Page:American Journal of Sociology Volume 6.djvu/465

 THE SAL OON IN CHIC A GO 451

ices were served by a group of young women, whose residence and service in the neighborhood have won for them a place in the hearts of these people. Old and young, the talented and those less gifted with nature's blessings, were entering into the games of the evening with the free spirit of fellowship that was delightful to behold. As the company broke up, clouds began to gather, and a heavy storm was upon us. Where were the thousands whose only home is the street, the police station, the saloon, and the "doss-house" ? Disguising myself in clothing that deceived even my policemen friends, I went out into the darkness, into the midst of the storm. The flashes of lightning enabled me to keep out of the worst of the mudholes until I reached Madison street, which was still brilliantly lighted. With a slouch hat pulled over my eyes, drenched to the skin, I stepped into a saloon to relight my pipe. Loafing about in saloon after saloon, I found men stretched out on benches and lying on the floor. A few were standing at the bar. Everywhere the saloons were wide open and furnishing shelter to the homeless thousands. Out on the street I met and revealed myself to, one of the police officers who had been my guide on previ- ous nocturnal excursions through the "hop-joints" of the city. With him I met a second officer, with whom I had often seen "the sights." At first he did not recognize me, but, when at last convinced, he stepped back, looked me up and down critically for a few moments, and said : " Good God, lad, but how you have fallen !" Nor could he be convinced that as a result of his for- mer guidance I had not fallen, and was not, as many another unfortunate lad, forced to tramp the streets alone. To this day he has not forgiven himself for his part in my "fall," and as he urged me to return to a warm, dry bed, he gave me some words of fatherly advice, which, coming from such a source, were touch- ing indeed. By these men I was finally directed to the "vilest, bummiest doss-house in the city," on West Madison street near Canal. Standing in the hallway below I conversed with some of my future room-mates, accustomed myself to them and the odors that were coming down the stairway whenever the door was opened, and, screwing my courage up to the highest notch, I