One Sunday afternoon I was going through the dormitories, calling the lodgers to prayer. On one of the ten-cent cots an old white-haired man was reading a life of Buffalo Bill. His face was marred by a scar over one of the eyes. He spoke gently and with a pronounced Irish accent.
“ONE NIGHT THE GRAF WAS PREVAILED UPON TO TELL HIS STORY”
“I am an Episcopalian,” he said, when I invited him below to the meeting.
“We have all denominations,” I assured him. Everybody in the bunk-house had a connection, more or less remote, with some sect.
“Say,” said the bouncer, concerning the old man, “dat ol’ duffer’s got de angel goods on him O.K.”
