[Illustration: The Fight on the Police Station Steps]
At the sight a blind rage seized me. Raving like a madman, I stormed
the police station with paving-stones from the gutter. The fury of
my onset frightened even the sergeant, who saw, perhaps, that he
had gone too far, and he called two policemen to disarm and conduct
me out of the precinct anywhere so that he got rid of me. They
marched me to the nearest ferry and turned me loose. The ferry-master
halted me. I had no money, but I gave him a silk handkerchief,
the last thing about me that had any value, and for that he let me
cross to Jersey City. I shook the dust of New York from my feet,
vowing that I would never return, and, setting my face toward the
west, marched straight out the first railroad track I came to.
And now, right here, begins the part of my story that is my only
excuse for writing down these facts, though it will not appear for
a while yet. The outrage of that night became, in the providence
of God, the means of putting an end to one of the foulest abuses
that ever disgraced a Christian city, and a mainspring in the
battle with the slum as far as my share in it is concerned.
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