Chapter XXIX: A First Night in a Lodging-house 222 (6)

A little originality converts a common beggar into a great one. When I was in the Welsh hills, where common lodging-houses were scarce, I found a house to my liking, and, seeing that there were a number of good-sized towns near, within three or four miles, determined to make it my quarters for a month or more, and thoroughly work the country around. I was selling laces at the time, and on my visit to one of the towns, I had remarkably good luck. Seeing a long street, I called at every house and received in all one shilling and twopence for my trouble, with the sale of four pairs of laces, which cost me less than twopence. I mentioned this to a fellow-lodger, who had been staying at the house for several days. When at his request I described the position of the street, he said, with a quiet smile: "I got eight shillings and sixpence out of that street." "What were you selling?" I asked, thinking he must be in a large way of business, and wondering why he lived at a common lodging-house. "Nothing," he answered, to my amazement; "it was all profit." This made me curious, for I knew that he, being a man apparently unafflicted and in good health, could not be very successful as a plain beggar. Before we went to bed this man gave me a letter to read, and in this letter it said that he was one of the strikers at M----, and that he had a wife and four children to maintain, and ended with a polite and dignified request for assistance. With this letter he did his business, simply handing it to whoever answered the door, with the request that they would take it in and read it. His time was night, when the whole family were at home, probably two or three working sons and the father; and when he could go from door to door without attracting notice.

Who could insult this man with a common penny? No doubt two or three people that had given me pennies refused this more ambitious man; but others, who thought a penny quite enough for me, gave him sixpence or a shilling. The letter--what originality! It did not give a servant chance to dismiss him, for she had no suspicion of his wants; and it did not give one of the family power to speak for all. And yet, in spite of knowing these tricks, I still continued the far less profitable traffic in laces.

XXIX

A First Night in a Lodging-house

I have lived so full a life that I forgot, till lately, an incident that other men would, if it was their experience, talk about till the end of their days; for it was at that time that I first became acquainted with common lodging-houses and shelters. It was when I was young, twenty years of age, and had just finished my apprenticeship, that I paid my fare to London, and then had five weeks' experience of the worst side of life. When I arrived in London, I had a gold sovereign and a few shillings; and, being full of hope, like all young people, went to a small hotel, had a good meal, and paid two shillings and sixpence for my bed. At this rate I was soon bankrupt, and then commenced my experience of real life; for I was soon hungry and walking the streets at night. But on the first night I had the good fortune to be assisted by a gentleman who, seeing me standing under an arch, asked a few questions and then gave me sixpence. This was my first experience of acute hunger, and it so frightened me that when day came, and I had had a cup of tea and a slice of bread and butter, I bought half a pennyworth of stationery and a stamp and sent home for money, having the reply addressed to a post office in the Strand. The following day I received a letter with a postal order for twenty shillings. A few days had taught me much, and I was now determined to spend no more half-crowns on beds, but to make this money last as long as possible. So I asked a ragged man what was the cheapest bed I could get, and he said fourpence, but that I could get a bunk at the Salvation Army shelter for twopence. Leaving him I went in quest of a fourpenny lodging-house in the East End, and soon found one. That was my first experience in a common lodging-house, but I cannot say that at that time the experience filled me with anything like horror. I was young and romantic, and felt proud in having such a strange experience, which I could talk about when I would be in a better position, to people's amazement. However, I only stayed there three nights, because I saw that I would soon be hungry again, if I did not seek cheaper lodgings. So I made enquiries about a Salvation Army shelter, and was soon inside one in Ratcliff Highway. I did not think this place quite so romantic as the common lodging-house, for here were so many men that not one could be seated with comfort, and these men were more ragged and dirtier.

Now, at this time I was a pure-minded youth, who had been a chapel-goer, by compulsion 'tis true; and I thought the world was divided into two classes--the wicked, who never went to a place of worship, and the good, who went every Sunday at least. I had never given it a thought what a hypocrite was, and that people would go to church or chapel from other motives than religion. For this reason what surprised and shocked me most at this shelter was to hear the Salvation Army soldiers using bad language. I could hardly believe my ears, when I heard them, even on Sunday, before and after a meeting in which they had prayed and sung.

