“Hurry,” croaked the Frog. _And he let the water out of the tub._ He handed me the towel the scalawag had used. I had not, as a matter of fact, had a bath, and I was quite foot-sore. “I do not want that towel,” I said. “You’re awful fancy, aren’t you?” sneered the Frog. Wherever I was damp, I rubbed myself dry with my bare hands, being skilled in the matter, meanwhile reflecting that there is nothing worse than a Pharisee except a creature like this. I wondered if it was too late to rouse a mob among the better element of the town, neither saints nor sinners, but just plain malefactors of great wealth, and have this person lynched. There were probably multi-millionnaires in this town giving ten-dollar bills to this mission, who were imagining they were giving a free bath to somebody. I wanted to appeal to some man with manicured hands who had grown decently rich robbing the widow and the orphan and who now had the leisure to surround himself with the appurtenances of civility and the manners of a Chesterfield. “I am through with the poor but honest submerged tenth. Rich worldlings for mine,” I muttered. “Put these on,” squeaked the Frog. His manner said, “See how good we are to you.” He held out the treasure of the establishment, a night-garment retained for fastidious new-arrivals, newly-bathed. Of course, no one else was supposed to bathe. Was the garment he held out a slivered shirt? Nay, nay. It was a sort of pajama combination. Hundreds of men had found shelter, taken a luxurious bath, and put them on. They were companions in crime of the towel and the wash-rag. Let us suppose that three hundred and sixty-five men wore them a year. In ten years there would have been about three thousand six hundred and fifty bathed men in them. That did not account for their appearance. “What makes them so dirty?” I asked. No answer. “Can’t I wear my underclothes to bed instead of these?” “No.” “Why?” “Sulphur.” “What do you mean by sulphur?” “Your clothes are up stairs being fumigated.” “Can’t I get my socks to-night? I always wash them before I go to bed.” “No. It’s against the law of the state. And you would dirty up these bowls. I have just scrubbed them out.” “I will wash them out afterward.” “I haven’t time to wait. I must get up at four-thirty.” “But why fumigate my clean underwear, and give me dirty pajamas?” The Frog was getting flabbergasted. “I tell you it’s the law of New Jersey. You are getting awful fancy. If I had had my way, you would never have been let in here.” “Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth,” I said to myself, and put on the pajamas. This insanitary director showed me my bed. It was in a long low room with all the windows closed, where half a score were asleep. The sheets had never, never, never been washed. Why was it that in a mission so shiny in its reading room, and so devout in its chapel, so melodramatic with its clean workman-boss, in the daytime, these things were so?