Preacher small bills or silver. Then a lieutenant of Scandinavian
coloring and enthusiasm would march away to a lodging house with a squad
of the redeemed. All the while the Preacher exhorted the crowd in terms
beautifully devoid of eloquence--splendid with the deadly, accusative
monotony of truth. Before the picture of the Bed Liners fades you must
hear one phrase of the Preacher's--the one that formed his theme that
night. It is worthy of being stenciled on all the white ribbons in the
world.

_"No man ever learned to be a drunkard on five-cent whisky."_

Think of it, tippler. It covers the ground from the sprouting rye to the
Potter's Field.

A clean-profiled, erect young man in the rear rank of the bedless
emulated the terrapin, drawing his head far down into the shell of his
coat collar. It was a well-cut tweed coat; and the trousers still showed
signs of having flattened themselves beneath the compelling goose. But,
conscientiously, I must warn the milliner's apprentice who reads this,
expecting a Reginald Montressor in straits, to peruse no further. The
young man was no other than Thomas McQuade, ex-coachman, discharged for
drunkenness one month before, and now reduced to the grimy ranks of the
one-night bed seekers.

If you live in smaller New York you must know the Van Smuythe family
carriage, drawn by the two 1,500-pound, 100 to 1-shot bays. The carriage
is shaped like a bath-tub. In each end of it reclines an old lady Van
Smuythe holding a black sunshade the size of a New Year's Eve feather
tickler. Before his downfall Thomas McQuade drove the Van Smuythe bays
and was himself driven by Annie, the Van Smuythe lady's maid. But it is