The bunks in this shelter were on the floor, and contained a mattress covered with leather, and a leather quilt. This was quite sufficient for warmth, for every man lay in his clothes, and so many men together made the air warm and very foul. Each bunk was about six feet long, two feet and a half wide, and six inches in height. I need hardly say that I soon got homesick; and when I heard a couple of sailors say that they were going to South Wales to look for a ship, I at once offered to accompany them. Luckily for me these two sailors were good cadgers, having often tramped across country to different seaports, so that I was not likely to starve in their company. The next morning, when I told them I had a silver shilling left, and took their advice to spend it on ale and tobacco, they promised with many oaths that I should not want for food on the road. But I only accompanied them a little more than half-way, and then left them; for they, having no sure prospects, were not inclined to tax their walking strength to the utmost. My last stage was over sixty miles, with only one stop, and that was nine miles from home. It was then night, and I met a policeman who wanted to know where I was going. "Home," I answered, and added the name of the town. I began to feel a bit tired now, and sat on a bank for a few moments' rest, after which I rose and continued my way. But I had hardly gone twenty yards when I met a policeman again, who said: "Hallo! what are you doing here? I thought you were going home?" "So I am," I answered, quite bewildered. "You are going away from it," he said; "you have walked back two miles from where I met you before." When I had sat on the bank I must have fallen asleep, and, waking, did not know in the dark but what I was going right. However, at that time these experiences only made romance. The truth is that as long as the young do not feel actual hunger, they care little for other things. And I was very fortunate in these few weeks, for I was never forced to beg. The two sailors not only fed me, but, when I left them, gave me as much food as I was likely to want on my way home. It was years after, when I began to feel literary ambition and wanted privacy, that I experienced the horror of being mixed with thirty or forty men in a small lodging-house kitchen.

One day, when I had been in a common lodging-house for a considerable time, I met a man in Hyde Park, who had lately come from the country, and was now come to his last shilling, after selling whatever he had of value. Hearing this, I could do no other than take him to the lodging-house where I lived. I gathered from his conversation that he had no idea of such places. Now it happened that I was living in a very low-class house in Blackfriars, whose inmates were not only very poor and ragged, but rough and brutal; so, when I began to think of this, I almost repented of my offer to take charge of him. However, it was too late now, so on we went, and were soon at the house. When we entered the kitchen there were three of the worst lodgers quarrelling, and not only drunk, but with a can full of beer on the table. What must have been this man's thoughts, who had only just left a good home? for he had been telling me about his mother and sisters. I told him to sit down and wait until I returned from shopping, after which we would have tea. I was away less than ten minutes, for there were several shops near, but when I came back he had gone. Speaking to one of the lodgers about him, I was told that he had followed me out, close at my heels. I never saw him again. I believe that he was so disgusted with his strange surroundings that he started for home at once, although it was a hundred miles away. His feelings must have been very strong, seeing that he had already paid for his bed, and that sum was now lost to him. I have often wondered what must have been his final opinion of me, to whom he had entrusted his confidence. Perhaps he thought that I had decoyed him there to be robbed of his very clothes. The place must have seemed horrible to him, with its dark, underground kitchen, no woman there, and nothing, except a cat, to make it appear like a home.

Of course, I am speaking now of the very lowest lodging-houses--houses that are seldom written about; for journalists choose better-class lodging-houses for their visits. Some time ago, I read an account of a journalist going to spend one night in a lodging-house. He explained how he pocketed his briar pipe, and took a common clay one, and how he dirtied his face and hands. Now it happened that the house he went to was a superior lodging-house where he would see a number of men with silk hats and watches and chains. In fact, this innocent journalist made himself ill-looking enough for a fourpenny lodging-house, and I would not have been surprised if he had been refused a bed at the house to which he went. After reading his account I have come to the conclusion that he did not visit the place at all.

Speaking of journalistic work, I know a book that describes low life in London, with pictures taken from life. When I look at one picture I see a man and a woman with a handcart loaded with household furniture. These two are leaving a house at night, for they owe rent. But when I look closer still, I recognize both the man and the woman; and I know that the former has been in a lodging-house for twenty years, during which time he never had furniture. I also know that the woman has not for thirty years had cause to do what the picture represents. Of course, this does not matter, for such things are to be seen--but the picture was not taken from real life. The picture was taken by day, when people do not make "moonlight flits"; and at night--which the scene represents--the great journalist was sleeping in his luxurious home.

XXX

Gentleman Bill

A man may not only play many parts in life, but sometimes even his real character undergoes a change and conforms to his surroundings. Such was the case with Gentleman Bill. When he first came to our lodging-house he was a quiet, modest man, who was almost too timid to hazard a suggestion on the most common subjects; but in less than three months conceit and importance was so thrust upon him that he was almost too proud to walk. I was a witness of this development of a new character, right from the beginning, and saw that Bill was not in any way to blame; but that the ignorance of his associates shoved him, in spite of his modesty, shoulder-high above themselves. Bill, it appeared to me, had mixed, ere his downfall, with people who were his equal, and not a few of whom were his superior--hence his modesty when he first came to our house as a needy lodger.

