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I
was too proud in all my misery to beg. I do not believe I ever did.
But I remember well a basement window at the down-town Delmonico's,
the silent appearance of my ravenous face at which, at a certain
hour in the evening, always evoked a generous supply of meat-bones
and rolls from a white-capped cook who spoke French. That was the
saving clause. I accepted his rolls as instalments of the debt his
country owed me, or ought to owe me, for my unavailing efforts in
its behalf.
It was under such auspices that I made the acquaintance of Mulberry
Bend, the Five Points, and the rest of the slum, with which there
was in the years to come to be a reckoning. For half a lifetime
afterward they were my haunts by day and by night, as a police
reporter, and I can fairly lay claim, it seems to me, to a personal
knowledge of the evil I attacked. I speak of this because, in a
batch of reviews of "A Ten Years' War" [Footnote: Now, "The Battle
with the Slum."] which came yesterday from my publishers to me there
is one which lays it all to "maudlin sensitiveness" on my part.


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