“Blime me” (the attendants were for some curious reason mostly English), “you’d think there was no other time but nine for ’im to come start shaving. I say, you can’t do that. We’re closing ’ere now. Cut it out.” This to a shabby soul with a three days’ growth of beard who has evidently not reached the stage where he understands the regulations of the institution. “You’ll ’ave to quit splattering water ’ereabouts, I’m telling you. This ain’t no bawth. If you want to do that, go in the basement.” This to one who was not as careful about his shaving as he might be. “You’ll ’ave to be moving out o’ ’ere now.” This to one who had fixed himself comfortably in the lobby and who might be in the way of some orderly who wanted to sweep or sprinkle a little sawdust. On every hand, at every time, as I noticed, it was the orderly or the hired servant, not the guest, who was the important and superior person. And it seemed to me, after a three days’ study of it, that they were really looking for flaws and slight mistakes on the part of guests in order that they might show their authority and proclaim to the world their strength. It was discouraging. The saddest part of it was that this place, with all its drawbacks, was still beyond the purse of many. Some, as anyone could see, only came here between the hours of ten in the morning and ten at night, the hours when lounging in these lobbies was permitted, to loaf and keep warm. They could not afford one of these palatial rooms but must only loaf here by day. It was at least warm and bright, and so, up to ten o’clock at night, not unsatisfactory. But having no room to go to at ten at night, they must make their way out. And this necessity, exposing them for what they were, bench-warmers, soon made them known to the guards or orderlies, who could be seen eyeing them, sometimes speaking to them, suggesting that they come no more, that they “cut it out.” They were bums, benchers, really below the level of those who could afford to stop here, and so beneath that level of contempt which was regularly meted out to those who could stop here. I myself have seen them sidling or slipping out at 9:30 or 9:45, and with what an air--like that of a dog that is in danger of a booting. I have also seen a man at closing time count the remaining money in his possession, calculate a moment, and then rise and slip out into the night. Men such as these are not absolutely worthless, but they have reached the lowest rung of the ladder, are going down, not up, and beyond them is the Bowery, the hospital, and the river--the last, I think, the most merciful of all. HELL’S KITCHEN