CHAPTER XIII

SAN FRANCISCO--THE MISSION, THE PRISON, AND THE HOMELESS

"_Liberty to the captive, and the opening of the prison to them that are bound._"--ISAIAH 61:1.

Having received many letters from the Pacific Coast inviting me to come that way, and having heard what a Mecca for the itinerate worker it was, I felt impelled to investigate the "Commercial Emporium" of the Western shore. I had already made my appeal to Salt Lake City, so I went directly through from Denver to the "Golden Gate." I arrived in San Francisco, one of the most wonderful and beautiful cities in all the world, on Monday, February 8, and began at once my serious study of the problem I had come to investigate--the problem of the man who works but who may be playing in hard luck; the penniless man temporarily out of a job; the unfortunate boy seeking work far from home.

I found the wheels of progress and industry in the city exceedingly active and bright; yet I found a great many men out of work. The employment offices were crowded to overflowing. I found the men at the head of these institutions perfectly willing to get a man a job at thirty dollars a month, for a fee of two dollars and a half, or fifteen dollars a month for a fee of one dollar and a half, but they refused point-blank to tide a man over, that is, to trust him for the fee until he drew his first pay.

I stood one morning in one of the employment offices in this great city and counted there two hundred workingmen, looking for work. By my side was a boy, hungry, homeless, penniless, who could not go to work because he had not the price to pay for that privilege. Until he could get the price, he must beg, steal, or continue to starve. His shelter two nights before had been divided between the doorway of a freight house and the city prison, and the previous night in a "free flop" mission.

"I am not clean," he said, "I am soiled and ragged and no one wants me around," and added, "God, if I could only get rid of the things that were given me last night, without money and without price."

I said to him, "Go to the public bath," and he asked with an expectant look on his face, "Where is it?" I replied, "I don't know," and he said, "Even though I took a bath, these are the only clothes I have, and they must be cleaned."

I did just what ten thousands of the good citizens of San Francisco are doing every day, I helped the temporal needs of that boy; but it was a wasted effort, and I knew it, for the next night he may have fared doubly worse than this one.

The boy told me a bit of his life's history and the reason for his condition. He told it in such a clear, straightforward way, he impressed me that he was telling the truth.

"My father is a merchant in Ohio and fairly well-to-do. I had a position in one of my home town banks as assistant teller and bookkeeper, getting seventy-five dollars a month. Although I am but eighteen years of age I felt I was capable and ought to be earning more money. The institution I was working for felt they could not afford to raise my wages, and having a friend coming West, and also having that dream for the West, all of us Eastern boys have, and having fine letters of merit, I thought I could better myself, and I left, coming directly through to San Francisco. My ticket, however, was good to Los Angeles.

"After spending ten days here, I found it was impossible to get work in my line of business even though I offered to take much less than I was getting at home. Realizing that my money was fast slipping away, I went on to Los Angeles, where I found even a more discouraging condition than here.

"I made up my mind I would endure anything before I would ask assistance from home, and so I filled my letters with tales of prosperity and wonderful prospects. But finally, my money was all gone as well as my personal effects, including two hundred dollars worth of fine clothes, which the pawnshops got for a few dollars. My chum had returned East, and then I began to look for anything to do. I started into the country. The hardships I have endured in trying to live and find work in the California cities would fill a book, but the hardest experience of all was at Santa Anna, where I was arrested and thrown into the Santa Anna jail for ten days, for illegally attaching myself to the Santa Fe Railway, and aimlessly wandering about with no visible means of support, and no objective place in view. I lost my hat the afternoon I was arrested in Santa Anna, and when I left the sheriff gave me this one. It was a pretty good 'lid' when he gave it to me. And so I made my way back here, and if I don't strike something to do to-morrow I am going into the army. They will have to write Dad and get his consent. They will take care of me until they hear from him. Goodbye, old man, thanks to you, I am all right now until I hear from home."

Here was a young man, strictly temperate, without one visible evil habit, a young man of brain, brawn, grit; just such boys as California wants, needs, and should help and keep, and it had no place for him!

The rest of that day I tramped the streets looking for work, and I inquired at a hundred places, I think, where work was going on, but all places seemed filled and no one seemed to want me--at least not that afternoon. At several restaurants they offered to let me help wash dishes for something to eat.