He was seen to be a very quiet man, always reading newspapers or books, or walking silently up and down the kitchen in deep thought. For a month or more the lodgers took very little notice of him, but when his appearance had grown familiar to them, they began to ask his opinion on different subjects--cooking, physic, the nutritious value of foods, the meaning of words, the use of the House of Lords, and many other interesting things. These questions were answered by Bill in such a high-flown manner, as became a great reader, that really his hearers were little the wiser, and came to the conclusion that Bill's knowledge was far too deep for them. The lodgers were so awestruck at Bill's easy delivery of unusual words that they could not grasp the underlying thought. It was not long before he became so puffed with his own importance, and so eager to express his opinions, that he did not wait an invitation to join in a conversation, but stood in the middle of the kitchen and spoke in such a masterly way that some of the lodgers thought that he was an ex-M.P. He was not satisfied with giving his own opinions, but quoted poets, philosophers, lawyers, and statesmen; and the lodgers at last became so impressed that they sought him all over the house to hear him settle an argument. One morning Little Brum actually took a cup of tea to Gentleman Bill, while the latter was in bed, so as to get him down to settle a dispute which was likely to make the principals lose a morning's work.

It was not long before Bill had to pay the penalty of being so important, for some of the more simple lodgers began to ask him such idiotic questions that Bill, who up to the present had never been at a loss for a word, could do little more than stand dumb with amazement. For instance, one day a poor simple fellow asked the following question: "Is it right to post a letter to-day that was written yesterday?" An Irishman asked him the belief of the laity, and whether they were for or against the Pope of Rome. Another had heard that an egg boiled too hard could be again boiled soft, and wanted to know if it could be boiled to recover its first raw state. Poor Bill began to lose patience and grumble, saying that he could not be expected to know everything. The lodgers would not allow him peace to have a cup of tea, to shave, wash, or read.

I happened to be sleeping in the same room as Bill, a large room with seven beds to accommodate seven men. Early one morning, about three o'clock, I was in that half-wakeful state when a man turns his body over in sleep, and thought I heard voices. Curiosity getting the better of sleep, I listened, and sure enough the man in the next bed to Bill was asking him a number of questions. The questions must have interested Bill, for he immediately sat up in bed and began a long talk. When I fell asleep he was still sitting up and talking, and I did not wonder that he was a late riser.

On one occasion there was a terrible fuss in the house, and a lodger called Bill a damned conspirator. It seemed that the man had claimed a letter at the office which did not belong to him. When the clerk received letters he wrote the surnames on a sheet of paper, which he placed in the window. The Christian names were kept secret, so that he could question applicants about them, this being the only plan of placing letters in the right hands. Where there were such a number of men there were certain to be several of the name of Smith, Jones, Brown, and other common names. So when one morning the clerk received a letter for William Henry, he added the surname to his list. Reading the list of names a simple lodger, whose Christian name was Henry, made application for the said letter. The clerk got the letter and, glancing at the envelope, made his usual enquiry, "Your Christian name?" Now it happened that the man did not know the meaning of this question, and to be on the safe side he gave his full name, which was Henry Brown. The clerk lost patience at Brown's simplicity and said, "This letter is not for you; your Christian name is Henry, but the man to whom this letter belongs is surnamed Henry." The dissatisfied and unconvinced lodger left the office and sought Gentleman Bill, whom he found and consulted. Bill went into a long discourse as to the origin of surnames, but the lodger cut him short by asking what right the clerk had to place his name on the list and not give up the letter. It was no use for Bill to try to explain the difference between surnames and Christian names, and he was no more successful than the clerk, although he took fifty times the time and words. The upshot of it was that the infuriated lodger called Bill a damned conspirator, whereas Bill also lost his calmness and called the lodger a fool.

How Bill was spoilt by so much consultation was made apparent to me by a little incident that escaped the notice of others. He had been having a glass or two of ale, and, coming into the kitchen with his book, which was a grammar, seated himself comfortably at the fire. The effect of the ale, the heat of the fire, and the inactive state of his body, soon made Bill bow his head to the table, and in a minute or two he was fast asleep. I happened to be sitting near him at the time, and was taken by surprise to hear his voice. Thinking he was addressing me I turned, but saw that he was fast asleep and talking to himself. All at once I heard him say, as distinctly as though he had been awake, "What I need is a silk hat and a frock-coat"; meaning, of course, that if he had those things, for the sake of appearance, his knowledge, conversation, and manners would be the making of him.

