jeering. What could a few women and old men do against a
hundred hostile tramps? They were afraid of us, and we
were frankly bullying them. It was our revenge upon them
for having humiliated us by feeding us.
The minister was a brave man. He thundered steadily
through a long sermon on Joshua, and managed almost to
ignore the sniggers and chattering from above. But in the
end, perhaps goaded beyond endurance, he announced
loudly:
"I shall address the last five minutes of my sermon to
the
unsaved sinners!"
Having said which, he turned his face to the gallery
and kept it so for five minutes, lest there should be any
doubt about who were saved and who unsaved. But much
we cared! Even while the minister was threatening hell
fire, we were rolling cigarettes, and at the last amen we
clattered down the stairs with a yell, many agreeing to
come back for another free tea next week.
The scene had interested me. It was so different from
the ordinary demeanour of tramps-from the abject worm-
like gratitude with which they normally accept charity.
The explanation, of course, was that we outnumbered the
congregation and so were not afraid of them. A man
receiving charity practically always hates his benefactor-it
is a fixed characteristic of human nature; and, when he has
fifty or a hundred others to back him, he will show it.
In the evening, after the free tea, Paddy unexpectedly
earned another eighteenpence at "glimming." It was
exactly enough for another night's lodging, and we put it
aside and went hungry till nine the next evening. Bozo,
who might have given us some food, was away all day.
The pavements were wet, and he had gone to the Elephant
and Castle, where he knew of a pitch under shelter.
Luckily I still had some tobacco, so that the day might
have been worse.
At half-past eight Paddy took me to the Embankment,
where a clergyman was known to distribute meal tickets
once a week. Under Charing Cross Bridge fifty men were
waiting, mirrored in the shivering puddles. Some of them
were truly appalling specimens-they were Embankment
sleepers, and the Embankment dredges up worse types
than the spike. One of them, I
remember, was dressed in an overcoat without buttons,
laced up with rope, a pair of ragged trousers, and boots
exposing his toes-not a rag else. He was bearded like a
fakir, and he had managed to streak his chest and
shoulders with some horrible black filth resembling train
oil. What one could see of his face under the dirt and hair
was bleached white as paper by some malignant disease. I
heard him speak, and he had a goodish accent, as of a
clerk or shopwalker.
Presently the clergyman appeared and the men ranged
themselves in a queue in the order in which they had
arrived. The clergyman was a nice, chubby, youngish
man, and, curiously enough, very like Charlie, my friend
in Paris. He was shy and embarrassed, and did not speak
except for a brief good evening; he simply hurried down
the line of men, thrusting a ticket upon each, and not
waiting to be thanked. The consequence was that, for
once, there was genuine gratitude, and everyone said that
the clergyman was a good feller. Someone (in his hearing,
I believe) called out: "Well,
he'll never be a-----bishop!"-
this, of course, intended as a warm compliment.
The tickets were worth sixpence each, and were
directed to an eating-house not far away. When we got
there we found that the proprietor, knowing that the
tramps could not go elsewhere, was cheating by only
giving four pennyworth of food for each ticket. Paddy and
I pooled our tickets, and received food which we could
have got for sevenpence or eightpence at most coffee-
shops. The clergyman had distributed well over a pound in
tickets, so that the proprietor was evidently swindling the
tramps to the tune of seven shillings or more a week. This
kind of victimisation is a regular part of a tramp's life, and
it will go on as long as people continue to give meal tickets
instead of money.
Paddy and I went back to the lodging-house and, still
hungry, loafed in the kitchen, making the warmth of the
fire a substitute for food. At half-past ten Bozo arrived,
tired out and haggard, for his mangled leg made walking
an agony. He had not earned a penny at screening, all the
pitches under shelter being taken, and for several hours he
had begged outright, with one eye on the policemen. He
had amassed eightpence -a penny short of his kip. It was
long past the hour for paying, and he had only managed to
slip indoors when the deputy was not looking; at any
moment he might be caught and turned out, to sleep on the
Embankment. Bozo took the things out of his pockets and
looked them over, debating what to sell. He decided on his
razor, took it round the kitchen, and in a few minutes he
had sold it for threepence-enough to pay his kip, buy a
basin of tea, and leave a halfpenny over.
Bozo got his basin of tea and sat down by the fire to
dry his clothes. As he drank the tea I saw that he was
laughing to himself, as though at some good joke.
Surprised, I asked him what he had to laugh at.
"It's bloody funny!" he said. "It's funny enough for
Punch
. What do you think I been and done?"
"What?"
"Sold my razor without having a shave first: Of all
the fools!"
He had not eaten since the morning, had walked several
miles with a twisted leg, his clothes were drenched, and he
had a halfpenny between himself and starvation. With all
this, he could laugh over the loss of his razor. One could
not help admiring him.
XXXIV
THE next morning, our money being at an end, Paddy and
I set out for the spike. We went southward by the Old