I could have begged, it is true, without being arrested, as the labor Mayor at that time was in every sense a humanitarian, and soon after taking office had issued a mandate to his police department to molest no one on the street asking alms. When remonstrated with, he said, "We may be imposed upon many times, but I would rather help twenty dishonest men than turn down one honest one."

The spirit of alms-giving in San Francisco was markedly noticeable, and I asked a man whom I saw hand a dollar to a man who asked for aid, why that spirit was so active. He replied, "If you had been here and gone through the terrible earthquake with us, you would fully understand. We were all dependent on one another at that time. We have all realized what it means to be homeless. We have not forgotten."

This observation seemed to apply only to the Mayor's order and to the citizens in general as I met them on the street; for I found the religious bodies of an entirely different nature,--those at least, with which I came in contact, not being remarkably generous.

The night was coming down. It was exceedingly ominous to a destitute man. It had begun to storm, with a commingling of rain and snow, and a chilly blast from the ocean.

Myriads of lights came out like a burst of good cheer from the Ferry House to Golden Gate Park, but they held no warmth for the penniless, thinly clothed man. The restaurant windows seemed to glow with good things. I saw many, very many boys and men, and occasionally a poorly clad girl, stand and look longingly at the tempting viands. I saw one young fellow down on Third Street standing before a cheap but exceedingly clean restaurant, whose windows were filled with tempting, wholesome food. I stopped and watched him. Among the passing crowd was a workingman with a dinner pail. The young man reluctantly, it seemed to me, asked of him a dime. The workingman strode on, but had gone only a few steps when he turned back. Stepping up to the young fellow, he put his arm about his shoulder and said, "What would you do with the dime if I gave it to you?" The penniless man's face beamed with joy and appreciation of the sympathy shown, as he said, "I would buy something to eat." The workingman gave him a quarter, a part of his day's wages, and the hungry man entered the restaurant, and ate as though he had been denied that blessing for a very long time. The workingman, as he went his way, I heard whistling far down the street.

In this incident I saw in imagination the spirit of San Francisco's beautiful Municipal Lodging House, with its food, shelter, bath, and medical attention, building up of character, good citizenship, and making for good government. I felt that the spirit of kindness shown by that workingman would be the crowning virtue of this new and wonderful Home.

It was getting late. I was very tired, and knew I must find shelter from the storm. I would not ask of anyone on the street the price of a bed. Someone out of pity might give me money he actually needed for himself. I decided to seek first some of the Good Samaritan institutions which make a business of helping the needy. But where they were I could only find out by inquiring of the policeman. I must approach them with all that dread and terror excited by the expectation of evil which all destitute men in our American "cities of liberty" come to look for at the hands of the police.

I approached an officer and asked him, "Can you tell a fellow where he can get a free bed?"

He did not look at me suspiciously; he did not take the law in his own hands by questioning me on the street; he simply placed his hand on my shoulder in a kindly way and said, "Right here is Kerney Street. Keep right down Kerney until you come to Pacific,--you can't miss Pacific Street,--and you will see the 'Whosoever Will' Mission. They have some kind of a 'free flop' there, but if they don't take care of you, go to the city prison."

It was eleven o'clock when I approached the "Whosoever Will" Mission. The meeting had just closed. I counted twenty men and boys standing on the street outside of the place. I slipped up to one of the boys and asked where the "free flop" was. He said, "About a block down the street." I asked him, "What is the show for getting a free bed?" "Mighty poor," he replied, "us fellows all got left. If you want a bed you have got to be here and go to the meeting and if you are lucky enough to get a ticket you can get a bed."

Just then I glanced through the door and read an inscription, "He that cometh unto me I will in no wise cast out." In making a closer study of this institution, I found it in appearance a veritable Cleopatra's Needle literally covered with quotations inside and out. I then asked where the lodging house was, and if he thought a man would stand any show of getting a bed without a ticket. He replied, "You might try," and directed me to the "free flop" a block down the street on the corner. There I encountered about twenty more men standing idly about. Seeing a light through a door, I entered, believing I was entering the "free flop," but found myself in a negro saloon frequented entirely by colored men. I went out again into the crowd, and stepped up to a thin, emaciated boy, a boy evidently dying with some lingering malady. I asked him where the "flop" was, and he pointed down to the sidewalk and said, "It is under here, the entrance is there at the corner." I slipped over to it, and found a very narrow and almost precipitous stairway leading down under the sidewalk and into a basement under the saloon. This stairway was absolutely gorged with human beings seeking shelter. After seeing that the sick boy had entered last and that I might force him back into the night, I entered, and when it was discovered, before I had scarcely gotten into the place, that I had no ticket, a big bully violently thrust me toward the door and in a loud voice shouted, "Get out of here," and almost threw me up the "golden stairs" and back into the street.

