It
was unchanged--just as it was the day I slept there. Three men lay
stretched at full length on the dirty planks, two of them young
lads from the country. Standing there, I told Mr. Roosevelt my own
story. He turned alternately red and white with anger as he heard
it.
[Illustration: The Church Street Station Lodging room in which I
was robbed]
"Did they do that to you?" he asked when I had ended. For an answer
I pointed to the young lads then asleep before him.
"I was like this one," I said.
He struck his clenched fists together. "I will smash them to-morrow."
He was as good as his word. The very next day the Police Board took
the matter up. Provision was made for the homeless on a barge in
the East River until plans could be perfected for sifting the tramps
from the unfortunate; and within a week, on recommendation of the
Chief of Police, orders were issued to close the doors of the police
lodging-rooms on February 15, 1896, never again to be unbarred.
The battle was won. The murder of my dog was avenged, and forgiven,
after twenty-five years.
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