Dan Cullen s feet became swollen with dropsy.
He sat up all day on the side of the bed (to keep
the water out of his body), no mat on the floor, a
thin blanket on his legs, and an old coat around his
shoulders. A missionary brought him a pair of
paper slippers, worth fourpence (I saw them), and
proceeded to offer up fifty prayers or so for the
good of Dan Cullen s soul. But Dan Cullen was
the sort of a man that wanted his soul left alone.
He did not care to have Tom, Dick, or Harry, on
the strength of fourpenny slippers, tampering with
it. He asked the missionary kindly to open the
window, so that he might toss the slippers out.
And the missionary went away, to return no more,
likewise impressed with the ungratefulness of the
poor.

The cobbler, a brave old hero himself, though un-
annaled and unsung, went privily to the head office
of the big fruit brokers for whom Dan Cullen had
worked as a casual laborer for thirty years. Their
system was such that the work was almost entirely
done by casual hands. The cobbler told them the
man s desperate plight, old, broken, dying, without
help or money, reminded them that he had worked
for them thirty years, and asked them to do some
thing for him.

"Oh," said the manager, remembering Dan Cul
len without having to refer to the books, " you see,

[[162]]

p161 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p162w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p163

v?