Dave Ranney Part 5

I had never lost sight of my friend Irvine. We used to see each other often and have a good chat about things in general. He said he was going to take charge of the Sea and Land Church and wanted me to come and be the s.e.xton. It would give me $30.00 per month, rooms, coal and gas. He thought it would be a good thing for me to become reunited to my wife Mary, and I thought so too, but she had to give her consent. We had been separated for a number of years, and though I had been calling on her for over a year she never took any stock in my conversion. Here I was fifteen months a redeemed man, trying to get my wife to live with me again. I prayed often, but I never thought she would consent.

CHURCH OF SEA AND LAND

I was married young, and she was only a girl, and though she loved me she could not forget the misery and hards.h.i.+ps she went through. I never hit her in my life, but I wouldn't support her: I'd rather support the rumseller and his family, all for that cursed drink. And I didn't blame her for being afraid to chance it again. "A burnt child dreads the fire." I had made her life very hard, and she was afraid. She was glad to know that I had given up drink, but doubted my remaining sober.

Finally she agreed to live with me again if I remained sober for three years. I was put on probation--the Methodist way. Now I had been on the level for fifteen months, and I had twenty-one months more to go. She was strong-minded and would stick to her word, so I did not see how I could take the job as s.e.xton.

I told Mr. Irvine that was the way things stood and for him to get some one else. He said, "Pretty slim chances, but we will pray about it." He and I went up to Sixty-seventh Street, where Mrs. Ranney was working as laundress, and after a little talk we came to the point. I was a go-ahead man, and tried every way to get her to promise to come down, but she wouldn't say yes. I'll never forget that night in the laundry if I live a hundred years; she took no stock in me at all. I was giving it up as a bad job; she wouldn't come, and that settled it. We got up to go when Mr. Irvine asked if she would object to a word of prayer. She said, "No," and we had a little prayer-meeting right there.

We bade Mrs. Ranney good-night and left.

The next night she came down and we showed her all over the church. The s.e.xton who had been living there hadn't kept the living apartments clean, and she did not like them very much, but when she went away she said, "If I only could be sure you would keep sober I would go with you, but I can't depend on you. Fifteen months isn't long enough; you will have to go three years. I don't think I'll come." I said, "That settles it! But listen: whether you come or not, I am not going back to the old life." The next day I received a telegram from Mary saying,

"COME UP FOR MY THINGS."

I jumped on a single truck, drove up to Sixty-seventh Street, and got all my wife's things, trunks, band-boxes and everything, and it did not take me long to get down to the church. Mary was already there, and I took charge of the Church of the Sea and Land at Market and Henry Streets, where I remained as s.e.xton for ten years. I would not take $10,000 for the character I received from the trustees when I resigned.

I always look back with pleasure to those good old days at the church, the many friends we made, and the many blessings I received while there.

It did not take us long to get the run of the place. We sent for our boy, who was in Ireland with his mother's folks. When he came I didn't know him, as I hadn't seen him since he was a little baby. What a surprise it was when at my sister's house, after supper, she went into the front room, leaving me alone in the kitchen, when a manly little fellow came in and looked me over and said, "h.e.l.lo, father, I'm your son Willie. How are you?"

I looked at him, but couldn't say a word, for I had almost forgotten that I had a son. I opened my arms and the boy came with a rush, threw his arms around my neck, and said, "I love you, dad."

I want to say here that this boy has never given me any trouble and we have been companions ever since that night. He married a good Christian girl and is in his own home to-day.

I heard a little laugh, and there were my sister and Mary taking it all in. I could see then that it was a put-up job, this getting me to go up to my sister's house.

Time pa.s.sed and we were doing finely. One day we heard the boy playing the piano, and we got him a teacher. In a short time he was able to play for the smaller cla.s.ses, the juniors. Then my friend Mrs. Bainbridge got him a better teacher. He improved rapidly, and now he is organist in the Fifty-seventh Street Presbyterian Church.

I tell you it pays to be a Christian and on the level. If I hadn't done anything else but give that boy a musical education, it would have paid.

I'm proud of him.

MY FIRST SERMON

I remember the first meeting I ever led. It came about like this: I had been s.e.xton of Sea and Land Church about four years, was growing in grace and getting on finely. One Wednesday night the minister asked me if I would lead the prayer-meeting the following week, as he was going away. I told him I did not know how to lead a meeting and I was afraid to undertake it, as I couldn't preach a sermon. "Oh, that's all right,"

he said. "I'll write out something, and all you will have to do is to study it a little, read it over once or twice, then get up and read it off." I told him I'd try. I'd do the best I could. So he wrote about ten sheets of foolscap paper, all about sinners. I remember there was a story about a man going over the falls in a boat, and lots of other interesting things as I thought. I took the paper home and studied as hard as I could to get it into my head.

The night came on which I was to take the meeting--that eventful night in my life. I got on the platform, took the papers out of my pocket, and opened the big Bible at the chapter I was going to read, and laid out the talk just as I thought a minister might do. I read the chapter, then we had a song, then it was up to me.

