Gar was a challenge to me, for I saw in him something wild, untamed, and, perhaps, untamable. I resolved to dispute with my own methods his mastery of the place. Such was his power over the other men that, could I only conquer him, the rest would be easy. I concentrated on Gar. It was virgin soil. He was ignorant of the vocabulary of religion. This was the more amazing because he had spent fifteen or twenty years in prisons. His special difficulty, I found, was intemperance. My first task was to cure him of that. One night, as he approached his bunk, he found me stretched out on the next one. "Well, I'll be----," he said. "What's the matter, Gar?" "Dat's what I ask youse. What's wrong with your machinery? Have ye been rejooced to the ranks, or has Gawd bounced ye?" I went up close and whispered in his ear: "Look here, old man, I'm glued to you; night, noon, and day, I'm going to eat, sleep, loaf, work, and play with you until every shred of your miserable soul belongs to God." He laughed loud enough to wake every man in the dormitory. "Sonny," he said, "I'll give ye three nights, and if ye haven't lost yer little goat be dat time, I'll set up de drinks fur all hands at Halloran's." Then Gar set out to make good in the role of a prophet. At first he tried to disgust me. He kept up a rapid fire of the most vulgar profanity. That night he started several fights, and put the light out in the dormitory. The men, yelling for light, ran about, smashing every one in their way. When things quieted down, he asked me how I liked the entertainment. I complained that it was tame. "Gee!" he said, "youse must 'a' been a barker at Coney!" I kept him sober for a week; then he went back to his cups, and in a frenzy he nearly killed a bartender. I found him hiding in a rag-picker's basement. It appeared that the man had used the name of Christ in a vile connection, and Gar became a champion of the Nazarene. "Hangin'," said Gar, "is too dead easy fur d' sucker what keeps cool when Jesus's insulted. Dat's d' fust time I ever soaked a guy on account of religion, an', b'jiminy, I'm tickled t' death over it." When Gar squared himself again, he began a wholesale house-cleaning in the bunk-house. He persuaded the management to make several outlays, and he gave himself to the work. We installed a book-case and books, and Gar himself selected some chromos to hang around. Over a dent in the wall, made by a chair with which he had tried to kill a man, he hung this motto: "Let Brotherly Love Continue." For ten years Gar struggled to be master of himself. He spent some years in a soldiers' home, but it was against his principles to die in such a tame institution. He wound up where he had spent his strange career--in Chatham Square.