"ONLY STARVING!"
Given the fact that I had promised to refrain from further detective
work, the fact that the two Miss Carletons had disappeared and had
forbidden me to try to find or to follow them, "How did I now propose
to act?" was the question before me.
It was answered next morning as I sat at breakfast.
Opening my newspaper, I read that, owing to the removal of the works
of two of the greatest ship-building firms from Thames Side to the
North, thousands of men had been thrown out of work, and the greatest
destitution prevailed. "The condition of things in East London"--so
it was stated in the newspaper--"is more terrible than has been known
within the memory of anyone now alive, and it is no exaggeration to say
that at this moment hundreds, if not thousands, of women and children
are starving." Some instances which had come under the personal notice
of the writer of the article were then given. Even to read them was
painful; to try to realise them was heart-breaking.
"This may, or may not, be a piece of newspaper exaggeration, for the
purpose of sensationalism," I said; "but if the half of what this man
says be true, what right have I to be sitting here before a comfortable
breakfast while little children are crying vainly for bread?"
I pushed my almost untasted breakfast away from me. I felt as if, with
the wail of starving children in my ears, another mouthful of food
would choke me.
"I can, of course, sit down and send a cheque to a church fund for
the unemployed or to a charitable institution," I went on, "and in
the majority of cases that is the wisest and best course to pursue.
Organisation, especially expert organisation, can make even a small
sum go further than can any amount of inexpert individual effort; in
addition to which, nine out of ten of the people who happen to be
charitably disposed are unable, for various reasons, to distribute
their charity at first hand, and in person. I don't know that it
is always desirable that they should do so. Their very kindness
of heart makes them easy to be imposed upon; and promiscuous and
amateur almsgiving is, I fear, often responsible for the springing
up of a class of anything but amateur alms-cadgers and spongers.
But I know the 'ins' and 'outs' of the East End of London. I'm not
altogether unacquainted with the fact that the greater the need, the
more pitiful and deserving the case, the harder is it to find. Your
decent, deserving, hard-working man, whom ill-health and misfortune
have brought to want, will creep away secretly to starve, in silence
to suffer and to die, while your rascally loafer, who has never done
an honest day's work in his life, seizes upon every opportunity of
'times being bad,' or of men being known to be out of work, to parade
the streets, hymn-howling and copper-cadging for the wherewithal to
spend in the public-house. I know something of the ways and wiles of
gentlemen of this kidney, something of the silent suffering and dogged,
splendid pride of the other class; and being myself, for the present,
at least, a genuine member of the unemployed, and having, moreover, a
system of my own invention for getting at the facts, I think I'll go
east and investigate things for myself. For novel writing or other
literary work my mind is just now too unsettled, and as I am not one
who can for any length of time remain inactive, I will make the start
this morning and this moment, and be off."
Taking the train to Shadwell, I deliberately set to work to find the
most squalid and poverty-stricken slum in the whole district. Then I
entered the nearest baker's shop.
It is curious how readily the poor sum up a new comer. The slatternly
but not unkindly-looking woman who popped out from a back room saw at
a glance that I had not called in the usual course of business, and
as she came forward, her foolish, expressionless face lost something
of its normal vacancy, until her vague eyes, indeterminate nose, open
mouth and dropped chin, seemed for all the world to shape themselves
into a human note of interrogation.
"Yes, sir?" she inquired respectfully, with a slight inclination.
"Good morning," I said, with an effort to make voice, manner, and
expression as pleasant as possible. "Good morning. I hope I haven't
disturbed you. I'm not a customer--for the present, at all events."
"No, sir?" she replied, in a non-committal interrogative tone of voice,
which implied, though it left unspoken, the question, "Now I wonder
what in the world he wants?"
