Chapter XXIX: A First Night in a Lodging-house 222 (4)

Old Scotty Bill, the flycatcher, is also dead. Consumption did not claim him as a victim, for he died at the advanced age of eighty-three, which was wonderful for a man who had spent the best part of his life in a lodging-house. No doubt if he had lived under better conditions, he would have reached a hundred years with ease. All his interest was in flies. While other lodgers were discussing the abundance of fish in Billingsgate, Scotty could be seen counting the flies in the kitchen, as a sign whether he should go out with his fly-papers or not. His language was very bad, and the last words he was heard to utter surprised even those who were accustomed to him, by their unusual weight and speed. He was another stubborn invalid, and fought hard against going to the hospital. His death was quite characteristic, and I can hardly imagine it otherwise. He, like many another one, was found one morning helpless in bed, and the manager, seeing that he was very ill, in spite of his assurance to the contrary, sent at once for the doctor. But when the latter arrived he and the manager were surprised to find the bed empty. On making enquiries they were told that Scotty was in the kitchen, and it was there that they found the old man, reading a newspaper. In spite of this the doctor saw that Scotty was not in good condition and tried to persuade him to go to bed, but this the old man swore that he would not do, and demanded some reason for such a request. Then there was a whispered consultation between the manager and the doctor, and it was decided to send for the ambulance and have him taken to the hospital whether he would or no. Now Scotty had lived in that same lodging-house for over thirty years, and for that reason was well known in the locality. Therefore, when the ambulance arrived at the door, and a woman outside enquired of a lodger as to who the ambulance was for, and was told of Scotty Bill, the news soon spread abroad. In less than five minutes between twenty and thirty women had assembled at the door. These women of the slums were never very clean, and at the present time not one of them was in a fit condition to answer her own door; but they forgot this in their anxiety to see poor Scotty Bill and wish him a speedy recovery. At last the old man appeared, and it staggered him to see the number of women at the door. But when he heard them say, "Poor Bill"; and "Good luck to you, Scotty"; his fury knew no bounds. Standing with one foot on the step, he paused, and then poured forth such a torrent of abuse that some of the women lost all sympathy with him and feebly retaliated. He told them to go home and scrub their dirty faces, instead of coming there to watch him--and other things not fit to mention. It was, they confessed, the worst language they had ever heard--and more than one of them was capable of using very strong words. That was the last seen of Scotty Bill, and that was his dying speech, for he died on his arrival at the hospital.

I have heard of the death of a number more, men that lingered with such determination that it almost seems as if they have taken advantage of my absence and died; for they all seem to have gone one after the other since I left. "One-eyed" Jim is dead. A terrible cough he had, but his face and neck were always like raw beef. That one eye of his blazed with such power that I have often imagined the devil hard at work shovelling half a ton a coal a minute to supply its fierce light. He also went off suddenly, walking the kitchen floor on Monday, and lying cold and dead on the following day.

"Rags" is also dead, the great drinker; the man who when abroad complained that whiskey made him totter, whereas it was an earthquake, that tumbled towers and made the firm-footed houses reel. "The whiskey's in my legs," said "Rags," not knowing it was an earthquake.

"Monkey" Sam and the "Dodger" are both dead, and there is no doubt but what the Dodger's death hastened Sam's. These two were the slyest pair that I have ever met. I believe they understood each other's thoughts so well that when one's body itched the other could, without seeing his friend make a motion, scratch his own body at the exact place. These two conversed by looks, and uttered very few words. They were so well-matched and thought so much of one another, that something more than accident must have brought two such men together. It was always clear that if anything happened to part them, neither one would seek friendship elsewhere.

I had seen all these men fighting against death day after day, but with such determination, that I can hardly believe the report that calls them dead; especially as there is no proof of lettered stone, seeing that they are all in paupers' graves. All these poor invalids in common lodging-houses are under the impression that doctors, when they find that their patients have no friends, and cannot be thoroughly cured, kill them. That is why they are so stubborn, and fight till they cannot move, before they will enter a hospital.

XVIII

The Earnings of Beggars

In writing of the earnings of beggars, I do not, of course, include common tramps, who are satisfied with barns, sheds, empty houses and workhouses; I write of true beggars, who have not lost their self-respect, and who, by their exertions, are as sure of a bed at night--although it is a different one--as other people that have homes. If they sleep out of doors for a night or two in summer-time, they do so for pleasure; as people with homes will, when they sleep in hammocks under trees. The true beggar does not shirk business, or save money by sleeping out; he still follows his calling and makes the price of his bed, but in this instance he spends the money on ale instead of stifling with so many others in a common lodging-house.

