Part 10
It is a good policy for strangers, as soon as they enter a lodging-house kitchen, to not only speak pleasantly to the deputy, but to slip a penny into his hand, so that they may be installed on an equal footing with "narks." Men that do not think of doing this must not be surprised if he "accidentally" overturns their teapots, or shovels coke into their frying-pans. These little accidents always add to the gaiety of "narks," and they the more generously reward the deputy for affording them this extra entertainment.
I was in one lodging-house in the provinces that only had accommodation for twelve lodgers, and in that house were six "narks" and the deputy. The night I was there, there were only three strangers, myself and two others, and we were almost afraid to move. One "nark" was a rag-and-bone man, who worked the country for miles around. While I was eating my frugal supper, he spread on the table his dirty rags and bones--so near that one bone was found on my plate, which I returned to him--with many thanks. Seeing that the deputy appeared quite satisfied, I dared not say much, for if I got into trouble and had my money returned, there was not another lodging-house within six miles.
Another "nark" was a drunken drover, who left a saucepan on the fire while he went out for a drink. When he returned he said that there were only four potatoes and a half in the saucepan, whereas he had put in five. It never occurred to his suspicious mind that one potato had become small in the extra boiling, and we three strangers had to tolerate his savage looks.
Another "nark" was a blacksmith, who was out of work. This man was lying drunk at full length on a bench, so that the two strangers had to wait until I had finished my meal before they could get a seat at the table, for, with the exception of the drover, all the other "narks" had had their supper.
The blacksmith had not paid his rent for two or three nights, and the landlady--a very old woman--had ordered the deputy not to allow him to go to bed. While I was asleep that night, I was suddenly awaked by a slap on the face, and a croaking voice, which said--"Out of my house, blacksmith." When I opened my eyes, I saw an old withered face bending over mine--there must have been a hundred years in that face. "I am not the blacksmith," I said feebly. "Liar," she shrieked, holding the candle near my face. However, she saw her mistake, and went away muttering, without making any apology for her mistake. No stranger would ever think of staying two nights in a house like that.
Of course, in a house where there is only one "nark," he tries to ingratiate himself with casual men, for the sake of social company, but they do not encourage his advances, knowing how careful they must be of what they say. They are suspicious of him, in spite of his good-natured offers to oblige them with a shake of pepper. By the way, the sight of a pepper-box in a lodging-house kitchen is always a sure sign that the man behind it is a "nark." Wanderers, however much trouble they take to carry tea, salt, soap, thread, needle, comb, and many other little things which must not interfere with space for food--would never think of carrying a pepper-box, though they may carry a little pepper in paper.
No, a "nark" is not a desirable companion, and to inform a tramp that he is going to a house that is full of them, is to daunt him more than to say that the teapots are spoutless and cracked, the saucers have no rims, the beds are dirty, and that the fire is small and often out.
XXVI
The Scribe in a Lodging-house
A man who is seen writing in a common lodging-house will soon have his services sought so often that he must be offended, however kind-hearted he may be. He will be pestered by illiterate seekers of work, and even begging-letter impostors. In the latter case the men are cunning enough to invent pitiful tales, but they lack the education to write them. Many a man who has only lived a short time in a lodging-house, and is innocent of the world, has written letters for these rogues, and not known what he was doing. Strange to say, very few of these men are able to write their own letters; and, seeing that they usually pose for men that have lost good positions, it is not to be wondered at when they have no courage to face a personal interview. With regard to honest seekers of work, a man will soon be sorry that he has obliged them, because of the awkward position in which it places him. For instance, if they do not receive any answer to your letter, or one that is not favourable, they are very apt to blame the letter-writer. One day a man came to me, who had often seen me writing, and asked if I would write him a few lines in answer to an advertisement. Seeing that he brought a stamped envelope and a sheet of writing-paper, and I already had pen and ink before me, I did so at once, to my sorrow. The poor fellow received no answer at all, and he was under the impression that I could so word a letter that it was certain to be successful. It never occurred to him that the advertisement being in a leading paper would be answered by hundreds of men. When several days passed, and no answer came, no doubt he came to the conclusion that he would have been more successful himself, and that I had spoilt him of that job by my manner of writing. So he was very cold after, leaving me with one consolation--that I had not only received no benefits from him, but wanted none, whether he was successful or not.
