"Doc" laughed and made some explanations. They had a wheezy old organ in Halloran's dive, and Doc kept it in repair and played occasionally for them. Doc had a Rip Van Winkle look. His hair hung down his back, and his clothes were threadbare and green with age. His shoes were tied to his feet with wire, and stockings he had none. He was a New-Englander, and had studied medicine until his sheep-skin was almost in his hand. Then Doc slipped a cog and went down, down, down, until he landed at Halloran's dive. For twelve years he had been selling penny song-sheets on the streets and in saloons. He was usually in rags, but a score of the wildest inhabitants of that awful dive told me that Doc was their "good angel." He could play the songs of their childhood, he was kind and gentle, and men couldn't be vulgar in his presence. I saw in Doc an unusual man, and was able to persuade him to go home with me. In a week he was a new man, clothed and in his right mind. He became librarian of a big church library, and our volunteer organist at all the Sunday meetings. After two years of uninterrupted service as librarian, during which time Doc had been of great service in the bunk-house, I lost him. Five years later, crossing Brooklyn Bridge on a car, I passed Doc, who was walking in the same direction. At the end of the bridge, I planted myself in front of him. "Doc," I said, "you will never get away from me again!" I took him to New Haven, where he has been janitor of a hall in Yale University ever since. _Gar, Bouncer of the Bismarck_ I have mentioned Gar, or Garfield, bouncer of the Bismarck. A strong, primitive man, he is worth a chapter in himself. When I met him first, I was scrubbing. Before I came, the Bismarck floor, like the Bismarck linen, was cleaned once a month. Having made the house my headquarters, I took some pride in it. I got permission to scrub that floor mid-month, and, dressed in a suitable outfit, I proceeded with the job. I hadn't gone far when a tall, gaunt form lurched into the room. "Hello," he grunted. "Hello," I said, as I paused for a moment. "What's up?" he asked. "You haven't seen me before, have you?" I asked. "Don't know ye from a hole in the ground!" "Well, I'm the missionary, and as there's a vital connection between soap and salvation, I'm making a beginning on the floor. When I finish this, I'll try my hand on you." He laughed a hoarse, guttural laugh, and said: "Don't git bug-house, boss; ye'd wind up jest whar ye've begun!" [Illustration: ST. FRANCIS OF THE BUNK-HOUSE] He had several names; his real name was Brady. In the bunk-house they called him "Gar." He was bull-necked, bullet-headed, tall, round-shouldered, stooped. The story of a hard life was in his face. He had been in the army, but they couldn't drill him. They couldn't even get rid of his stoop. He must have looked like a gorilla with a gun. In the Bismarck, he became the terror of the lesser breeds--the king by right of conquest.