A good beggar is always ready to seize opportunities. He will never allow a man to pass on who greets him pleasantly, or requires information, without either begging a copper, a pipeful of tobacco, or even a match. I think now of that memorable morning in America, when Brum, an excellent beggar, saw a lady kiss a horse. We were at a camp fire making coffee, when I was startled by the unusual eagerness of Brum's voice crying, "Look!" Following the direction of his finger, I saw a lonely house on a hill, and near the house was a lady in riding-habit, and she was patting a horse's neck. Seeing nothing unusual in this, I said, "What's the matter?" "You were too late to see," answered Brum; "she kissed the horse!" Now I am very fond of dumb creatures, and was therefore very pleased to see Brum moved so nobly by such an incident; but I was not allowed much time to congratulate myself on meeting with such a kind-hearted companion, for these were Brum's next words; "A lady that kisses a horse ought to be good for a piece of silver"; and before I could utter a word he had gone. This incident plainly shows how quick a good beggar is to take advantage of an opportunity. And Brum was right, for he not only returned with a piece of silver in his pocket, but also a parcel of food in his hand.

Of course, second-rate beggars in America earn more than first-rate beggars in Europe. In any of the large cities of America an active beggar can obtain as much as three dollars in a couple of hours, even if he suspends work for a drink. If a beggar is lucky enough to meet a gambler, he is just as likely to get a dollar as ten cents; in fact a number of beggars in that country make gambling places their haunts, for gamblers are well known to be superstitious, and few of them would think of refusing a beggar when on their way to the tables.

One of the quickest ways to make a good haul is to beg a fast overland train, when it must stop at some out-of-the-way place to take in water or coal. A beggar often boards one of these trains and, taking off his hat--not out of respect, but to hold money--goes from passenger to passenger, from one end of the train to the other. It is necessary to do business very quick, for the train does not stop long, and the conductor must be avoided. If a man has the luck to get right through the train, he often has several dollars to his account.

In this country beggars have different methods. No doubt singing hymns in Welsh towns and villages is one of the most profitable forms of begging. The Welsh are very kind-hearted and, being a musical people, it is almost impossible for them to resist an appeal made by song. When murder has been committed in a locality, you will always find a couple of men making a song of it in the streets, and they certainly do an excellent trade with their song-sheets. Good voices are not so necessary as a distinct enunciation of particular words such as blood, axe, bolster, etc. But even in less fortunate cases, when there has not even been an attempt at murder, beggars can still do well by singing well-known hymns.

There is one kind of beggar in Wales whose earnings can water the mouth of many a beggar in America. We must approach this man very seriously, for he is forced to beg through a terrible affliction. He is either totally blind or paralysed, and is to be seen standing or sitting near a pit's mouth on pay-day. For this man the Welsh colliers have deep pity, and in a very short time they fill his hat with money, silver shining among the copper, although the contributors are only working men. But for a man with a more simple affliction the colliers have, of course, far less sympathy. A great number of colliers have suffered in accidents, and they are still working hard, so it cannot be expected that they will make much distinction between a man who has lost a finger and one that has not.

Beggars that play music do well, whether it is an organ, a cornet, a concertina, or a tin whistle. Public-houses are the best stands, for men half drunk are always musically inclined. These men also do well at private houses. It seems strange to say that houses where a hungry man has difficulty in getting bread, can generally find a copper for a beggar musician. The reason is very simple: music pleases the children, and, naturally, a mother is always willing to assist men that make the children laugh and dance, and the baby bounce in her arm. In fact these men are not regarded as beggars, but entertainers. If they know their business well, they will keep a sharp eye on the door and windows, and when they see a child's face, nod and smile, and throw kisses to it. Then the child laughs and claps its little hands, and the mother hears the child and she laughs also. The meanest woman would not rob the child of this enjoyment, and if she allows the music to continue she is under a moral obligation to pay for it.

I knew Billy the whistler well, and he only had one complaint--dogs. He could seldom blow three notes on his tin whistle before he was accompanied, against his wish, by a dog's voice. The bottom of his trousers was always in tatters, so much did dogs dislike a tin whistle.

Manchester Jack was one of the best beggars that I have met in this country. He scorned to play music, sing, or sell. Although he was a big, strong, able-bodied man in the prime of life, he could earn more than a crippled young man or an old man feebled and paralysed. This sounds like a reproach to the world, but it is very easy to explain. Manchester Jack, being active and business-like, could call at three times more houses than a man that was afflicted by age or accident. He would certainly be refused at one or two places where the latter would succeed, but the greater number of houses he called at would give him the advantage. From a beggar's point of view, the world consists of two kinds of people--the good and the bad. The good will not refuse a man because he is able-bodied, and the bad can and will always find some excuse for not giving assistance. The very few that give in particular cases are in such a minority that a man like Manchester Jack would be very little affected.