One man, who could hardly read or write, brought me his aunt's letter to be deciphered, from whom he was getting assistance every week. I had so much difficulty in reading her letter that I told him after that his aunt's writing was very bad. Hearing this he began to throw out hints that the fault must be with me, for his aunt had married a rich brewer, and was now a widow with seven servants. Seeing what a simple man I had to deal with, I tried to explain that the handwriting of some of the greatest people was bad, and that it was not their handwriting made them great, but the thoughts and language they used. But I saw that he could not understand my meaning, and he brought me no more of his aunt's letters.
In fact, the letters I have written to oblige others have made me more enemies than friends. The most grateful thanks I have received for doing this kindness was not from a man living in a lodging-house, but from one on the outside. I was in the lodging-house kitchen one night when "Brummy" Sam brought a married friend of his to see me. The former lost no time in explaining to me that his friend Alf had a daughter in service in the country. Now this daughter had been written to several times, by her mother, sister, and brother, but none of them could get an answer; so Alf, "Brummy" Sam explained, "wanted to know the ins and outs of her reasons." The latter, who had been drinking, confided to me with deep emotion that his friend Alf was a faithful old dog, and, "as for Alf's old woman, there wasn't a better-natured bleeding old cat in all London." Although he whispered this information, it was quite loud enough for Alf to hear, and the big fellow looked at Sam with gratitude. After saying these words Sam straightened himself and said: "I have been telling Alf about you, as how you can write, and we think you can put the letter in such a way that she will answer at once." Hearing this I was not very well pleased, for I could hardly hope to be more successful than the girl's own mother. It was most likely that there was nothing the matter at all, and that she was only waiting a convenient time to write. However, I wrote a letter to Alf's daughter, which he received with so much delight, and such a pressing invitation to drink, that it quite upset me, thinking that the letter would be no more successful than others. But I am pleased to say that she not only answered it at once, but asked her mother who had written it. Perhaps she thought it was a lawyer, and was afraid that further neglect in not reporting herself at home would lead to the police court. Alf was so grateful that his friendship became a nuisance, especially when he was drunk; and I was very glad that he only came to the house as a visitor, and did not live there altogether.
But in a very common lodging-house it is not often that a man is asked to write a letter. I used to write for one man to his mother, about once a month, and he was very thankful to me, for I would never take anything from these poor fellows. It was a dreadful task for me to write a letter of that kind, for he had nothing to say except--"Give my love and say I am all right, and remember me to Aunt Sarah." And the simple man not only expected me to fill two or three papers on this meagre information, but wanted to know if I had enough paper. This man was a consumptive, and when I wrote one letter for him he was about to go into a hospital. He asked me then if I would write a few lines to his mother if anything serious happened to him. I promised to do so, but am glad to say he was back in a few weeks, although not much better.
I shall never forget writing one letter for a man who was leading a double life. He had only just come to our lodging-house, but he was so well known to all the old lodgers that I could see that he had been there before. When this man first came under my notice, he was in the act of sewing a patch on the knee of his trousers, the latter being still on his body. I may as well say here that he made a very bad job of it, for he sewed his trousers to a pair of drawers that were underneath; which made him swear so much that night, when he undressed, that irritated lodgers, disturbed from sleep, threatened to throw him out of the window. One day I asked a lodger what this man did for a living, thinking that he was either a toy-seller, paper-man, or market porter. The lodger began to chuckle, and said: "If you are down Brixton way to-morrow, you are likely to see him." As I asked the question for the sake of being sociable, and not from curiosity, I thought no more of the matter. However, some time after this I happened to be in Brixton, and saw the man I mention, standing in the gutter--blind. He saw me too, for he made an awful expression, which I translated into these words--Don't stop and speak to me, pass on. A few days after this unexpected meeting, he no sooner saw me entering the lodging-house kitchen than he came forward with an envelope and a sheet of writing paper. "Will you write me a letter?" he asked. "I will pay you." Now, I had been out all day and was hungry, and was just about to prepare my tea. So I told him sharply that if I wrote the letter I wanted nothing for doing it, and, whether I wrote it or not, he must give me a chance to have my tea first. Nearly all men that live in common lodging-houses talk to each other in this strain, for they are all more or less short-tempered, or, as they say--"scatty." So I knew that he would not take offence, and was not surprised to see him come forward, after he had given me ample time for tea. "I am not much of a scholar," he began. "What do you want me to write about?" I asked. "Well," said he, "a gentleman saw me in the street and took my address, and has just sent me a parcel of clothes, and I want to thank him. Here is his letter, with address, which was in the parcel." "All right," I answered, and did so at once. After I had done, I read aloud what I had written, and asked if it would do. He considered for a moment, and then said: "Perhaps you will write a little more and say as how Heaven will reward him for pitying a blind man." I could not help laughing at this, for he spoke so exactly that I believe the rogue had forgotten that he was not really blind.