Do you know I made the greatest mistake of my life that night! I went on that platform trusting in my own strength and not asking G.o.d's help. I got a swelled head and imagined I was the real thing. But G.o.d in His own way showed me where I was standing and brought me up with a short turn.

I began reading the article written, and was getting on well, as I thought, taking all the credit myself and not giving G.o.d any. I read three pages all right, when some one opened the window. It was a March night, very windy, and when the window was opened something happened, and I thank G.o.d that it did.

The wind came directly toward me and took the sermon I was preaching and scattered it all over the room. I didn't know what to say or do. I forgot everything that was written on the papers, and I knew if I tried to get them back I would make a fool of myself.

There was a smile on every face in the congregation. There I stood, wis.h.i.+ng the floor would open and let me through. I certainly was in a box!

Just at this moment G.o.d spoke to me and said, "David, I did that, and I did it for your own good. Now listen to me. You were not cut out for a minister. Just get up and tell these people how G.o.d for Christ's sake saved you, and I'll be with you."

I listened to the voice, bowed my head in prayer, and it seemed as though the Lord put the words in my mouth. I told that roomful of people of my past life and how G.o.d saved and had blessed me for four years. We had a grand meeting and a number were saved that night, and, above all, I received one of the greatest blessings of my life.

On his return the minister said, "I hear you had a great meeting. How did the reading go!" I told him what had happened, and he was astonished, but saw G.o.d's hand in it, and said so.

From that night on I never wrote up anything to read to my audience, and I have spoken all over within a circle of fifty miles of New York, and even farther away, including Boston, Philadelphia, Albany, and Troy. I tell the Bowery boys I'm what is called an extemporaneous talker. I don't know the first word I'm going to say when I get on my feet, but G.o.d never leaves me: I just open my mouth and He fills it. Praise His name!

It was a lesson to me and I have never forgotten it.

THE TESTIMONY OF A GAMBLER

While I was s.e.xton of the old Sea and Land Church I met among other men one who came to be a great friend. We called ourselves pals and loved each other dearly, and yet I have never been able to bring him to Christ. When I told him I was writing the story of my life he said he wanted to add a few lines to tell, he said, what I could not. This is what he wrote:

"'Lead, Kindly Light,' was the song; I'll never forget it. I heard it on the Bowery fifteen years ago. I was pa.s.sing a Mission, and hearing it I went in--I don't know why to this day. After the singing some one prayed, and I started to go out when the leader of the meeting called for testimonies for Christ. I waited and listened, and I heard a voice that made me sit down again. I shall never forget the man that was speaking. What he said sounded like the truth. It was the greatest sermon I ever listened to. He was telling how much G.o.d had done for him, saved him from drink and made a Christian man of him. I knew it was the truth. I went home that night to wife and children, and told my wife where I had been. She laughed and said, 'Dan, you are getting daffy.'

From that night on I have been a better husband and father.

"I left home one night about six o'clock and went down Cherry Street to a saloon where the gang hang out. I had been telling the boys about the things I had heard at the Mission. A young man said, 'Sullivan, there was a young preacher down at my house and asked me to come to a young people's meeting at the Sea and Land Church. I promised I would go, but I haven't got the courage.' In a moment I got churchy. I had never been in a church in New York. I said, 'Come on,' and we went to that meeting.

I am glad I did. That night I met my friend Ranney. As I was pa.s.sing out of the meeting he greeted me--he was the s.e.xton--with a handshake and a 'Good-night, old pal; come again!' There is something in a handshake, and as we shook I felt I had made another friend. I'll never forget that night. We became fast friends. There is no one that knows Ranney better than Sullivan. I have watched him in his climb to the top step by step to be in the grand position he fills, that of Lodging House Missionary to the Bowery under the New York City Mission and Tract Society.

"One day we were going up the Bowery and pa.s.sing a Mission went in. We heard the testimonies, and I turned to Ranney and said, 'Are you a Christian?' He said, 'I am.' I said, 'Get up, then, and tell the men what G.o.d has done for you.' Now here I was a gambler telling this man to acknowledge G.o.d, and I did not do it myself! Ranney rose and turned all colors. He finally settled down to that style of talking which he alone possesses. He told his story for the first time. I have heard him hundreds of times since, but to me that night fifteen years ago was the greatest talk he ever gave, telling how G.o.d saved him from a crooked and drunken life. It had the ring! I loved him from that night on. When he got through I said, 'Dave, G.o.d met you face to face to-night. You will be a different man from now on. G.o.d spoke to-night, not you. It was the best talk I ever heard. It took you a long time to start, but nothing can stop you now. One word of advice, pal, I'll give you: Don't get stuck on yourself. G.o.d will use you when He won't others among your own kind. He will make a preacher of you to men of your own stamp.' And Ranney is to-day what I said and thought he would be.