I travelled with him for ten days, and when I took one side of a street, and he the other, he not only finished his side first, but, starting at the other end of mine, would meet me half way. He was a kind-hearted fellow, always willing to give strangers information about good or bad towns. On one occasion, when we had just finished begging a street, Manchester Jack asked me if I had received any scrand (food). I told him yes; that I had taken fivepence and two parcels of food, which were in my pockets. "Well, lad," he answered, "I have taken ninepence, but no scrand. Let me have the scrand and I will make it all right later on." I gave him the two parcels, but was considerably taken by surprise; for I knew Jack was too proud a beggar to be seen eating in public, and preferred to sit comfortably in a warm lodging-house kitchen. Taking the food he went to a house that he had just left, knocked at the door, handed in the parcels and began to retreat, followed by a woman's voice, which made him hurry faster. When he came back he explained to me that he had called at that house, and the woman had begun to cry, saying at last that she was in want herself. "So," said Manchester Jack, "I have given her your parcels and a couple of pennies to get a bit of tea."

On another occasion he was leaving a house when he ran into a very dirty-looking tramp, who was wasting his precious time looking at the doors instead of knocking at them. "Mister," said this dirty and timid man, judging Jack by his smart walk and confident smile to be the tenant of the house--"Mister," said he, "is the Mrs. any good for a mouthful of bread?" "Here," answered Jack, giving him a penny--"here, and get out of this street at once; for a beggar has just left this house, and the lady cannot give to everyone; take my advice and go to another street."

I got on very well with Manchester Jack, and we might have been together for a long time, had he not been arrested for begging, and sentenced to a few days' imprisonment.

XIX

Charity in Strange Quarters

A fine house is seldom worth a beggar's notice, for the simple reason that it has too many people to consult. The servant girl has to tell the cook, and the cook has her orders from the mistress; and either one of these has power to stop the flow of charity. The servant girl may, if no one is looking, dismiss a beggar with a shake of her head; or the cook may think she has quite enough work to do without waiting on tramps. The fact of the matter is that you can seldom find a servant and her mistress of one mind; if the latter is kind and charitable, it is often found that the servant is otherwise. If the mistress is mean and uncharitable, the servant is often--sometimes through spite, and no kindness in herself--inclined to charity. All tramps have experiences to relate of how kind-hearted ladies or gentlemen have come out of the house and called them back, or met them at the gate and, after enquiring their wants, led them back to the house and reprimanded the servants for sending poor men away empty-handed. Again, there are other cases of servant girls giving charity against the strict orders of their masters and mistresses--girls with good, kind hearts. So, you see, a fine house is so unreliable that it always pays a beggar to confine his efforts to small houses. There is not the least doubt but what bells cry hunger, common iron knockers spell charity, and shabby doors that cannot afford either bell or knocker, and require bare knuckles, are--from a beggar's point of view--the richest.

Even when rich people are charitable, and give food, clothes, and money, they never seem to be impressed by the word workhouse; for they seem to regard that place as a comfortable home. But to mention workhouse to the poor is to send a shudder through them, and they will always try to assist a man to escape it. They see that dreadful place before themselves, when old age and poverty come, and they pity a man that has to go there, if only for one night.

A man that played an accordion, whom I often saw, had a certain pitch. People that passed by could not help but pity him, thinking that he was a stranger in the town, and did not know the almshouses from other dwellings. But this musician knew well what the houses were, for he had been to them before and--in a whisper--these almshouses were almost his best pitch. Going up a narrow passage, he would take up a position in a large stone yard, where he would stand and play a few tunes, and would be rewarded with three or four pennies and a couple of parcels of food. This was certainly good, for it was all bunts (profit). He will not be so successful when he plays to a row of fine villas at the other end of the town. If it were not for making himself a nuisance, and being paid to go away, it would never be worth while to play to fine houses.

I shall never forget the summer's day when I accidentally discovered a long row of small houses hidden away from all eyes. Having been given a sandwich, I had put it in my pocket, but on second thoughts decided to wrap it in paper. Seeing a dark, narrow passage between two shops, I entered, so as to have some privacy to do so. While I was in the act of wrapping this sandwich in paper, and returning it to my pocket, I was surprised at being passed by three small children, and wondered what they were doing there. But I lost sight of them at once, around a short bend in the passage. Being curious to know what was around this bend, I advanced, and what do you think I saw? A long yard, with more than a dozen small cottages in a row. This was a lovely sight for a beggar! In there a man could beg without fear of policemen, and without being annoyed by the stares of people passing in carts and on foot. But the best of it was that these houses would escape ninety-nine beggars out of a hundred.

