy, my homelessness held a great meaning. Going a short way up the street, I saw a man standing on a corner, and from his dejected mien, I knew that he, like myself, was a down-and-out.

“Hello,” I said.

“Hello,” he answered.

“Where can a fellow that’s broke find a ‘flop?’”

“Explore me!”

“They have just driven me out of the Big Four.”

“They have just kicked me out of the L. & N. I am going to Fountain Square. It is now one o’clock. There is a train that leaves at two-thirty from the L. & N. People are already going to the station. You can probably stay there unnoticed until the train leaves. I can’t go back for they would know me, but keep your eyes open for bulls.” And with this advice he pointed out the way.

I went, and unnoticed I slept an hour sitting on a station seat. When the train left, I was the only remaining individual in the waiting-room and, of course, very conspicuous. The hint of the law for decency and order at that station, came to me with the question, “Why didn’t you take that train?”

“I did not want it.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I have no other shelter.”

With the deep, low-bred voice of an unfeeling brute, he emphatically said, “Beat it.”

I, too, must now find Fountain Square. A switchman kindly pointed out the direction. As I walked up the street, I raised my eyes to see if the day was breaking, but I might have known better. Automobiles and hacks containing only men came down the street and stopped before the large, red-curtained houses, and from the sound of revelry, of jest, laughter and music, I realized that I was in the redlight district. A black slave standing in a dimly lighted entrance to a passage between two houses, said, “Hello, Honey, buy me a drink.”

“Why, girl, I could not buy a postage stamp that was canceled.”

“Why, what’s the matter?”

“I’m broke. I haven’t even a place to sleep tonight.”

“Come here.”

I stepped up a little nearer to her.

“Is yo’ sho’ nuff broke?”

“I most assuredly am.”

“Whah yo’ from?”

“From Cleveland.” “What’s de matter wid Cleveland? Cleveland all gone to—?”

“It was for me, at least during part of the time I was there.”

“And has yo’ honest nowhah er to sleep?”

She put her hand in her purse and offered me a quarter. “Take that. It will buy yo’ a bed.”

Glancing up, I saw or fancied I saw the light of dawn. “No, girl. See, the day is breaking,” and as I went on to the Square, I knew that I had seen in that poor, black slave girl an expression of human kindness that could not be found in the vocabulary of the Christian, intelligent, cultured city of Cincinnati. She had offered me, the homeless, penniless, out-of-work man, a shelter.

Girl, for you and your kind, and your race, in the great South, the day is dawning.

Fountain Square is a strip of concrete about fifty feet wide, extending for a block. In the center is a large, magnificent fountain. This Square was acquired by the city as a gift, with a perpetual proviso that it should always be a market-place. Otherwise the city would forfeit the grant. Consequently, on one side, as a retainer, is built a six by ten foot iron, pagoda-roofed structure, under which are several tiers of shelves on which, for a short time each year, flowers are placed and sold. On either side benches were placed, but when I reached the Square every available place seemed filled. The shelves in the flower stand were crowded with homeless, drooping, broken human beings. The roof was a shelter from the frost. There were one hundred men in this Cincinnati “Free Municipal Emergency Home” that night. Nor was this even free, for frequently the police of this humane city raid the Square and drive all, to the last man, to prison. Exhaustion was beating me down, and there seemed no other alternative, so with palpitating heart lest I be singled out as a hopeless inebriate, thrown into jail and then onto the stone pile, I lay down on the frost-covered stone at the feet of my homeless companions and fell into a sleep. It was only for a short time, however, for the rousing up of the men on the bench awakened me and one said to me in a hoarse whisper, “For God’s sake, Jack, get up! Here comes a bull.” I quickly sprang to my feet.

As the men were leaving the Square I saw a number of them enter a dark alley, and asked where they were going. I was told the Enquirer posted the “want-ad” sheets of the paper at its back door an hour before daylight. A group of fifteen men and two young women were already there, striking matches and struggling to read the columns of “Help Wanted.” I finally succeeded in getting close enough to read them. There were a number of things I could do. I took the list and started out only to realize the absolute necessity of a breakfast. I tried several places to work for this essential reinforcement to health and strength, but failed. I thought over my effects again. No, I had nothing except my eyeglasses. After all they were only for fine print while reading. I thought of the watchmaker in New York who was resting from going blind and of the boy I had met, who, without his glasses, was almost blind but who had pawned them for food; of another, a boy without vice and industrious, selling the gold filling from his teeth to help him over a rough place; of men I had seen, through want, pawn their underclothing. It was a simple thing for me to part with my glasses. I got twenty-five cents on them.

After breakfast I began a strenuous search for work and at last, after explaining that I could handle horses, and was sober and industrious, I was hired at twelve dollars a week to drive a milk wagon at F—--, a big milk depot. But they did not want me for three days and there was the rub. The manager of a large restaurant told me that if I would come at two o’clock the next morning and work from two until four he would give me my breakfast and a quarter of a dollar. I was exceedingly happy, for I, at least, was rich in prospects.

I went to the public bath and was absolutely refused a bath because I had not a nickel. The Salvation Army refused me assistance in any way, shape or manner. The Associated Charities had nothing to give away. They did not even have a bed in exchange for work. However they had meals in exchange for labor. By sawing wood for one or more hours they would give me a meal. I knew what that meal would be, a decoction of stuff made mostly of water, and I said, “You must give a pretty good meal for one and a half hours’ labor at the hard work of sawing wood.” This seemed to touch the head of this Charity institution, for in an offended way he said:

“This is a Charity institution—not a Commercial one.”

