My district was on the East Side from Fourteenth to Forty-Second
Street. I encountered some rough work with janitors and janitresses in
this region--so rough, indeed, that I considered it a splendid
missionary field; and when I found, crushed in the heart of that
tenement region, a small Methodist Church, I became interested in its
work. I copied its "bill-of-fare" from the board outside the door, and
began, as time permitted, to attend its services. As an offset to the
discouragements I had experienced, I met in this small church two big
men--big, mentally and morally. They were brothers, and during my
twenty-one years in the United States, I have not met their superiors.
They were Lincoln and Frank Moss, both of them leaders in the church,
and although they had moved with the population northward, they
remembered the struggles of their childhood, and gave to it some of
their best manhood.

Selling sewing machines was a failure, but out of it came the
discovery of this splendid field for social and religious activity. I
was directed to the Twenty-third Street Y.M.C.A. There, day after day,
I inquired at the Employment Department until the secretary seemed
tired of the sight of me.

I got ashamed to look at him. One night I sat in a corner, the picture
of dejection and despair, when a big, broad-shouldered man sat down
beside me.

"You look as if you thought God was dead!" he said, smiling.

"He appears to be," I replied.

He put his big hand on my shoulder, looked into my eyes, and drew out