On one or two occasions I had the honour of being consulted by Bill--of which I am very proud, for he did not consider any other man in the house able to teach him anything. I had always managed to satisfy him with my remarks, but when he approached me one night, with his grammar book in his hand, and asked me if I knew anything about the infinitive split, the question almost took my breath away. Certainly I had heard of it, heard enough to know that it was to be avoided as a subject of argument, or it would soon worry a man to a shadow. I told Bill at once that I could not enlighten him, and advised him not to worry over it. This advice was not taken, for he bought two more cheap second-hand grammar books, and still could not get on the track of the infinitive split. In less than three weeks his voice was low and weak, his face became haggard and thin, his hair lay uncombed on his forehead, and his bones began to show their shape under the skin. He was not even civil in those days, and no longer felt the importance of being consulted. He requested the lodgers not to bother him, that he had other things on his mind, and far more trouble than he could contend with.

Yes. Bill was a nice fellow when he first came to the house, modest and unassuming; he was also interesting to hear when he became confident and assertive; but after he fell foul of the infinitive split, he became a man to be avoided, and his curt answers made many a man frown.

XXXI

Fallacies Concerning Beggars

There are quite a number of fallacies, concerning beggars, which are sadly in need of contradiction, so that these much-misunderstood men may stand in their innocence before the public. They do not mark houses, as is commonly supposed; they do not spend the money of charity on drink; they do not possess hidden hoards; and they have as much dread of meeting women in lonely places as the latter have of meeting them.

In the first place, why should they mark houses? If you enter a common lodging-house in the country, you will find, on making enquiry, that two out of three beggars have been there before, and know from past experience one or more good houses; but they would rather share their spoils with you than show these houses, or explain their where-abouts. Beggars, however good-natured they may be in a lodging-house, are all selfish on this one point. They always live in expectation of future benefits from those houses, and it is not likely that they will risk spoiling them by giving information to others who may not approach them in a proper manner, or may even be impudent. If you ever see a house marked you may be sure that it is by one of a family, who are working different parts of the town, and who will change about on the following days. Private people seem to know more of this matter than beggars, for, after visiting more than a hundred lodging-houses, and hearing the conversation of thousands of beggars, I have not heard one whisper of a marked house.

Another belief is that beggars possess secret hoards. Because people in years of reading have seen two or three accounts of cases of this kind, they are under the impression that half the beggars that approach them are misers that would rather beg than buy. Now good beggars will still work on the public feeling with three or four shillings' worth of coppers in their pockets, but you could search the first thousand you met and be very unlikely to find gold. The most persistent beggars will often beg hard until they have saved a few shillings, after which they feel justified in taking a much-deserved rest, and are often to be seen idling for a couple of days in a town that is no good for begging, but where the accommodation of the lodging-house is excellent.

Another fallacy is that they are eager to molest women and children. It is a mystery how these charges can be made against them, for few cases of the kind get into the papers. The only way to account for this belief is that all undiscovered violence and petty crime is put down to be the work of tramps, and the papers are only too eager to take such a view. When a man fell from his bicycle, trying to avoid running over an old deaf tramp, the local press thought it would make better copy to say that the man was knocked off his bicycle by a vicious tramp, much to the surprise of the man himself.

Again, a tramp does not like to meet a woman in a lonely place, and he often whistles loudly so as to encourage her not to faint, and he never forgets to give her plenty of room to pass, and nothing annoys him more than to see timid children run into their houses at his approach. A tramp likes to have women answer the door to him, when they have the confidence of being surrounded by neighbours; but when it comes to the open air, women are a nuisance to him, and he would be glad if no women walked abroad. He can approach his own sex and speak, but he is afraid of being within ten feet of a woman's nerves.

Then there is the fallacy that he is spending money on drink, because he is seen going in or out of a public-house. People do not know that he enters as a beggar, not as a customer, and that he often gets tipsy because beer is often easier to beg than bread or pennies. I have seen hundreds of beggars drunk who had not spent one penny on drink. On a Saturday night, almost every man in a common lodging-house is drunk, and often against his wish. All beggars know that they can do almost as well on a Saturday night by telling their tales in public-houses, as they can by calling at private houses all through the week; and in doing so they get drunk on free drinks, without having spent one of the many pennies they have received from customers.

Another fallacy is that beggars are the authors of so many deeds of barn-burning, theft, and assaults on women who could not recognize their assailants in the dark. It is quite a common thing to hear tramps in a common lodging-house say, "Tramps, of course, will be blamed for this," when one of them reads aloud of an undiscovered crime. Sometimes the real culprits are at last found, and though they are not strange tramps, but people of the locality, yet no one thinks of apologizing for the unjust suspicion on tramps.