"You would think that a man who had been the pal of Ranney for three years would never say an unkind word to one that he loved, but that is what I did. We had a misunderstanding, and I said things to Dave Ranney that he never will forget. I called him every name on the calendar. He was speechless and I thought afraid of me. He never said a word. I left him standing there as if petrified--his friend and pal talking to him like that, his pal that sang with him, and joked with him!

"I went home and swore that never again would I have anything to do with a Christian. I had forgotten for the moment all the little kindnesses he had done and how after I had been on a drunk he had been at my bedside, how he had spoken words of cheer and comfort and said, 'Dan, old man, cheer up. Some day you are going to cut out drink'; and I want to say right now that I have not drank in over twelve years. I'd forgotten all that. I only thought of how I might hang the best fellow on this earth. I came to myself ten minutes after I left him, but the work had been done, and I made up my mind I'd never see or speak to him again. I'd go back to my old life of gambling and cheating, and I did.

"Five months pa.s.sed. I had not seen Ranney in all that time. I was playing poker one night, the 16th of September, 1899, with no more thought of Dave than if he had never lived. It was in the old ---- ---- Hotel on Water Street, a little before eight in the evening. My partner and I were having a pretty easy time stealing the other men's money--some call it cheating--when my thoughts turned to my old Christian pal Ranney. It was the eighth anniversary of his conversion.

Quick as a flash I jumped to my feet and said, 'Boys, I'll be back in an hour. I've got to go!' My partner thought I had been caught cheating and was going to cash his chips. I said, 'I'll be back in a little while.'

"I ran all the way up to the Bowery to the place where Ranney was holding his meeting. The Mission was packed. There were a lot of big-guns on the platform. No one saw me that knew me. Ranney was asking for those testimonies that would help the other fellow. I got on my feet and faced him. He turned pale. He thought I was going to set him out then and there. He looked me straight in the eye and began to come slowly toward me, and when I had finished we had one another by the hand. This is part of what I said that night:

"'I make no pretense at being a Christian. I am a gambler. But the man standing there--Dave Ranney--was once my chum and pal. We had a little misunderstanding some five months ago, and I am here to-night to ask his forgiveness. Forgive me, Dave. I just left a card-game to come up to your anniversary and help make you happy. I know you don't believe I meant what I said. I love you more to-night than any time since I first met you. Why, men, I would lay down my life that Ranney is one of the best and whitest Christians in New York to-night. It ain't the big things that a man does that show his real character. No, it's the little things. I have watched Ranney, been with him; his sorrows are my sorrows, his joys my joys. I can't say any more to-night.'

"Dave begged me to stay. Mr. Seymour came down to speak to me, but I'd done what I came to do, and I had got out quick--from Heaven to h.e.l.l, from my Christian pal to my pal in crime at the card-table.

"I've never been converted. If I was I'd go like my pal Ranney out in the world and tell how G.o.d saved me, and not let the ministers do all the talking. At present all I can say is, 'G.o.d bless my pal! and some of these days perhaps I'll be with him on the platform telling what G.o.d did for me. G.o.d speed the day!'"

TRIED IN THE FIRE

I had been s.e.xton for over five years, and had been greatly blessed, when my wife became ill. Things did not always run smoothly, for there are ups and downs even in a s.e.xton's life, and I had mine. When Mary and I took up again I determined to do all in my power to make amends for my former treatment of her, to make life as pleasant for her as I could, and I did. When she was first taken sick I sent her and the boy over to Ireland to visit her parents, thinking the change would do her good. She was better for a little while, but on the 14th of March, 1902, she died.

My boy and I were at her bedside and promised to meet her on the other side, and with the help of G.o.d we are going to keep our word.

You know there are always "knockers," and I knew quite a few. In every church and society there they are with their little hatchets ready to trim and knock any one that goes ahead of them. Some of these people said of me, "Oh, Ranney is under Christian influences. He is s.e.xton. He is afraid. Wait until he runs up against a lot of trouble, then he will go back to the Bowery again and drink worse than ever." I do think some of those people would have liked to see it happen. I've seen one of them in a sanitarium to be treated for drink who was my worst knocker, and I told him I would pray for him. I'm not talking of the good Christian people. They don't know how to "knock," and I thank G.o.d for all such. I had a thousand friends for every "knocker," and they were ready to help me with kind words, money, or in any other way when I was in trouble.

Just as an ill.u.s.tration of this take the act of the poor fellows of the Midnight Mission in Chinatown when my wife died. They wanted to show their sympathy and their love, and a delegation of them came in a body and placed a wreath on Mary's coffin. I learned afterwards how they all chipped in for the collection--some a few cents, some a nickel. Don't think for a moment that the Bowery down-and-out has no heart, for it isn't so. Many a tough-looking fellow with a jumper instead of a s.h.i.+rt has one of the truest hearts that beats. I only wish I could help them more than I do.

When G.o.d took Mary away I thought it was hard, and I was sore and ready to do anything, I didn't care what. There was a lady, Miss Brown, a trained nurse, who had been with Mary all through her illness, whose cheering words did me a wonderful lot of good. One thing she said was, "Trust." G.o.d bless her!

A TESTING TIME