I often meet the man who has for a number of years relied on Providence for his food and lodging. On more occasions than one I have been an instrument in the hands of Providence in assisting this artful hypocrite to a meal or his bed. When in the lodging-house he is always to be seen reading the Bible, committing passages to memory, but he enters into conversation with anyone that comes near. Then he explains that although he has had no dinner, he has faith in Providence to supply his supper; and though he has no money to pay for his bed, Providence will not let him walk the streets all night. In a large house where there are more than six hundred beds, and strangers are coming and going every day, this man often finds a sympathetic ear. And in the parks and gardens, and at street corners, where he enters into conversation with strangers, he can generally get enough to keep him independent of work. The other day I met a very small, old-fashioned looking figure dressed in black, and with a tall silk hat which looked the worse for wear. I was really startled when I saw this quaint, little, old man, for I had known him in a lodging-house five years before, and he then gave his age as ninety years. He used to sleep so sound in the chairs that lodgers believed him to be dead, and would call the manager. And when they had succeeded, after great difficulty, in rousing him, he would accuse them of trying to rob him. One day he slept so long that the porters thought that his end had come at last, and they fetched the manager. The latter did many things to rouse the old man, pinching, slapping, and shaking him, but all in vain. Giving one porter orders to send for the doctor, he told the others to carry the old man downstairs, so that the many lodgers passing to and fro would not have their attention drawn to the dead man. Taking the little figure in their strong arms, they carried it downstairs, and there it remained till the doctor came. But no sooner was that gentleman on the spot than the old man opened his eyes and, seeing to his amaze five or six men around him, scrambled to his feet and shouted, "Thieves!" The manager could not forgive this trick of the dead coming to life, and sternly bade the old man to go to his relatives, as he--the manager--had been deceived more than once. XXXIV The Comparison The finest and most perfect piece of begging that was ever brought to my notice was performed in Brooklyn by Boston Shorty. Such an example in the art of begging does not deserve oblivion, so I will record it, at the same time feeling a little jealousy, which is quite natural, that I was not the hero on that occasion.