Here I found a number of boys and men who, like myself, lingered about ticketless and shelterless. I said to one of them, "What are we going to do for a bed?" He replied, "I'll tell you; you can get in if you will drop down that manhole, and once in you'll be mixed up with the crowd and won't be noticed. I let three fellows in that way the other night. It's mighty heavy but I'll hold it up till you drop down if you want to try it. But, say, I want to tell you if you ain't got nothing on you, and you don't want nothing on you, you'd better try the lumber yard. It isn't so warm as down there, but it's a great deal cleaner. That's where I'm going."

I was determined, however, to see this one free lodging house of San Francisco, but I hesitated for just a moment. I wasn't quite sure where I might land, and if I was discovered neither was I quite sure that I might not be murdered. But my fear quickly passed and I said, "All right, lift her up," and down I went. I did not have far to drop, and found myself in that portion of the "heavenly flop" under the negro saloon where hell overhead was already making the night hideous. Between the cracks in the old board floor I could see the light of the saloon shining through. I made no attempt at trying to get a bed. All I wanted was to make a few notes and get out.

The room where I found myself was filled with double board bunks, the upper bunks coming so near the ceiling, or floor of the saloon above, that a man could just crawl into them. Some of these poor objects were making an attempt to get a bath from a shower in a corner, but even if they succeeded in getting this excuse for a bath, they were obliged to crawl back into their filthy clothes or onto the still more filthy bunks. Some men, under the sidewalk, I saw spread out old newspapers on the boards, and lie down unwashed and unfed in their wretchedness.

Slipping out as quickly as possible, unnoticed, I reached the street. The night air and open street was as a pleasant dream which follows the waking hours of one who suffers.

At the Salvation Army the attendant told me he was not authorized to give anything away, and all that was left me was the old city prison.

Threading up an alley, I found myself at the Old Bastile of San Francisco. The keeper at the door said he would allow me to lie down in the cell house, but first he must be assured I had neither knife, gun, or razor upon me. Satisfied I was not an escaped lunatic, or a desperado with an arsenal concealed about me, I was turned over to the turnkey, who led me to the chamber of horrors, a long room about sixty by thirty feet. In the center was a row of large cells, or "drunk tanks," in which were being thrown the unfortunates of both sexes in all degrees of insanity, from the raving delirium tremens to the semi-idiots, the fighting drunks, the laughing drunks, the sick drunks and the sleeping drunks. The jailer pointing to a pile of blankets, said, "Take one of those and find a place to spread it down." The lodgers were allowed to lie down on the stone floor in the narrow passage which surrounded this row of cells. The passage was so narrow that they had to lie in single file, which left just space enough to walk between them and the cells. I seized a blanket; there seemed to be just one space left.

If you have ever been in an insane asylum, or in a cell house of your States prison, where some unusual sound startles and terrifies the inmates, you can frame some idea of what it means to sleep around the "drunk tanks" in the city prison. Women with disarranged clothing, and disheveled hair, were pleading and babbling, and begging to be released, declaring they could not breathe, and in piercing tones crying that they were suffocating. Strange as it may seem, these women this night were more or less refined in voice and language, and the most vile and vulgar epithets hurled at them by the men derelicts in the adjoining cells met with no response. Men raved and fought, and cursed and groaned. The jailer was kept busy separating them. As he was forcing an aggressive prisoner from one cell to another, the toe of the unfortunate caught me in the side, which left me a sore and stinging remembrance of that awful night for several days.

When the call came to the lodgers to get out, it was like a voice from the immediate presence of God. We were each given a piece of bread and a cup of stuff called coffee. The jailer, George McLaughlin, was a man of cast-iron decision and gruffness, yet under the most trying circumstances his actions toward these troublesome unfortunates were exceedingly kind. As we drifted out of the Old Bastile, he gave us each a word of good luck and a cheerful farewell. It was a jail, yes, and no man can ever sleep in a jail and keep his self-respect, but we were welcome and not cast out.

San Francisco is at work. She has sent her delegation to New York City to inspect its beautiful and wonderful Municipal Lodging House. The delegates returned completely won over to the idea. San Francisco will soon have its Emergency Municipal Home.