“Well, I was gathering myself for a final leap into the arena, with my resignation fluttering in my hand, when friend Gunning stepped in, in his usual quiet and effective manner. He made a regular jury speech. He began by putting a little edge of deeper blue on Busted’s picture, and then when he was nicely inside their guard he took them down the Bay on a Sunday afternoon excursion and introduced them to a camp scene, Indian style, wigwam and camp fire, twenty boys, young devils from the waterfront, gathered round a young fellow who was holding them fascinated, enthralled, so much so that they hardly noticed brother Gunning slipping in among them. What was he giving them? Bunyan’s ‘Pilgrim’s Progress,’ up to date. The actual scene I believe was the struggle with Napoleon. ‘I know a little about artistic speech,’ says brother Gunning, ‘or at least I thought I did, but this young man was a revelation to me. He had everything, literary finish, artistic color, religion, all being poured into the ears and eyes and hearts of these young ragamuffins, the prospective criminals of our city.’ Dear ladies,” continued Jack in solemn tones, “he had ’em all gulping, and when he was done the thing was over.” “Nonsense!” said Mr. Gunning. “I made my little contribution. It was really Mickey Dunn that did the trick.” “By Jove! Mickey came in like a whirlwind,” said Jack. “Mickey was priceless. Believe me, if the whole thing had been carefully prepared and staged it could not have been better put on. The climactic effect was perfect. Little Mickey—you know him, a little Irish runt, with a brogue you could cut off in chunks—began telling them of the parental difficulties in his own family with his own rapscallions, three of them at least of the street Arab age, from sixteen down. ‘Roamin’ the streets they were,’ said Mickey, ‘an’ me whalin’ the life out of them to get them to Sunday school and to church, till their mother’s heart was clean bruk for them.’ Then Mickey proceeded to give them a picture of these rapscallions of his who were going the way straight to the devil and breaking the hearts of their mother and father in the process, and how they were gripped by this young chap. ‘He got them in,’ says Mickey, ‘with a quare sort of Sunday school, _athaletics_, an’ boxin’ an’ handspringin’ an’ the loike, and now they’re off the streets and niver a fear has their mother for them. Praise the Lord! Hallelujah!’ “When Mickey had got through the atmosphere had risen to the boiling point. Those old chaps were wiping away the tears, and oh, b-hoys! the thing was over and done with, and a resolution enthusiastically passed pledging twenty-five hundred dollars at least if and when I finish the outside of the building.” “Oh, Jack! splendid! wonderful!” cried his wife. She rose from her place and ran round to Mr. Gunning. “Oh, dear Mr. Gunning! I’d love to kiss you!” “Go on!” shouted Jack. “I’ll hold Mrs. Gunning.”