They do not often burn hayricks for spite, as is commonly supposed. They may accidentally burn one through smoking. It should be understood that they are very careful not to do so, or they would have to walk until they were miles away, and would rob themselves of a comfortable night's rest. No, farmers have jealous neighbours and discontented labourers, who are worse enemies than strange tramps. Idle threats, due to irritation, are generally the extent of their crime. Is it likely that a beggar who has been refused food at a house will hide somewhere and nurse vengeance for hours, so that he may break into it or set fire to it at night? He is hungry, and he must travel on in search of food, and he will at last meet with success; and there is not a man in the world more innocent of acts of crime than he is then, when his empty body is satisfied. He forgets all past unkindness, and the household that he has threatened to murder has passed out of his recollection for ever.

People should know that tramps talk aloud to themselves, owing to being so much alone. Therefore, when a woman refuses a tramp on the score of a husband doing little work, and the said tramp goes away muttering, she must not at once come to the conclusion, as she always does, that he is cursing her; for it is more than likely that he is cursing some cause he imagines has placed her in such a helpless position.

There is one thing against a beggar that has been witnessed so often that it would be folly to dispute the truth of it, which is that he throws food away. Although he cannot be altogether justified, yet an explanation of the real facts may go far to make people sympathize with his dilemmas.

People seldom take into consideration that he needs a bed, and they would often rather give him two-penny-worth of food than a halfpenny in money. Now a beggar knows that if he asks at a house point-blank for money, nothing will he get; or, occasionally a woman will say, "I will give you something to eat." For that reason he always asks for food, and then gets an odd penny here and there--which he would not get if he asked for money. But it is often necessary to beg so much food in getting a few coppers for his lodging and a little tea and tobacco, that he soon gets encumbered with more food than he can hide or eat. In this case he cannot continue begging--which he must, or go into the workhouse--so he throws the food away and continues to beg more of it, in the hope of getting money for his bed. But very few beggars ever threw food away without feeling regret that they had to do so. It is for this reason that so many beggars carry a few cheap trifles, such as pins, needles, laces, or some self-made novelty. With these things they are sure of getting money for their lodging, and, while doing so, beg food from those that will not buy.

I hope by these explanations to have made a beggar worthy of kinder consideration, and proved his to be a character to be loved and respected. Henceforth let no lady be afraid to walk a lonely road without a dog, for her presence is dreaded by a tramp, however beautiful she may be. The tramp has not Tommy Atkins's eye for female beauty.

Let no total abstainer, who has given a beggar a penny, and sees him enter a public-house, think that the penny goes for beer, for a beggar is more likely to go in to beg instead of buy.

Think not because you have read of one case where a beggar was arrested and found to have considerable money sewn in his clothes, that every beggar you meet has saved money.

Think not because a beggar was seen in the morning to pass a barn that was burned to the ground that same night, that he was the guilty one. A burning barn would not feed his body, and he would not remain there long enough to warm his feet and dry his socks.

And if you still believe that beggars mark houses, go to the window and watch every one that leaves, and you are likely to be a great many years before you catch one in the act of doing so. Houses _are_ marked, but in nine cases out of ten children are the guilty ones.

XXXII

Lady Tramps

Almost all tramps who travel alone object to women in a common lodging-house. Even the landlord of such a place soon learns from experience that women take out in accommodation the worth of their money, for they make the place too much of a home. If they are bad wives they are continually squabbling with their husbands, or scolding their children; if they are good wives they are always cooking, or covering the limited number of seats and tables with sewing material, or surrounding the fire with newly washed clothes; and the poor bachelor, who is more indifferent to cleanliness, and often prefers a slice of bacon quickly done to the labour of cooking vegetable meals--this poor bachelor complains not only that he cannot get near the fire, but that there is not enough room on the tables to lay his food, which is not often the truth.

As for the landlords, they are becoming more bitter every day, and these unfortunate women now find it so difficult to get lodgings, that they dare not visit any town haphazard, but must make enquiries of their fellow travellers as to accommodation for women. Often they hear, to their disappointment, of houses that formerly lodged women being changed into houses for men only. And if these women have children, matters are still worse, for they are objected to on that account. It is therefore not the least wonder that when a man, his wife, and two or more children, succeed in being lodged, they are loth to leave that town until they have tapped it thoroughly--north, south, east, and west, house and shop; and sometimes they remain so long in that one town--perhaps three months or more--that their faces become known, and they are not supposed to belong to a tribe of wanderers. It is in the summer months, when the nights are warm, and they are independent of lodging-houses, that they prove themselves to be true travellers.