"It's this way," I went on. "I have been reading in my paper (I live
in quite another part of London, by the bye) that there are hundreds,
thousands even, of women and children starving out this way. Well,
now, I don't accept for gospel truth everything I read in the papers,
but it seemed to me that if I came out for myself to a place like
Shadwell, found a poor street like this, and made my way to the nearest
shop--which happens to be yours--anyone like yourself could tell me
something of the real facts of the case. It seems to me, too, that if
you would be so good as to help me--which I'm sure you will--you could
put me in the way of getting at the genuine, the deserving cases. I
mean the cases which, perhaps because the people in question don't
attend any particular church, and so, not having their names on the
visiting list, get overlooked by the clergy and ministers who are
doing such splendid work; as well as the cases where, perhaps because
of a pride, to which I take off my hat, the sufferers can't humble
themselves to beg or to apply for parish relief.
"Understand me, please. I don't come from any newspaper. I'm not
working in connection with any charity, or any church, and I haven't
very much money to spend. But if women and children are really
starving, as I read in the newspapers, I want to do what little I can
to help. Do you know of any such cases?"
"The last customer I served before you came in, sir, was a woman," she
made answer. "I served her with a farthing's-worth of bread. That's all
she and her three children have for to-day."
The unemotional, matter-of-fact way in which she spoke was infinitely
more significant than if she had put the point of exclamation to her
statement by any melodramatic show of feeling, any play of features, or
gestures of hands.
"But such cases are not common!" I protested.
"No," she said dully. "They're not. It's much commoner not to have the
farthing's-worth of bread."
"Would you mind giving me that poor woman's name and address? I pledge
you my word," I added, perhaps unnecessarily, "that I'll say no word to
hurt her pride or wound her feelings."
"18, Cripps Court," was the reply; "and her name's Frost. But there's
five families living in the house, most of 'em in one room, and two of
them are Frost. The one you want is Mrs. Fred Frost."
"Thank you very much. It is very good of you to take this trouble," I
said. "Are there any other cases equally bad that you know? If so, I'd
be grateful to be told of them."
"Lots," was the laconic reply. "I can give you enough names, without
your going out of this street, to keep you busy for a week. There's a
couple at No. 9, in the top room. They've pawned every stick they've
got, and are sleeping on bare boards on the floor. I know they haven't
had anything to eat for two days. But you won't want anything to do
with them, I expect. The man's a thief by trade, and the woman--well,
she's worse, and I know for certain they ain't husband and wife."
"I don't care what they are," I replied hotly. "They're
fellow-creatures, made of the same flesh and blood as we are, and
they're in want. What name shall I ask for them by?"
"Lowe," she said. "That's the name they go by, anyway."
Thanking the good woman behind the counter for her help, I set out to
find Mrs. Fred Frost.
The door of No. 18, Cripps Court, was opened by a wan, haggard-looking
woman, whom the summons had apparently disturbed in the act of suckling
a sickly-looking baby, which she held on one arm, while the hand of her
other arm was fumbling at the unbuttoned bosom of her dress.
"Good morning," I said, raising my hat. "Can you tell me, please, if
Mrs. Fred Frost is in?"
"No, sir, she's not," she answered civilly; "her baby's dead, and she's
gone to find her husband, who's trying to get a job at the docks."
"Oh! Poor woman! I'm very sorry!" I said, gently. "The fact is, her
name has been given me as one whose husband is out of work, and I
ventured to call to see if she'd allow me to send in some groceries,
and other things by way of being of some small assistance during the
hard time. If you'll allow me, I'll call again."
"She'll be very grateful to you, sir, I'm sure," the woman replied.
"Having the child ill has made it very hard for her just lately."
"Is there anybody else living here with whom things are going badly? If
so, perhaps you'd tell me! I can't do very much, but what I can do, in
the way of sending in some tea and some meat and a few groceries, I'd
be very glad to."
"Well, sir," answered the woman, "there's an old couple in the back
room, living alone with their little grandson (the child's father and
mother are dead). But they've gone out--all three of them--to try and
get a relief ticket somewhere. If you were to ask for them when you
come back to see Mrs. Frost, you'll see for yourself by the very look
of them how things are. The little boy--he's all right. They've managed
it, though I don't know how, between them, 'cept by starving themselves
to give to him, for skin and bone is about all that's left of the two
old people."
"I'm very much obliged to you," I said. "And I shall venture, as I say,
to call in again, perhaps in an hour's time. Good morning."
