Part 7

The question is not altogether without humour, for these workhouse tramps actually call themselves our brothers on the road. They stop us familiarly on our way, and ask for information of workhouses, as though we were one of themselves. One advises me not to go to a certain workhouse, for they will make me break stones all the day following, on a little dry bread and water. As though I ever, for one moment, dreamed that such a lot would be mine! "My good fellow," says I, "_lodging-houses_ are made for true beggars, and not workhouses."

For the above reasons I have become deeply interested in any scheme to improve the condition of the workhouse tramp, for, as I have said, he is not only a burden on the ratepayers of the country, but mars the success of all true beggars. We are often, when in the act of begging money for our beds, told to go to the workhouse; which is owing to this workhouse tramp having communicated the intelligence that he would be satisfied with bread, and that he is not in need of money for a place to sleep, seeing that the workhouse can accommodate him. For he becomes hardened to the indignities and heavy tasks set before him, and at last looks on such a cold, wretched place as a home, aye, even as a playground.

XVII

Stubborn Invalids

It is a pathetic sight to see men dying in a lodging-house, fighting against death day after day. The few healthy men that are present are quite indifferent to life, and do not care if their health is impaired through breathing in the same room as a dozen consumptives. These healthy men are so thoughtless of themselves that they offer their dying comrades saucers of tea, after which they drink with their own lips perhaps on the same place as their unfortunate fellows used. I have offered many a one of these poor fellows a drink of tea, but was always very careful not to use the saucer after them. When they wanted to return my kindness, and I did not like to wound their feelings by refusing them, I always took a clean saucer from the shelf, instead of using theirs.

I well remember one man, who was in a terrible condition for the last three months before he was carried to the hospital. He was a man of about middle age, and his face was very white, and all day long he was coughing and spitting in the kitchen, with only enough strength in his body to take him to bed. Although I sat with my back to him at meals, I could not help but hear the poor fellow, and could not help a feeling of revulsion. In fact I began at last to look upon these consumptives as murderers who, by their stubbornness in not going to the hospital, were killing me and others with their breath.

Some of these men are in receipt of small pensions, or get a little assistance from relatives on the outside, and for this reason they die sooner; for they have more leisure than others--who must go out to earn a few pennies--at the coke fire. Little Punch is dead, who might have lived for many more years, had he not been kept indoors so much by outside assistance. In the spring this little fellow used to set off with his pack as a pedlar through the country, and when he returned at the end of summer was always in good condition, but was as bad as ever after a month in the lodging-house. I believe he could have prolonged his life ten or fifteen years, if he had rambled both winter and summer.

These men fight against going to the hospital and sit dying day after day, making no complaint; until the lodging-house keeper is surprised some morning to find them lying in bed, without the strength to rise. Even then they swear it is only temporary indisposition, and that after a few hours' rest they will be well again. Then the doctor is called, and then comes the ambulance; but it is too late, for if the men do not die on the way, they die soon after they reach the hospital.

Poor old Peter saw himself wasting away. He was six feet two inches in height, but thin enough to be exhibited. He kept himself alive by a merry heart, but his hollow, spasmodic laughter refused to make his body fat. Up to the last he affected great cheerfulness, but he could not cheat death any longer. It was impossible to feel any revulsion against Peter; he did not spit about the place, and though he was always coughing, the poor fellow had no strength to make a disturbing noise: he could not be heard if you were not seated next him. You could feel him cough, by the vibration of the bench or table, more often than you could hear him. I also believe that he had consideration for others, knowing that a sick man can make himself unpleasant. Peter did nothing but win pity and goodwill, and he returned it by endeavouring to be witty and cheerful.

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.