Perhaps it is because women are so much better beggars than men that they are disliked both by bachelor beggars and lodging-house keepers. The former know well that if a woman once starts in a street, she will carry all before her--money, clothes, and food; and the landlords know that a woman is so successful that she is soon back again in the lodging-house; in fact she is often there twenty-three hours out of the twenty-four. Whereas the man, however good a beggar he may be, is absent several hours in a day, for he not only takes much longer than a woman to earn a living, but he is fond of standing at street corners, and sometimes he visits a library. The woman is instinctively inclined to make the place a home, but the man more often uses it simply as a place wherein to eat and sleep.

The woman, whether she has little ones or not, is always believed when she claims to have a family, and she receives wearing apparel for them, and food. The former she sells cheaply to the poor but more respectable class of people that live in the locality of cheap lodging-houses. But the man can never do business with children in the spirit; he needs them in the flesh at his side, or he is not believed to be a father.

After a woman has been on the road a little time and become familiar with lodging-houses and begging, she finds little difficulty in maintaining a husband that will neither work, beg, nor steal--especially if she has a child for the poor fellow to look after; to wheel in a box, when he must take great care to stop in front of the house where his wife is. The most hard-hearted cannot withhold their charity, for the child's sake. As soon as the man hears the front door open, he must become very interested in his offspring, and move in a circle round the box, trying to make the child more comfortable. His solicitude is almost certain of reward, for the lady of the house cannot fail to see this, and her tender heart overflows in pity for the whole family. "Whatever his faults are," thinks she, "he undoubtedly has a father's feeling for the poor child." Of course the father is as fond of his child as any other father would be, and he would do anything in reason for it--anything, except work.

Another objection lodging-house keepers have to women lodgers is that when they begin a quarrel they are so long in bringing it to an end, especially if under the influence of drink. Whereas in the case of men it is often a short violent tussle of two or three minutes--fifteen minutes would be unusual for two untrained men--and that is the end of it, for neither one has a wish to renew hostilities. It is all over before a constable can be found, much less dragged unwillingly to the battle ground.

"Yes," I heard one lady lodger say to a landlord, who had threatened to eject her for speaking her mind--"Yes," said she, "and if I had Liverpool Nora and Brummagem Sal at my side, instead of this"--pointing to her husband--"we would soon see who's who in a very short time." Some time after I had the pleasure of meeting Liverpool Nora, and my opinion is that if Brummagem Sal was as high-spirited and brawny as that lady, well, it would be folly to aggravate them singly, much less the twain.

There is one man who favours the presence of women, and that is the true working-man, who is travelling for work, and after paying his last few coppers for a bed, sits hungry in the lodging-house kitchen, for he is a poor beggar indeed. As a rule the men are indifferent, but these women always guess his secret and pity him. They watch, and if they see no sign of food cooked, or to be cooked, it is not long before he is asked to have a basin of broth or stew, and, if he accepts, the other women--being now correct in their surmises--supply him with bread. In fact, after this initial movement, he is certain of a full stomach as long as he remains at that particular house. Many a poor fellow would have gone supperless to bed, and begun another weary day's march without breakfast, were it not for some thoughtful and unselfish beggar woman in a lodging-house kitchen.

Now, as I have said, five women under the influence of drink are less likely to go quietly to bed than twenty or thirty men in the same condition, and that is the landlord's one just objection to female lodgers. With regard to his other objections they are of little account; for, though these women are in the kitchen almost the whole day, continually using the cooking utensils and the fire, do they not wash the former and keep the latter's hearth clean? If he had all male lodgers he would have to keep a man or woman to do these things, or either he or his wife be kept busy; for no lodger, whether it be man, woman, or child, can be expected to do these things themselves, after paying for accommodation. The truth of the matter is that these landlords are like a good many others--they want both rent and possession; and it is the limited number of these places--especially for families--that makes these men so independent.

Sometimes, where the accommodation is outrageously bad, the woman lodger stores her resentment until it serves her purpose, and, the morning she is going away, she will often make an hour's delay to tell the landlord her opinion of his place, and he never likes to hear the truth; whereas men come and go, and are not so particular.