I lost no time in going to work, in spite of a number of children that were playing in the yard. Instead of beginning at the first house, as an amateur would, I passed them all by, intending to begin at the extreme end, calling at every house on my return. My motive for doing this will be approved by all true beggars; it was to advertise my presence, so that people would expect me, and save me the trouble of knocking and explaining my wants, and my time would not be wasted. This turned out well, for, after I had called at the end cottage, where I was not expected, I had nothing to do after but receive the ready pennies and food from the neighbours, as I came to them. As I have said, it was a summer's day, and all the doors were open, so that the people could hardly fail to know of my arrival. Moreover, the children had found time to run in and tell their mothers to expect me, and when. No beggar could ever have done business quicker, for in less than a quarter of an hour, I was finished, having received fivepence halfpenny and two parcels of food. At one house, where I was given a penny, the woman also gave me a glass of beer, saying that she was thirty-five years of age that day, and had been married fourteen years, and was respected wherever she went.

Yes, sometimes charity comes from strange quarters, as only beggars know. One day an old lady gave me half a chicken and a sponge cake, with the information that she was getting parish relief. I don't know how to account for this, but suppose she was fortunate in being well looked after by some rich family for whom she had worked.

Another time I went to a small cottage, and the door was answered by a very shabby-looking old lady. I was selling needles and laces, at the time, and, when the old lady was asked to buy, she answered that she had not one penny in the house. She looked so very poor that I felt ashamed of having called there, and felt much inclined to make her a present of a packet of needles. As I was about to leave, she said: "Would you like to have something to eat?" Not caring to take anything from this poor woman, I said: "No, thank you; I have plenty in my pockets." "No matter for that," she answered briskly. Saying this, she went indoors, and in a few moments returned with a brown-paper parcel in her hands. It looked very much like a suit of clothes, but when I received it I was astonished at its weight. Thanking her I left, and at the first opportunity sat down to examine the contents. To my surprise I had half a rabbit pie and a whole custard pudding. This woman, it seemed, was far from being poor, and lived well; and that she had not a penny in the house was not to say that she was in poverty, as I first supposed.

When I was once followed by school-children, I could not help but see by their whispers that something unusual was about to happen. It was not long before a little girl came forward and put a penny in my hand. This was the most extraordinary charity that I ever received; for the child was old enough to know the value of money and the number of sweet things, so dear to childhood, that a penny could buy. Another, a little boy, seeing this wonderful deed of sacrifice, wanted me to take his slice of bread and jam, most of the jam being licked off.

A beggar soon forgets a kindness, but it is most certain that the charity he receives from the young affects him longest. Sometimes boys, who take their dinners with them to work, have food left; and it gives them great pride to meet a beggar and give it to him. Sometimes--more often than not--it is only dry bread; and they offer it to a beggar who perhaps has better food in his pockets. Now, if a man or woman gave such a beggar this dry bread, he would most likely receive it with indifference and cold thanks, and throw it away, being none too particular in carrying it beyond the eyes of the giver. But when he is offered this dry bread by innocent, well-meaning boys, he not only takes it with a great show of gratitude and pleasure, but is very careful that the boys will get no chance to see him throw it away.

XX

Enemies of Beggars

It is almost time that our streets were cleared of so many house-callers that, hour after hour, knock at doors and ring bells until a lady is not in a fit condition to listen to a beggar. It is commonly thought that policemen and dogs are a beggar's only enemies, but this is far from true; even the child that waits at the gate to see if he gets anything, and, if possible, what he does get--even this small innocent must be regarded as an enemy to a beggar; not to mention hundreds of adults that pester people for rent and instalments for goods received, and others that beg people to buy coal, wood, and oil, vegetables and fruit. Of course, these callers do not matter much to the true beggar, for he goes blindly to work, careless of his surroundings; but the timid beginner, who looks to the right and left of him, before and behind, is very apt to pass on if a neighbourhood is not kept more quiet for his work.

The true beggar, as I have said, is not often annoyed by these pestilent callers. Sometimes he knocks at a door and, before his knock can be answered, some infernal agent comes to the same door. In a case of this kind, the new beggar would be flurried, and most likely leave the house in possession of his enemy--but it is far different with the true beggar. He wishes his enemy a cheerful good morning--although it is seldom that he gets a civil answer--and is not afraid to speak out when the lady comes. In fact, he would be the first to explain his business, whether he was there first or not.