It is very pathetic on a Christmas morning to see seventy or eighty men in a lodging-house, and not six of them receive any greetings from the outside world. In one house, where the manager's charming little daughter received scores of letters and presents from school-friends and friends of her parents, there were not ten out of ninety lodgers who received a single letter--on a Christmas morning! It was when I saw this that it came on me in full force to know what an isolated plague spot a common lodging-house is. Men who have spent years in such places must feel deeply the loneliness of their lives at that season, when every person outside a lodging-house finds time to either visit friends and relatives, or write to them.
XXVII
Licensed Beggars
With all the tricks and dodges of beggars, the man that owns a pedlar's certificate--which is known as "a brief"--is, taking it all the year round, the most successful. It matters not to him whether the police in a town are strict or not, and he is little interested when he hears street-singers or downright beggars approve or disapprove of the police in certain towns. Armed with this authority, he is a man of cool courage and impudence, and, when he produces his "brief," he makes the inquisitive constable that interferes with him, flush painfully. "Is that all the stock you have?" asks the constable sternly, glancing at the man's paltry few laces, and knowing well that he is using them for begging purposes--"Is that all the stock you carry?" "It is all I need," the other often answers impudently, shaking his laces in one hand, and his certificate in the other. All towns are not favourable to the street-singer, even though they may be good for the more silent beggar; and the downright beggar is apt at any moment to have the door answered by a policeman, and where is he then? But the licensed beggar is safe.
Now it is often very difficult to get this pedlar's certificate, although the man has the five shillings to buy it; especially in London, where a man has to be a resident in one place for six months, and must also give reasons for his request, that he is physically unfit to follow his trade or to do rough labour. But beggars know of small towns in the provinces where they only have to show five shillings and tell a lie or two, and the certificate is theirs at once. And when a man has one, the difficulty is over for all time, for he can get it renewed at the most particular town, without trouble or question.
A man may pursue his calling for a very long time without being asked to show his license, and another man may be asked to show his several times in one month, perhaps twice in one day. I knew one man that went all through the year without interference, but the very first week that his license expired and he had not renewed it, he was accosted by a policeman and arrested. This luckily turned out to his advantage, for when he explained to the magistrate his inability to save five shillings for its renewal, that gentleman generously gave him the amount out of the poor-box, and the license was renewed. Of course the man had begged enough during the week to be independent of this aid, for one lady had given him two shillings towards that end, and from several others he had received small silver instead of pennies to enable him--as he told them--"to earn an honest livelihood by selling laces, instead of begging." Yes, many a dear lady highly commended this fine, fat fellow for such a noble resolution. As I have said, he had received more than twice five shillings in the week by showing ladies his expired license, but a terrible thirst was on him, and he could not possibly pass a public-house.
It will, no doubt, be interesting news to the police, and even a number of beggars, to know that men often hide their licenses in the lining of their clothes, taking out a few stitches, and sewing up again. Quite a number of beggars sew up their valuables in their clothes, as a safeguard against loss; but the licensed beggar has another motive for doing so. The reason why he hides his license is that when he exhausts his very small stock, in an hour or two, he then takes to downright begging for the rest of the day, as he does not wish to waste time; and there may not be a swag-shop (a shop where hawkers are supplied), near, or there may not be one in the town. Now if he is arrested for begging, he will get ten days' imprisonment and, if a pedlar's license is found on him, he will receive the extra punishment of having it taken from him, and not returned. So he serves his ten days, happy to think that his "brief" is safe in the lining of his clothes. He can safely rely on this being so, for a common beggar is never subjected to a severe search.
I knew one man that had a wife and three very small children, and, on the day I made their acquaintance, she and the children remained in the lodging-house all day, so that she could do some washing. When the husband went out that morning, rather late, all his stock-in-trade consisted of was six pairs of cheap mohair laces, which cost him threepence, and with these he went to work. Soon he returned with one shilling and ninepence in coppers, four parcels of food, and two pairs of laces still left. Eighteen pence had to be paid for their night's lodging, without a question of food for five bodies. Giving his wife the money, he again sailed forth for the afternoon. In four hours he returned with one and eleven pence, and no laces. After which she, having finished her washing, went out shopping, and soon returned with bread, tea, sugar, milk, mutton chops, and a fresh stock of laces; also two separate half-ounces of tobacco, one for him and one for herself. With this supply, and the contents of her husband's pockets--he regretted that he could not carry more--the family could do very well for tea, supper, and breakfast the next morning. This industrious couple were always very successful on Sunday mornings, when they sang hymns in the street, with the three small children at their side.