On one occasion I had the pleasure of hearing Irish Molly speak her mind to a landlord who begrudged coke for the kitchen fire, making it necessary for lodgers to bring in pieces of wood, picked up in the streets. Molly, her husband, and two children, had been here for two weeks, and, having thoroughly begged the town and its surrounding districts, were to seek fresh quarters on the morrow. But Molly swore the night before that she would not leave until she told the landlord what she thought of him. At nine o'clock on the following morning, they were ready to leave, and in spite of the husband's hurry to be off, Molly would not budge until she saw the lodging-house keeper. At last that gentleman entered the kitchen, and Molly at once rose to her feet, and set on him like a fury. For a moment the man was astonished, and tried to pacify her, but failing to do so, he hurriedly left the kitchen, and took refuge in his private room. Irish Molly at once followed and, standing outside, emphasized her words with her fists on the door. For ten minutes she hammered and abused, and the men and women in the kitchen encouraged her with their laughter. "I shall send for a constable," shouted the landlord from behind the door. "Send for fifty," cried Molly. "I shall have you locked up," he shouted. "Come out, and be knocked down," cried she.

Now it happened that Molly's husband and two children had stood waiting at the front door all this time. More than once he had asked her impatiently if she was coming, and at last, receiving no answer, went away with the children. Love in Molly's bosom was stronger than revenge, for she at once prepared to follow them. But, wishing to give the lodging-house keeper a new specimen of her powers, she sang him one verse of a ditty, beginning, "O, I am waiting for you, love." After which she danced the chorus down the wooden passage, arriving at the front door just in time to give it the final high kick.

XXXIII

Meeting Old Friends

It is a great pleasure to have a sharp eye and a clear memory for people we have met years ago, if only for a few minutes, and try to remember the condition under which they were met. For this reason I always enjoy a day in London, for I am sure to meet some strange characters that surprised or amused me in days gone by. These people do not know me. Perhaps their eyesight is not so good as mine, or their memories are not so clear. Moreover, they do not study character, and one man to them is much the same as another, with only the difference of outward appearance.

When I met a man the other day in Fleet Street, I touched him lightly on the shoulder and said, "Have a drink?" "Certainly," he answered, looking at me very hard; "but I don't remember meeting you before." After we had drunk part of our beer, I asked him if he had read anything of the scandal in high life, which the papers were then making much of. Now I had only met this man once, and that had been years before, in a common lodging-house in Blackfriars Road. On that occasion he had laid claim in fierce tones to the very purest French blood, and had laughed to scorn the blood of our English aristocracy. As soon as I mentioned this scandal in English high life, the man immediately began in his old manner to compare the blood of England to that of France, and proved to me at once that he had the same subject for his delight.

After I left him I wandered into the Embankment Gardens, and there I saw a very ragged man sleeping on a seat. I recognized him at once, in spite of a great change in appearance. He was the man whom I met at a superior lodging-house, who hid himself when a celebrated Duchess was brought there to see the place. He told me, after she had gone, that he had been valet to the Duke, but that the lady had never liked him, and had at last succeeded in getting him dismissed. At that time he looked healthy, clean, and was well dressed, but he did not want the Duchess to see him in a lodging-house. Suppose she saw him now, ragged, dirty, and without a house of any kind.

In the same house I knew many other queer characters, whom I often meet now. There was the man that starved on a small allowance made by his brother, and knew so much about finance and yet could make no money. Occasionally he received a few shillings for an article on finance, but he had hard work to keep body and soul together.

Another strange character was Darky. This man had read verses to every one of the four hundred regular lodgers at the house, and hardly one stranger that came there for a single night escaped without hearing him. Seeing that every lodger in the house knew him for a poet, I had the good sense to confide in no one; for I knew that the dignity of a poet had suffered for all time, as far as this house was concerned. Darky had written an ode to the man who founded this class of lodging-house, and had received personal thanks. The Boer War kept him busy day and night, as it also did many another poet, but poor Darky could not make sixpence for one night's lodging. He had also written lines on his sister's death, which I am sorry to say he read to every stranger that would listen. He always ended by cursing his brother-in-law, that he would not--although a successful undertaker, that could have got the job done cheap--have the lines engraved on the tombstone.

I have also lately met the old-time actor, who used to borrow pennies of me, and always paid them back. One night, when I was playing a game of draughts, this old actor came and sat beside me to whisper. "I am in great difficulty," he said hurriedly; "lend me a shilling till to-morrow noon." Now a shilling was a large sum to me, and even a penny was more than I could afford to lose; for a man, however honest his intentions may be, can never be sure of paying his debts. Seeing my thoughtful expression, he said, "You shall have my watch and chain for security; I would rather let you have it than the pawnshop." A watch, thought I, is worth redeeming for a shilling, even if it is out of repair and only common metal--without a question of the chain. I did not like anyone to see our transaction, for I felt a shame in taking a security. In fact he was more careful than I was. So I slipped the shilling into his hand and received in mine something smooth, large, and round, twice the size of an ordinary watch. This manoeuvring was done with our hands under the table, but I took a swift glance downward to inspect the watch before putting it into my pocket. That it had a white face I saw at once, but what surprised me was its extraordinary lightness. However, it was not worth while to examine it more closely, for the old actor had now gone with the shilling, and I would not see him again till the morrow. When I went to bed that night I examined the watch and found it to be a most extraordinary one. It was not only common metal, but it was all in one piece, and not one part to move; and, to account for its very light weight, there was nothing inside it. I have been told since that it was a property watch, which some actors use on the stage, and was not worth twopence. This old actor was a gambler and, fortunately for me, he had a winner the next day. Knowing that honesty was the best policy--for he would soon want to borrow again--he no sooner saw me than he stepped forward with great dignity, and with a very solemn face thanked me for my kindness, paid the shilling, and received his property.