"Good morning, sir, and thank you," she said quietly.
As I was turning away the sun, which had not before been visible that
morning, suddenly broke out from behind the clouds. Standing, as she
had been, in a dark passage, and partly behind the half-opened door,
she was so much in the shadow that I could not observe her closely;
nor, for the matter of that, had I tried to do so, being anxious not to
seem curious or inquisitive. But as the sun fell full upon her face,
and I marked the hollows in her cheeks, and the dark rings around her
eyes, I stopped suddenly, impulsively.
"Please don't think me impertinent," I said. "But you look far from
strong yourself. I hope--I do hope--your husband isn't out of work,
too."
"Yes, sir; he's been out five weeks now, come Tuesday."
"And have you any children? Again I ask you to forgive me."
"There's no offence, sir," she said quietly, but I saw that she was
trying hard to stay the trembling of her lips.
"Yes, sir, I've five, and--and--there's been no food in the house since
yesterday."
"Yet you never asked help for yourself!" I said, gentle reproach
perhaps in my voice, but wonder and reverence at my heart. "You are a
brave woman, a true woman, and I honour and respect you. But, for the
children's sake, you mustn't refuse, if I ask you to let me try to be
of some little help while the hard time lasts."
She was sobbing piteously now--more, I suspect, because she was faint
and weak and in want of food than for any other reason.
"I'm sure I've--I've--I've tried hard to get some work, and so's Joe."
Then she pulled herself together.
"Will you come in, sir?"
Uncovering, I followed her into the wall-bare room. I say wall-bare
advisedly, for, except for an old box in the corner, every stick of
furniture had, as I discovered, been pawned or sold for food. Yet here
seven of my fellow-creatures, made in the image of God, were herded
together, within the space of a few square feet.
A wan, ragged, and unkempt man was sitting on the upturned box, his
elbows on his knees, his hands thrust in the hair that was bushed over
his ears.
He leapt up morosely, savagely, at my entrance, and muttered something
about "More ---- spies!"
But I was not born an Irishman for nothing. Three minutes had not
passed before I had won him to friendliness; five minutes had not
gone by before the youngest child was sitting on my knee, listening,
open-mouthed, to stories about a performing dog.
After a little time I said:
"Now I wonder if Timmy there--he's nine, you said, Mrs. Wright--I
wonder whether he's a good hand at shopping, and if he'd come with
me to get a few things at the butcher's, and the baker's, and the
grocer's, and then help me to bring them back? Do you know, Timmy, I'm
a very, very greedy man, and want a cup of tea badly; and somehow I've
got an idea that your mother, here, is a good hand at making tea; and
when you and I come back, I'm going to beg her to be so very kind as to
make me a cup, and then, while all the rest of you have a cup too, and
something to eat with it, I'll finish that story of mine about the dog."
But I had miscalculated Timmy's strength. He and I stopped at the
first shop we came to--a grocer's--and borrowed a wicker basket. It
had the word "Margarine" stencilled or painted in big black letters on
one side; and by the same token, as, for weeks to come, I had occasion
to borrow that same basket, and came to be a familiar figure in the
streets, I was known and spoken of in the district as "Mr. Margarine."
Into this basket Timmy and I stacked away tea, sugar, butter, and other
groceries. Then we returned to my friend the woman in the baker's shop,
and added to our store a loaf or two of bread.
"And now, Timmy," I said, "I daresay this kind lady could find you a
piece of cake and a glass of milk. Meanwhile, I'll run across the road
and interview the butcher."
I had hardly entered the butcher's shop before I heard the sudden
pulling up of a horse and cart in the street, and saw the driver
hastily dismounting.
Timmy, supposing I had meant him to follow at once with the basket,
had taken it up, and must have passed out almost at my heels. Half-way
across the street he had suddenly reeled and fallen, and now lay white
and unconscious.
"What's the matter?" I asked the woman who was kneeling beside him with
his head on her arm.
"Oh, nothing!" she answered, bitterly. "You've got eyes in your head,
haven't you, and can see for yourself? He's fainted for want of
food--that's what's the matter. He's only starving!"