One of the most versatile beggars that I have ever met was Harry the Whistler, who was so resourceful that he was indifferent whether his wife remained idle at home in the lodging-house or not. He also carried a "brief," with a few pins and needles, for the benefit of odd houses scattered here and there; but when he saw a number of houses close together, or anything that looked like a street, he would immediately make a stand and blow a tin whistle. Sometimes, to relieve the monotony, he and his wife sang together, but more often than not she stood silently at his side, and received the reward of his playing.
The first time I met this couple, Harry the Whistler had to go to bed early, so that his wife could mend the bottom of his trousers. They almost came to blows on this occasion, for the wife maintained that she would not sit up late night after night to mend his trousers, and that if he would still persist in blowing a tin whistle, and having the bottom of his trousers torn by dogs, instead of going in for chanting, peddling, or straight begging, she would no longer travel with him. After he had cursed dogs to his heart's content, he confessed that it was no more pleasure for him to go to bed early than it was for her to sit up late and mend his trousers, and that in the future he would cease playing as soon as his notes were answered by a dog's bark.
XXVIII
Navvies and Frauds
Navvies in common lodging-houses receive much contempt from pedlars, grinders, and true beggars. They are always washing clothes and making shackles (soup) on Sunday, owing to their perspiration and dry food during the week; and while they are going about these long tasks, others cannot find accommodation. They always manage to get the use of the whole fire--centre, sides, and front--just before public-houses open; after which they booze until closing time, and then return to fill every utensil in the kitchen--basins, teacups, and saucers--with their greasy shackles. Although generous to one another, they would not let the smell of their shackles reach true beggars, if it could be prevented; and yet, when a navvy is reduced to the price of his bed only, he hints at his wants in a common lodging-house kitchen, expecting assistance from beggars, instead of making his wants known outside.
The navvy is more often than not a very timid beggar, and, when he can, lives upon stolen apples, turnips, blackberries, etc.; aye, and the picked-up bread that true beggars have cast away. In spite of this, I have seen an exceptional navvy that had the impudence to stand pad in a crowded market-place; which means that he would stand in the street gutter with a few laces or pins in his hand, a thing that only afflicted ones are expected to do. He does this on the night that follows pay-day, and it must be confessed that he meets with some reward. Sometimes a servant girl gives him a penny through admiration of his stalwart form; sometimes an old lady gives him a penny because his nose is like her son's; and, seeing that on this particular night everybody is happy with money in their pockets, it is not to be surprised at that a number of stray coppers find their way into his pocket. In this instance, charity is certainly not misplaced, for this man would rather work than beg. If he was engaged to be at your house to do a job on the following day, you could have little doubt but what he would appear. Only one thing would prevent him, and that is the arrival at the lodging-house of moneyed navvies that have just finished a job. In that case he would not need the little work offered to him, and it would be the best policy not to absent himself from his new friends--not even for a few minutes, for, when men are drinking, they are apt to change suddenly. As long as he is face to face with them, all goes well, but he no sooner turns his back than a word of suspicion is dropped, and he returns to find that his former friends are--if not drunk--cold and reserved; and if they are drunk he will find them not only ready to quarrel, but to murder.
The navvy is a real working-man, but he has to travel for work from place to place, and his jobs are very often short through no fault of his own. Being a rough, uncouth, and ill-mannered man, fond of drink and freedom to chew and smoke tobacco, to spit, and use strong language, he has no other option than to live in a common lodging-house, even though he is earning as much money as a good mechanic.
Now, although a navvy spends the best part of his life among beggars in common lodging-houses, it is surprising how simple and innocent he is as to beggars' tricks and dodges. If he saw a man in a fit in the street, the navvy would be one of the last to suspect that man of being a fraud. If he saw a man making feeble attempts to climb a bridge's wall or railings, and drop into the river, the navvy would be the last to have suspicion that that man was doing so to introduce himself to one who would listen to his pitiful story, and help him with a shilling or more. And the navvy would never suspect the child that pretends to lose money and begins to cry in a loud voice. And yet this navvy spends his life in a lodging-house, where these cunning mortals live.
These tricks are not so common as people suppose; they are in fact very rare. Many an honest man has fits, the rivers give up a number of suicides, and with regard to the child losing money--was there ever a child that did not?