A first-class beggar like Brum would scorn to mention such little difficulties as these, and I know well that all good beggars will despise me for raising such paltry objections. But even Brum himself has given way before people that were not regarded as beggars; even he had to give way--not out of spite or ill-will, but through his kindness or generosity. One day, when we were both out begging, Brum surprised me with these words--"One beggar is quite enough in this street; let us go to another." I was quite surprised at these words, for I knew well that Brum would not have budged an inch if there were a dozen beggars in the street. But what surprised me more was that when I looked before and behind, I could not see anyone that could be mistaken for a beggar. "I don't see anyone," I said at last, looking at him for an explanation. "Don't you?" he asked. "Well, there she is, and good luck to her!" And to my astonishment he nodded towards a Sister of Charity. It would never have occurred to me to regard such a person as a beggar, but she certainly was; and it proved how kind-hearted and considerate Brum was to give way to her, so that she might have every opportunity to get what the street was worth.

I ought not to have been surprised to hear Brum say these words, for I had often heard him at the camps and elsewhere laud a certain Christian leader as "the greatest beggar that ever lived." To Brum this man was a perfect hero, whose prowess amazed him. Brum followed his career with as much interest as any man ever followed the doings of Napoleon; and every scrap of paper that came to hand, on which he saw the name of this Christian leader, was read and re-read by Brum, and commented on daily. In fact, Brum was never without two or three pieces of paper relating to "the greatest beggar that ever lived." "He does not beg a needle, a piece of thread, a cake, a sandwich, a pair of stockings, or a shirt," Brum would say, glancing with scorn at other beggars in the camp; "he knows nothing about our petty ways of doing business: he begs shiploads of provisions, wardrobes of clothes; aye, acres of land and barrels of money. And this man is an Englishman," Brum would add, with a slight sneer at any American beggars who happened to be present. The latter had to admit that their country had not yet produced so great a beggar.

Curly Jack, of England, had never met Brum and never heard of him, but he was of exactly the same opinion; but whereas Brum admired the man as a hero, Curly Jack abused him for his success. Whereas Brum was as delighted as a child to see his hero's banner in charge of a trusty officer, and to hear the band--Curly Jack no sooner saw or heard, than he slunk off in an opposite direction, scowling and muttering curses.

One Sunday morning Curly Jack and myself were in Northampton, and we had left the lodging-house together; after which we parted, he going down one street, while I went farther on, so as to give him plenty of room.

I did not find Northampton very bad, although the boot trade--its main industry--had been declining for a long time. In about half an hour I had several pennies over my bed money, also a quantity of food, so I thought I would get a newspaper and return to the lodging-house, and take it easy for the rest of the day.

As I was on my way back I saw Curly Jack going to a house, and waited--at his motion--until he was at liberty to come. "What luck, Jack?" I asked, when he came. "Very bad," he answered; "I was in a good street, where I have done well before, but twenty or thirty beggars have been there this morning before me, and played it out." These words surprised me not a little, and I asked him for an explanation. "There they are again," he cried, with an oath. I looked in every direction, but all I saw was three little children together, and one couple that appeared to be lovers. "Can't you hear the beggars?" he asked. "I hear the Salvation Army," I said; "surely you don't mean them!" "Of course I mean them," he answered, with some impatience. "What difference can they make?" I said, at a loss to understand him. "I should think their presence would be good for beggars--that they would open people's hearts." "Come with me, and I will show you how they spoil the street for a beggar," said Jack. And away we went.

In a few moments we were in the same street as the Salvation Army, and my companion walked boldly towards them, while I lingered a little behind. However, when I saw him standing near them, I joined him, and could not help but notice that several members of the Army rewarded our presence with smiles.

It was not long before I saw how the Salvation Army could spoil a street for a beggar. While the meeting was going on, several members not only went from house to house, but even begged passers-by--aye, even came to me and my seedy friend. "Now," said Curly Jack, as we were leaving--"now, are you satisfied? What chance has a beggar, be he ever so good, against these people? It will be impossible for the rest of the day to get a single penny in this street, or any other street that they have been to."

People will now be able to see, by these incidents, the great number of enemies a poor beggar has to contend with; enemies that would take the bread out of his mouth.

It is very true that in the green country beggars have a little dread of policemen and dogs, but in towns they fear more the annoyance of other callers, who are not beggars. One thing they dread very much, in towns of some size, is to be offered a ticket to introduce them to a charitable organization that professes to attend to their wants. True beggars know well what these organizations are. But sometimes the man who is looking for work is only too glad to receive this ticket--and he certainly gets plenty of work. He does about three shillings' worth of labour for a bed whose only virtue is cleanliness, and about threepenny worth of food. However, the poor fellow is well satisfied, because he is a very timid man, and he feels less shame in being made a slave than a beggar. He is only too glad to perform these tasks at every opportunity, but the true English beggar is a Briton that never will be a slave.