The Y. M. C. A. refused me even a bath. I was beginning to get saucy and politely told the presiding officer of this commercial institution he had better take the word “Christian” out of their title. I was met with such violent anathemas that I felt I was in the wrong and speedily retired.

By this time circumstances were forcing my mental contract to assume an india-rubber character, like laws of justice and good books. There was a large religious convention in session in the city and if my contract would allow me to ask aid of those institutions which stand avowed to help a destitute workingman, and these gentlemen of the cloth posed as representatives of such heavenly safeguards against despair, I felt that I was justified (although it was against a city ordinance and, if caught, I would be imprisoned), at least in asking of these the price of a meal or a bed. So bringing into play a determined will and taking a stand at a convenient place where I was sure I would not be detected, I hesitatingly approached one saying, “Sir, would you kindly give an honest workingman the price of a meal?“ He replied, without stopping except to slap me cordially on the back.

"My dear boy, I have no money."

I then asked another, whose answer as he stopped for a brief instant was:

“My dear friend, I have no change.”

To this I replied, “I did not ask for change particularly. I am not hard to suit, at least just now. A dollar will go farther than a dime.”

He only smiled and hurried on. I was their dear boy and dear friend, but not precious enough to find a place in their hospitality. I could have rested again that night on the stones of Fountain Square, or suffered the insult and abuse of a Cincinnati prison, or have been forced into the hospital, or have ended the struggle in the Ohio river, for all that Cincinnati or at least these two satellites of this mighty convention cared.

The nights were extremely cold but the days were bright and warm in the sunshine. Too weary to undergo further the trial without rest, I crept away to the river bank, far enough away to be unmolested, away from suspicion and question. Here on the sun-warmed gravel, with my little bundle for a pillow, I fell into a sweet sleep and pleasant dreams, not of pearly gates and golden streets, but of snowy beds and sumptuous tables. I slept for a long while and when I awoke the sun was setting in some dense black clouds and the air had the chill of an approaching storm. Remembering that I had a job at two o’clock on the coming morning and the thought bringing a certain degree of comfort and cheer, I strolled into a large saloon, where there was a bright fire. Here I sat and talked to many workingmen who came that way. I read the many papers scattered about until the place closed, at midnight, when I was forced back to a bench in Fountain Square. Just as I arrived there a gust of wind and rain swirled through the streets and into the Square with a mad force. It was a harbinger of what was to follow. A few moments later there broke forth the most piercing equinoctial storm of wind, snow and rain that I had ever known. It lasted for three days.

I crept into the office of an all-night lodging house. When it was discovered that I did not want a bed and had no money I was requested to vacate. I thought of going at once to the restaurant where I was to work in the morning but I remembered the manager had told me not to come before two o’clock. Already wet from exposure I sought the shelter of the flower stand. Eight men ahead of me had taken refuge there, but they kindly allowed me to crowd in. While we were protected from the beating torrent of rain, we were thoroughly chilled and suffering intensely.

After all, I was the favored one, for in a short time I would be in a big warm restaurant kitchen at work. It seemed an endless time before I found myself there with another man paring potatoes, and while we worked, he told me of the steamboat running from Cincinnati to Louisville, and of the opportunity many times for a man to work his way to the latter city,—a suggestion which I resolved, if possible, to profit by. Four o’clock soon came, and my breakfast was earned. It was not as I thought it would be,—a portion of all the good things that the restaurant afforded, and that I could eat against a week’s time of need. It was simply a twenty cent check for a breakfast at the lunch counter upstairs. I could have eaten four such meals without fear of any unpleasant results, but as he gave me the check he gave me my quarter also, saying, “We do not usually give more than a meal for the work, but I will make an exception this time, and as I told you, give you a quarter.” Why he did so, I have never been able to discover. That quarter meant a great deal to me, for I could spend it where I sought shelter, and feel a degree of independence and welcome. Don’t think for a moment the Y. M. C. A., the Salvation Army, or the Associated Charities got it! I was pretty sure, however, to save ten cents of it for a bed at the Union Mission on the levee. On going there I asked for the gift of a bed, and was decidedly refused. I was told it was not a Christian institution which gave gifts to the needy, but absolutely a business proposition with them. Whether that be true or not, I admired them for their honesty. This Mission was near the steamboat landing. On the following morning I applied for the privilege of working my way to Louisville. I could do so, but the only work offered was that of roustabout, loading and unloading heavy freight before leaving and while en route. I would receive no pay for my work, unless I signed to return, or make a round trip. The deck passage was a dollar and a half. The next morning, with two white and twenty black men, associate workers, I was off for Louisville.

Life, in recent years, had not inured me to such arduous work. I think I could have stood the work more successfully than my trial in New York if I had not been weakened by starvation, but at the test of carrying a heavy barrel, box, or bundle, I could not stand firm and wavered as I walked, which frightened me. I realized that I must desist. I made an appeal to the boat officer to carry me to Louisville on the promise that I would pay as soon as I had earned the money. I was a weather-beaten hobo, and of course, not to be trusted, but my request was granted, providing I would leave my little bundle as a pledge that I would fulfil my promise.

As I was leaving the boat at Louisville, I stood with my little blue jeans bundle in my hand. The purser was there to see that I turned it over to the negro porter. The porter had an austere cruel expression, but instantly, as we stepped back to deposit it in the porter’s locker, his face turned to a glow of kindness and he handed me back the bundle, saying, “Hit the plank. Put it under your coat. You will not be noticed.” In that little package were all my earthly possessions. It meant a great deal to me. So taking the bundle I slipped away. I was again homeless on the streets of another great city, looking for work.