I often meet the man who has for a number of years relied on Providence for his food and lodging. On more occasions than one I have been an instrument in the hands of Providence in assisting this artful hypocrite to a meal or his bed. When in the lodging-house he is always to be seen reading the Bible, committing passages to memory, but he enters into conversation with anyone that comes near. Then he explains that although he has had no dinner, he has faith in Providence to supply his supper; and though he has no money to pay for his bed, Providence will not let him walk the streets all night. In a large house where there are more than six hundred beds, and strangers are coming and going every day, this man often finds a sympathetic ear. And in the parks and gardens, and at street corners, where he enters into conversation with strangers, he can generally get enough to keep him independent of work.

The other day I met a very small, old-fashioned looking figure dressed in black, and with a tall silk hat which looked the worse for wear. I was really startled when I saw this quaint, little, old man, for I had known him in a lodging-house five years before, and he then gave his age as ninety years. He used to sleep so sound in the chairs that lodgers believed him to be dead, and would call the manager. And when they had succeeded, after great difficulty, in rousing him, he would accuse them of trying to rob him. One day he slept so long that the porters thought that his end had come at last, and they fetched the manager. The latter did many things to rouse the old man, pinching, slapping, and shaking him, but all in vain. Giving one porter orders to send for the doctor, he told the others to carry the old man downstairs, so that the many lodgers passing to and fro would not have their attention drawn to the dead man. Taking the little figure in their strong arms, they carried it downstairs, and there it remained till the doctor came. But no sooner was that gentleman on the spot than the old man opened his eyes and, seeing to his amaze five or six men around him, scrambled to his feet and shouted, "Thieves!" The manager could not forgive this trick of the dead coming to life, and sternly bade the old man to go to his relatives, as he--the manager--had been deceived more than once.

XXXIV

The Comparison

The finest and most perfect piece of begging that was ever brought to my notice was performed in Brooklyn by Boston Shorty. Such an example in the art of begging does not deserve oblivion, so I will record it, at the same time feeling a little jealousy, which is quite natural, that I was not the hero on that occasion.

The time was morning, and Boston Shorty felt disposed for breakfast. Seeing a tenement house, with three storeys and a basement, he at once entered, and, climbing the stairway to the top storey, knocked at the door in a business-like manner--for the short one was too proud a beggar to knock humbly at any man's door. In fact, he knew well from experience that a business-like method was just as likely to meet with success as to bother his brains to invent lies. Therefore, when a stout, pleasant-looking woman answered the door, he politely wished her good morning, and with a pleased smile told her in a few words that he had come for a little breakfast--in the same manner as a landlord or his agent would ask for the rent. "Sit down," said the good woman; and Shorty at once sat down on the stairs. In a few moments she stood before him with a plate of hot buckwheat cakes and a large basin of coffee. After he had disposed of these, he again knocked at the door, and returned the empty articles, at the same time thanking the woman for her kindness. There was nothing in this act to distinguish Shorty from a thousand other beggars; but it chanced that after walking about for two or three hours, he found himself at dinner-time passing the same house. Now, no man, except a born beggar, would think of climbing the same stairs again, with so many other houses near, for in all likelihood he would be confronted by his former benefactress. But this Shorty did, for, going up to the second storey of the same tenement, he knocked at the door, which was soon answered by--the same woman! This unexpected meeting considerably surprised the short man, and it took him so long to recover his wits that the good woman, knowing his wants, came to his assistance, and called indoors, "Mrs. Smith, here's a man wants some dinner." Saying which, she smiled at Shorty and went to her own flat above.

On hearing this call, Mrs. Smith immediately came forward, and, looking at Shorty, and being satisfied with his appearance, said, "Come in."

It was after this success that Boston Shorty, when leaving the house, proved himself to be the born beggar that he was; for he at once made up his mind to consult the tenant on the main floor as to the prospects of supper. So he strayed idly about till evening, and, when supper-time came, entered the house for the third time.