In the alley near the door a woman and a ruffian were quarreling. The woman held a piece of money in her hand and the ruffian was trying to take it from her. A policeman passed down the alley, but paid no attention. The ruffian demanded the money. The woman refused. He knocked her down, took it from her hand and was walking off when Bradley touched him on the shoulder. "Give her back that money," he said. The man drew back his ponderous fist. At that moment Howard ran up. The ruffian looked at him and let his arm fall. Bradley called the policeman. He turned and came walking slowly back, swinging his club. "What's wanted?" he asked. Bradley told him what had occurred. "It's a lie!" exclaimed the woman, stepping forward. "You never hit me, did you, Jack?"
"Never touched her," said Jack, and a group about the door of the restaurant roared with laughter. "Move on," said the policeman, and Howard and the preacher moved on, the crowd jeering them.
"What put it into your head to go there?" Howard asked.
"I thought it was my duty."
"A man's duty lies mostly among his own people," said the young lawyer.
"No, among stricken humanity."
"A heroic idea, but fallacious. The Lord takes care of His own. These people are evidently not His own. Pardon my slang, but here is a genuine gospel shop. Let us go in."
At the door of a room forbiddingly neat to the class which it intended to feed, they were met by a cool young woman and a ministerial man. It was a coffee house established to offset the influence of the saloon. At the rear end of the room a young fellow played upon a wheezing melodion. Girls were serving coffee. On the walls were pictures of the Prodigal's Return, Daniel in the Lion's Den, Jacob before Pharaoh, The Old Home, several cows, a horse with his head over a barred gate, and a child lamenting over a broken doll. Howard called attention to the fact that the sandwiches were thin and that the coffee looked pale. "It is charity," said he, "and charity is pale. Now, let me take you to the enemy—the den against which these mild batters are directed."
They went to a saloon. The place was ablaze with light. The walls were hung with paintings, some of them costly, some modest, others representing figures as nude as Lorado's nymphs. On a side counter was a roast of beef, weighing at least a hundred pounds. "Look at that," said Howard. "Vice sets us a great roast—and for five cents, a glass of beer, the vagabond may feast."
"The devil pandering to the drunkard and the glutton," replied the preacher.