"Why, I remember jes lots o' things. I's been a crook, I's been a moocher, an' now I's shatin' on me uppers [I am broke]. Why, what I's seen would keep them blokes up there in Cooper Union readin' all winter, I guess." This was probably true. He had been everywhere, had seen and done nearly everything which the usual outcast can see and do, and he wound up his life simply "shatin' on his uppers." No one will have any dealings with such a tramp except the men and women in his own class. He is hated by all the beggars above him, and they "do" him every chance they get. A fair example of this class hatred came under my notice in London, England. I was walking along Holborn one evening when I was suddenly accosted by an old man who wanted me to give him a drink. "I wouldn't ask ye," he said, "'cept that I'm nearly dyin' o' cold. Can' cher help a feller out!" There was something so pitiful about him that I decided to take him into a public house. I picked out the lowest one in the neighborhood. The place was filled with beggars and criminals, but they were all of a higher class than my friend. However, I called for his gin, and told him to sit down. It was soon evident that the old man was an unwelcome guest, for even the bartender looked at him crossly. He noticed this, and began to grumble, and in a few minutes was in a quarrel with some of the men. The bartender told him to be quiet, but he claimed that he had as good a right to talk as any one else. He was finally put out, although I made all the remonstrance I dared. I started to leave too, but was prevented. This made me angry, and I turned on the men, and said: "What right have you fellows to treat me this way? I came in with the old man respectably enough." "Oh, come up 'n' 'ave a drink," said one of the men. "Don't get 'uffy. Come up 'n' 'ave a bitter." Then another said: "Say, was that old feller any relation o' yourn? 'Cause ef 'e was, we'll fetch 'im back; but ef 'e wa'n't, 'e kin stay where 'e is. 'E don't belong in 'ere." "Why is that?" I asked. "Why, don' cher know that 'e ain't o' our class? 'E's a' ole can-moocher. 'E ain't got no right 'ere." "Well, do you mean to say that you own this place, and no one can come in who is not of your choosing?" "The case is jes this, 'n' you know it: it's our biz to do anybody out o' our class." "Would you 'do' me if you had a chance?" "Bet cher life!" I got out safely soon after this, and had gained knowledge for the future.