XXI

The Lowest State of Man

Some people think that a man cannot fall lower than to live in a common lodging-house; but men and women are occasionally met in London that are even stared at and pitied by those who live in such low places. The men and women of whom I speak would not be admitted into the lowest common lodging-houses in London. They are so ragged and filthy in appearance that if you gave one of them a sovereign it would be impossible to get a bed until an alteration was made in his or her appearance. Some of these have slept in their clothes so often and been outcasts so long that they are really without the least hope--not dejected for a few hours or days, as with others. Their dreams, if they have any, are recollections of days gone, but they have no hope in the future. Who has not seen them? Men and women in such a condition that if a man gives them a penny he has to avert his eyes; and the most kind-hearted women pass them by with as quick a glance as possible. There is only one place open to these poor wretches, and that is a Salvation Army shelter, where they pay twopence and sleep on the floor. They think nothing of suffering; one of them will sit on a seat, when it is raining hard, with the utmost indifference, and there may be an arch that he could reach in less than two minutes. So he gets wet and shivers all night, which is common for him.

I have seen a man of this description refused a bed at a Salvation Army lodging-house, and it did not take the officer many seconds to come to that conclusion. Of course, it is not often--perhaps half a dozen times in a year--that one of these poor people can afford to pay fourpence for a bed; but sometimes they have the good fortune to find a silver coin, or some gentleman gives it to them. If the latter is the case, the gentleman is probably a stranger in London, and comes from some happy new land where such extreme poverty is not known. One night, when I was at the office paying for my bed, I heard a man come in at the front door and stand behind me, but did not turn my head, thinking that he was one of the many lodgers that lived there. When I was about to leave I heard this man put down some money and tell the lieutenant that he wanted a bed. As I did not hear that officer make any answer, but rise from his stool instead to come out of the office, I turned my head, thinking something strange was about to happen. The lieutenant was soon out and standing before the would-be lodger, looking at him from head to foot. "I should think not," he said at last with an amused smile to think that the man had asked such a question. "We have no bed for _you_," he continued; "you had better go to the shelter in Blackfriars." The man was certainly a pitiful, even disgusting, sight. His hair was very long, and so was his beard; and the colour of his hands, his neck, and the hairless part of his face was almost black. His clothes were in tatters, showing his naked legs; his boots had no soles or heels, and the uppers were kept together with string. This poor fellow had either found a silver coin or had received it in charity; and, having slept in his clothes for months, he wanted them off for one night and the luxury of a warm bed. Not only that, but if this man had a bed, he would also have the use of the washhouse all the next day, with plenty of hot water to clean himself. But this was not to be, for the lieutenant was too keen-eyed. This poor fellow, who was so ambitious, did not seem at all surprised at the refusal, but picked up his money and walked out without a word. Perhaps he had been to other places with the same result, and would still go to others. The Christian officer watched him going, and, when he was gone, turned to re-enter his office. Seeing me standing there, a witness to what had happened, he said, "What a face!" and entered the office laughing--he, he, he!

Any person in London can see these poor wretches, who are in as low a state as it is possible to fall into. It is almost impossible to miss them, whether they are seated or walking, for if you are not looking their way you are almost certain of hearing strange sounds and having your attention drawn to them. They all talk to themselves, and laugh and swear; for cold nights and hunger have made them crazy to a great extent. Two of them are seldom seen together, for each one has just enough sense to know that he draws more attention than is good, without inviting more. Time is nothing to these; if they have enough bread to last the day, they are not likely to leave one particular seat. As a rule each one has a certain spot to spend the day, and, after being forced to walk all night, they return as soon as possible to their favourite place. It is in the early morning that they get their food, and where they get it is a secret each one keeps to himself. This secret is their living, and that is another cause why they should be reserved with one another. One of these men told me once that he knew a certain large private house where a paper parcel consisting of fragments of food was to be found every morning in the back alley, close to the ash-bin. This paper parcel had kept him for three years, but he had missed it several times. No doubt some stray beggar had found it on those occasions, but, not knowing that such a parcel was put there every morning, had never troubled to look for it again. When I heard this I could not help thinking how likely it was that something would happen to disappoint him; that the tenant's absence or death would alter such an arrangement. But I did not give the least hint of this, for I saw that the poor fellow thought he was sure of bread for life. He had not the least doubt but what the parcel would always be put there, and his only worry was that some other beggar would follow him and learn his secret, or discover the parcel by accident. In the winter this man spent all his days on one particular seat, when he could get it, and as near to it as possible when it was already taken. When I walked along the Embankment one morning, at nine o'clock, he was then seating himself. He had his paper parcel beside him, from which he had just taken a crust of bread. When I came back that way, at four o'clock in the afternoon, he was still there. Perhaps he would have a certain shady tree in one of the parks for his summer days.

