One of the Harpers,
indeed, took to the idea, but the editor to whom he sent me treated
me very cavalierly. Hearing that I had taken the pictures myself,
he proposed to buy them at regular photographer's rates and "find
a man who could write" to tell the story. We did not part with
mutual expressions of esteem. I gave up writing for a time then, and
tried the church doors. That which was bottled up within me was,
perhaps, getting a trifle too hot for pen and ink. In the church
one might, at all events, tell the truth unhindered. So I thought;
but there were cautious souls there, too, who held the doors against
Mulberry Street and the police reporter. It was fair, of course,
that they should know who I was, but I thought it sufficient
introduction that I was a deacon in my own church out on Long
Island. They did not, it seemed. My stock of patience, never very
large, was showing signs of giving out, and I retorted hotly that
then, if they wanted to know, I was a reporter, and perhaps Mulberry
Street had as much sanctity in it as a church that would not listen
to its wrongs.
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