like you to hear about him. I will read the story, and then explain it. They listened attentively. Eyes glistened as I went on. They were quiet and orderly. And when I prayed, kneeling in their midst, not a word of interruption occurred. But, when I endeavored to make personal application of the truth. Buster said, 'Lord bless you, mister, how can the likes of us repent? Why, we can't get wittles to eat, let alone things to kiver us—and what's the use?'"
Among the well-known classes of beggars may be named the naval and and military beggars, distressed operative beggars, disaster beggars (as ship-wrecked mariners, blown-up miners, and burnt-out tradesmen); bodily-afflicted beggars (such as those who are crippled, maimed, paralyzed, deformed, blind, deaf-and-dumb, or playing the "shallow cove," i. e., appearing half-clad in the streets); foreign beggars, who stop you, and request to know if you speak French; petty-trading beggars, who sell tracts, lucifer-matches, and boot-laces; musical beggars, who sing, or play on some instrument, as a cloak for begging; and screevers, who write "slums" (letters) and "fakements" (petitions) for others to use.
There are individuals, however, who will not be classified; men and women, who, by some dexterity of hand or trick of speech, accomplish their ends outside of rules. I met one of this character several years ago in St. John's Wood, a suburb of the West End. Walking rapidly toward home, after the close of business, I noticed a young man keeping along at my side, asking alms. Without either looking at him or slackening my pace, I replied to every application he made, "No! No! No!" when, at once, without any incivility, he brought his face directly in front of mine, and, in a tone which it is utterly impossible to describe, more like what one would suppose a drowning man would unconsciously use in his last appeal for help, than anything else, asked,
"And what am I to do, sir?"
I turned upon him, stopped, and noticing his eagerness, replied,
"I am sure I don't know what you are to do. I don't think Providence expects me to take care of you."
"So everybody has said to-day," he rejoined. "I never asked help before. I am a carpenter, just discharged from St. Luke's—look at my arm, healed of a nasty cut; and I can't go back to my job without clothes. Come and see my wife and babies; it is not two blocks off. Indeed, sir, I am no impostor. Here's my "character," for more than six years. It's very hard, sir—indeed it is—to be kept from work simply because I have no clothes."
I looked at him, hesitated a moment, felt almost sure I was wrong; but finally told him to follow me. Arrived at home, I gave him a suit of cast-off clothing, a pair of shirts and stockings. He was very grateful, and promised to come back and see me as soon as he was fairly at his work again.
"Come," I said, "and if it turns out that you are what you profess to be, I will be your friend."
It is needless to say that he never came. As time passed on, I had nearly forgotten the matter, when, upon alighting from an omnibus one wet, cold evening in February, more than two years afterward, a man followed me as I hastened up the square, my umbrella being held close down for shelter, and persisted in asking for charity. I said, in my usual way, "No! No! No!" when a face appeared under my umbrella, directly in front of mine, asking the question of despair—
"And what am I to do, sir?"
