One day a very large man, well over sixty years, and with three fingers off each hand, in a very modest way said to me, “I am so ashamed to tell a lady my needs,” and he turned up his foot and showed me where the sole was worn out, so that at every step he made he left a track in blood. “You poor fellow, you need not be ashamed to tell me of need like that. I shall arrange for you to stay at the Mission till I get shoes for you.”

He was of the class who sell shoestrings and pencils, but in very cold weather people do not stop to buy from street merchants. That night, after the midweek service of my church, I rose in my place and asked for a pair of shoes number 9½ or 10. The men hooted, no one of them ever wore that size, declaring, of course, that I wanted them to wear myself.

“Well,” I said, “whether you wear them or not, you get them for me,” and I told the story of the bleeding feet. I did the same at my boarding house. By the next day one of the elders of the church came with two pairs of shoes which looked nearly big enough for boats, also one of the men of the boarding house sent to Annapolis to his father, a very large man, for a pair of shoes, which came to me by express. I put the three pairs into a basket and rushed to the Mission, when lo! the poor man could barely get his toes into the shoes. With trembling lip, he said, “It is simply disgraceful to be old and poor and so awful big that even one's friends cannot help a fellow.” “Indeed, it is no disgrace to be old, poor and big, but it is a disgrace to be a bad man of any size or age. Don't you worry, I shall find the shoes.”

That afternoon I met a Board composed mostly of men eminent in city affairs, among them was a distinguished lawyer, a very large man. He sat with his foot across one knee, when I leaned over and said, “Brother, would you mind walking home in your hose, and giving me those shoes for a poor chap as large as you are?” “Do you really mean it?” “Yes, I do; only I will let you wear them home, then send them to me with hose, under clothes, and any other clothing you can spare.”

By the next morning I had clothing for the poor fellow, and Mr. G.'s number 11 shoes fit as if made to order.

If the poor man had successfully sold pencils and shoestrings all winter he could not have been so well clothed as he was that day. But, best of all, while he was obliged to wait he read the four Gospels through several times, and he sought and found salvation in Jesus Christ. That was November, 1911. Since that he has gotten a place as night watchman in a large building, and he is a good and faithful man.

In Missions we have a large number of deserted wives with children, whom we clothe. By that help they can by their own labor keep their little families together, and then on every holiday, such as Christmas, Thanksgiving, etc., we bring them all to the Mission for reunion and a big dinner. The joyous seasons for the rich are the saddest times for the poor and the bereaved. It is such a privilege to be the administrators of the church people who send money and clothing for these purposes. In return, the Missions are the real protection of the city. A hungry man is dangerous, and a man with a hungry family is a menace.

My maid told me, one extreme cold day, that a man was at the door to see me. I found there one of the most dangerous housebreakers in the country. “Murphy,” I said, “I do not want to see any of you men at my home. What do you want?” “I am starving.” “Well, go to the Mission, we never turn a man away there.” “I wouldn't be caught dead there.” “Why not?” “Well, I hate Kline (the Superintendent) and the whole outfit, but I am starving, I tell you.”

I knew by that he had been stealing at the Mission. Thieves fold up the sheets and pillow-cases, even when they have been entertaining free, put the bedding under their coats and get away with it. In time we get to know them and will not put them in the dormitories, but only in the barracks fitted with shelving but with no pillows or covers, but fire is kept all night. The bath and toilet-room adjoins or is part of the barracks, so that men are made comfortable. I took Murphy to an eating house near by and filled him up, but at the same time warning him to get out of town as soon as possible or change his course and become a good man. Now, if that man had not been given food he would surely have gotten it, if it cost a human life. Bad as he was, he would have been fed had he gone to the Mission. I feared he would not go, but would commit some depredation. Speaking of thieves, reminds me of the case of a man whom I shall call

JAMES MANN.

One evening a tall, fine-looking man came into the Mission chapel. One gets to know thieves somewhat as you know an Englishman, a German, an Italian, by the marks environment have left on the person. I knew on sight that he was a thief. We had a Salvation Army man at the Mission that night from West Virginia, who gave the message. His subject was, “Be sure thy sin will find thee out.”

He had been a thief, had served time, but now he told how happy and safe he felt serving God and in being a good citizen. Several men knelt at the altar that night, so when 9.30 P.M., the time for dismissal, came, the men were permitted to go to the dormitories while one or two workers prayed with the penitents.

Mr. Mann retired, but he could distinctly hear the praying. He declared that a voice said, “Mann, now or never.” He tried to go to sleep, the inward voice persisted, “Now or never.” He put on his clothes, went back to the chapel, threw himself down at the altar and cried to God for mercy for himself.

The workers gathered about him, he told God his story of sin and shame, and God heard his cry for mercy, and he rose a forgiven sinner. His kit of burglar tools were thrown into the Potomac River. He had come to Washington to burglarize in the northwest section of the city during the time when Mr. Taft was being inaugurated. His portrait could have been seen in the rogues' gallery in every large city of the country, but in a few weeks God so changed his face that the man could not have been recognized by the old portrait.

We told Major Sylvester, Chief of Police, of the case, and Mann was put on the special police force at the Union Station at inauguration time, and never before nor since was there ever such a quick nabbing of the noted thieves as at the Taft inaugural occasion.

Mr. Mann's mother came on from her western home. She is a sincere Christian woman. It was doubtless the answering of her prayers which brought conviction, then salvation to that dangerous man. Once she said, “James, I never heard of you for two whole years; where were you then?” He made an evasive answer, but we knew that he had spent them behind bars.

After the inauguration the special police were discharged, and Mr. Mann went to work as a carpenter. He made a good assistant carpenter. About six months after that one of the Northern States was making a search for large men for their mounted police. Major Sylvester recommended Mann, as he was six feet four inches tall, and from that day to this he has been on the mounted constabulary of a great State, engaged in enforcing the law, rather than breaking the laws of his country.

Now, is not that real service to the State? This man was restored to his family, to society, to God. He became a factor for righteousness, instead of an element of danger to the commonwealth.

We are not always fortunate enough to see men of that class seek God. On one occasion three young thieves came into the Mission, they were of the traveling men of their base business. After I returned to my home I called up the police and told them my suspicion, and asked them to watch the Mission very closely from eleven o'clock until morning. They were all captured between twelve and one o'clock midnight as they were leaving the building and escorted to the station and told to leave town, which, of course, they did immediately.