There were about seventy beds in the place, and it was something unusual
to see a man on his knees praying. But when I started out to be a man I
meant business, and I said I would say my prayers every night. I don't
think God can think much of a man who says his prayers lying on his
back, unless he's sick. I believe God expects us to get on our knees,
for if a thing is worth getting it's worth thanks. I didn't mind the
laugh so much, but I did some: it was sort of cutting. I'm no coward
physically, and can handle myself fairly well at the present time, but
when it came to getting on my knees I was a rank coward.

A lodging-house is a queer affair. Men of all nations sleep there--some
drunk, some dreaming aloud, others snoring. The cots are about two feet
apart--just room for you to pass between them. It takes a lot of grit
and plenty of God's grace to live a Christian life in a lodging-house. I
go in them every day now to look after the other fellow: if he is sick
or wants to go to the hospital I'll see to that; but I never can forget
the time when I was one of those, inmates.

One night I had just got on my knees when boots, shoes, and pillows
came sailing at me; one boot hit me, and it did hurt for fair. Then a
whiskey flask hit me, and that hurt. I was boiling with rage. I got up,
but I didn't say anything; no one would have answered me if I had; they
were all asleep, by the way. We call such business hazing, but it's mean
and dirty.

I went to work as usual the next day, and thought and planned all day
how to catch one of those fellows. I figured out the following plan: I
did not go to bed that night until quite late; the gas was turned down
low, and I made noise enough for them to hear me. When I was ready for
bed I knelt down and turned my head as quick as a flash to catch the