Others were intelligent, clever and even industrious, quite capable of holding their own with respectable men, still they were helpless.
Others were fastidiously honest in some things, yet they were persistent rogues who could not see the wrong or folly of dishonesty; many of them were clear-headed in ninety-nine directions, but in the hundredth they were muddled if not mentally blind.
Others had known and appreciated the comforts of refined life, yet they were happy and content amidst the horror and dirt of a common lodging-house! Why was it that these fellows failed, and were content to fail in life?
What is that little undiscovered something that determines their lives and drives them from respectable society?
What compensations do they get for all the suffering and privations they undergo?
I don't know! I wish that I did! but these things I have never been able to discover.
Many times I have put the questions to myself; many times I have put the questions to my friends, who appear to know about as much and just as little upon the matter as myself.
They do not realise that in reality they do differ from ordinary citizens; I realise the difference, but can find no reason for it.
No! it is not drink, although a few of them were dipsomaniacs, for generally they were sober men.
I will own my ignorance, and say that I do not know what that little something is that makes a man into a criminal instead of constituting him into a hero.

This I do know: that but for the possession of a little something, many of my friends, now homeless save when they are in prison, would be performing life's duties in settled and comfortable homes, and would be quite as estimable citizens as ordinary people.
Probably they would prove better citizens than the majority of people, for while they possess some inherent weakness, they also possess in a great degree many estimable qualities which are of little use in their present life.
These friends of mine not only visit my office and invade my home, but they turn up at all sorts of inconvenient times and places .-- There is my friend the dipsomaniac, the pocket Hercules, the man of brain and iron constitution.
Year after year he holds on to his own strange course, neither poverty nor prison, delirium tremens nor physical injuries serve to alter him.
He occupies a front seat at a men's meeting on Sunday afternoon when the bills announce my name.

But he comes half drunk and in a talkative mood, sometimes in a contradictory mood, but generally good tempered.
He punctuates my speech with a loud and emphatic "Hear! hear!" and often informs the audience that "what Mr.Holmes says is quite true!" The attendants cannot keep him silent, he tells them that he is my friend; he makes some claim to being my patron.
Poor fellow! I speak to him kindly, but incontinently give him the slip, for I retire by a back way, leaving him to argue my disappearance in no friendly spirit with the attendants.

Yet I have spent many happy hours with him when, as sometimes happened, he was "in his right mind." I, would like to dwell on the wonders of this man's strange and fearsome life, but I hasten on to tell of a contrast, for my friends present many contrasts.
I was hurrying down crowded Bishopsgate at lunch time, lost in thought, when I felt my hand grasped and a well-known voice say, "Why! Mr.
Holmes, don't you know me ?" Know him! I should think I do know him; I am proud to know him, for I venerate him.

He is only a french polisher and by no means handsome, his face is furrowed and seamed by care and sorrow, his hands and clothing are stained with varnish.