None of these are beggars; they never go to houses or beg of people in the street, for they know that their appearance is so bad that they dare not draw more attention than people like to give them. Sometimes, not very often, a man has the courage to give them a coin, but no woman ever has. They are so surprised at receiving unsolicited charity that they forget to offer any thanks. The man whom I have just mentioned, who had a parcel of food every morning, would rather you passed him by without giving him money, for fear a policeman would see the act and accuse him of begging, and move him from his favourite seat. As I have said, most of them know places where they can get food without begging, outside large factories and elsewhere. They are seldom to be seen in private streets, because they do not beg houses.

I have often seen men standing outside large factories and workshops, waiting for the workmen, so as to get the food some of them have left from dinner and, being frugal husbands, are taking home; but who gladly give it to a man who they think wants it. These beggars generally ask a workman, when they see him with his food-tin, if he has anything left from dinner. Whether he has or not does not matter, for the question draws the attention of those that have, and in a few moments the beggar has enough for a couple of good meals. But these poor wretches, who have fallen so low in their appearance, have no need to speak at all, only to show themselves. For it is not only apparent to every eye that they are homeless, but it almost seems as if they never had homes. Such men are the only thorough outcasts, for whom nothing can be done. Neither the Salvation Army nor the Church Army will deal with them. And if one of these men went to the Charity Organization he would not be admitted inside the doors, much less receive the honour of being invited in and questioned. That particular Society would not be interested as to what his father did for a living or his grandfather's habits. In fact it does not need those hard, smart, detective qualities of charity officers to see that the date of social respectability must go back a very long way indeed in this man's past.

XXII

The Lodger Lover

A lodger gave him the name of "Cinders," and he took to it kindly. I was present in the kitchen on the day he arrived as a stranger, nameless and alone, as far as the other lodgers were concerned, for they did not know what name he had entered at the office. He was in rags and tatters, and "Rags" or "Tatters" should certainly have been his name. In fact the name was offered to him, but he returned an unsatisfactory stare. He was preparing his tea at the same table as "Punch," and the latter being in need of a pinch of salt, and seeing none of his friends at tea, asked this stranger to oblige him, saying: "Would you oblige me, 'Rags,' with a pinch of salt?" The man stared at "Punch" for a moment, and then walked away without giving an answer. He was at that time cooking a herring at the fire. Now it so happened that a few moments later this man was pouring out tea, when all at once there was a loud cry of "Whose herring is this?" The man turned quickly at the sound, and beheld his herring making a few spasmodic motions, as it dangled on a long wire. He immediately ran to the rescue, but alas! too late; for the tatters of his loose clothes encompassed him like a deadly plant, and when he arrived the herring was lying motionless under the grate. After great care he succeeded in bringing it to the light, covered with ashes and cinders. Still, with great care, he washed it and, after placing it flat on a plate, returned it to the fire. "I hope you do not blame me for that accident, 'Cinders,'" said kind-hearted "Punch." "Oh, no," answered the man newly named "Cinders." "'Cinders' has too much sense for that," said "Red-Nosed Scotty," who happened to be sitting near. "Whose teapot is this?" cried the kitchen-man, who was about to build the coke fire, and wanted all food and teapots removed. "It belongs to 'Cinders,'" said a number of voices. From that day to this his name is "Cinders," owing to the accident to his herring when he first came. If he was arrested, it would be--"'Cinders' is in jail"; and if he died it would be--"'Cinders' is dead."

If a man who goes to live in a common lodging-house does not utter his own name in a very short time, the lodgers will give him one. Brown had a large nose, and would most certainly have been named "Nosey," had he not on the first day recorded a simple anecdote of his childhood, in which he had cause to call himself William Brown.

I remember the day well, when the "Dodger"--a man who gladly helped others to spend their earnings on ale and, when they sat penniless and hungry, sat himself down alone to beefsteak and onions--I remember the day well when this man caused a never-to-be-forgotten sensation in the lodging-house kitchen. A letter was at the office for Algernon Dudley, and the manager had been in the kitchen several times in quest of that gentleman. It was near seven o'clock in the evening when he came into the kitchen for the fifth time and cried--"Is Algernon Dudley here?" "Yes," answered a man in the corner, and coming quickly forward. All eyes turned towards him, and who do you think Algernon Dudley was? No other than the common "Dodger." "Fatty," who claimed to be a fighting man, whom no man had ever succeeded in knocking down, said, in conversation to Brown, "You could have knocked me down with a feather."

Brown's remarks on this occasion were very sensible, as they usually were. "It was, is, and always will be the custom," said he, "for a woman that gives birth to a child to name it. For this reason she is no sooner on the trot again than she begins scheming to that end. Now," continued Brown, "we must not picture the 'Dodger' as he is--God help him!--but as he was, a child in the arms of a doting woman. Such was the case, and has been the same with others, including ourselves, and will always be. Now this poor woman--some people would call her foolish--no doubt had great respect for the 'Dodger' as a babe and, to distinguish him from the common race of mankind, named him in such a manner as we have just heard. Perhaps I am right, perhaps I am wrong; but if the true facts of the case were known, you would probably find that I was not far from the truth. In spite of all this, I quite agree with our friend's remark, that it fills us with astonishment." The "Dodger" had lived in the house for more than two years, when this incident caused so many comments.

But let us return to the man "Cinders," for that gentleman was no helpless wreck in a doss-house; he was really a gay spirit and capable of love. He was a man with a long, melancholy face, seeing no humour in life and, if the truth must be told, he was positively ugly. Yet this man "Cinders" had been seen on several occasions walking the streets with a woman on his arm. One of the lodgers said her looks were passable, and another said that they were more than passable compared to "Cinders." Brown had seen them together and, said he, "Although a man ought to believe his own eyes, I would never believe such to be the case, had not 'Cinders' said, 'Good night, Mr. Brown.' And if a man is not to believe both eyes and ears, then what is he to believe?"

Of course, there could be no union between these poor souls; for she was in service, and he did odd jobs at the market, earning a shilling, or a little more on lucky days. As the manager said, it was amusing and could not amount to anything serious. They could go on walking arm in arm all their lives, for they would never be able to marry and walk apart.

This courtship had been the talk of the house for over three months when, one night, it was brought to an end in a strange manner. "Cinders" and his love had been all the evening in the "Borough" drinking ale. He, seeing some smoked haddock, fancied some for his supper and, after making a purchase, rejoined his fair companion. It was near midnight when it suddenly occurred to "Cinders" that the manager closed the house at twelve p.m., and if he--"Cinders"--was not there by that time, he would be out for the night. Reminding his lady of this, they both started for home, her road lying the same way as his. The manager was just closing the door when "Cinders" arrived.

Now, goodness knows what demon put it into this woman's head to cook her lover's fish, but this she seemed determined to do. "I am coming in to cook your supper," said she. "No," said the manager, "this is a house for men only, and we do not allow women to enter. Not only that, the kitchen is now closed, and I would not open it again for 'Cinders' or any other man. He will have to go supperless to bed, or seek lodgings elsewhere." The lady then started to abuse the manager in a loud voice, but that gentleman, not heeding her, caught "Cinders" by the shoulders, saying, "Go to bed, you old fool," at the same time shutting the door in the lady's face.

The next morning, when "Cinders" was cooking his haddock, the manager lectured him severely on what had occurred the previous night; telling him that if he could afford to keep a lady cook he must seek better lodgings. Brown, who happened to be within hearing, gave evidence that he distinctly heard a woman's voice say, "I am going to cook his fish," but thought he must be dreaming. Even now he believed it was all a dream, and he would like to hear the truth from the manager's own lips, as to whether it was an actual fact or not. On being told that it was, Brown turned his eyes towards "Cinders" and, seeing that gentleman hold down his head in wordless shame, Brown was forced to believe it all. Probably that was the end of their courtship, for they were never seen together after that.

XXIII

The Handy Man

The handy man is to be found in all places where men are either too poor to pay for professional experience, or, not being so poor, yet live in out-of-the-way camps which women have never visited, and which are too temporary for tradesmen to open business. The former places are common lodging-houses, where the handy man volunteers his services as laundryman, cook, tailor, cobbler, barber, etc. In fact, according to his boasted qualifications, it would be far more interesting to learn what he cannot do than what he can. He has learnt all these trades with his eye, and, when about to practise, his confidence is unshaken. Says he, "I will shave you, and you will not feel the razor going over your face." And when he covers your face with blood he blames pimples, which you never had, and expects to be thanked for removing them; for in addition to shaving you, has he not also performed a successful surgical operation?