The Waterman is an important officer at the cab-stand. He is indeed
the master of the rank. At some of the larger stands, such as that at
the London and Birmingham Railway terminus, there are four watermen,
two being always on duty day and night, fifteen hours by day and nine
by night, the day-waterman becoming the night-waterman the following
week. On the smaller stands two men do this work, changing their day
and night labour in the same way. The waterman must see that there is
no “fouling” in the rank, that there is no straggling or crowding,
but that each cab maintains its proper place. He is also bound to
keep the best order he can among the cabmen, and to restrain any
ill-usage of the horses. The waterman’s remuneration consists in the
receipt of 1_d._ from every cabman who joins his rank, for which the
cabman is supplied with water for his horse, and 1/2_d._ for every
cabman who is hired off the rank. There are now 350 odd watermen, and
they must be known as trusty men, a rigid inquiry being instituted,
and unexceptional references demanded before an appointment to the
office takes place. At some stands the supply of water costs these
officers 4_l._ a-year, at others the trustees of the waterworks, or the
parishes, supply it gratuitously. All the watermen, I am informed, on
good authority, have been connected with the working part of it. They
must all be able to read and write, for as one of them said to me,
“We’re expected to understand Acts of Parliament.” They are generally
strong, big-boned, red-faced men, civil and honest, married (with very
few exceptions), and bringing up families. They are great readers of
newspapers, and in these they devote themselves first of all to the
police reports.
One of the body said, “I have been a good many years a waterman, but
was brought up a coachbuilder in a London firm. I then got into the
cab-trade, and am now a waterman. I make my 24_s._ a-week the year
through: but there’s stands to my knowledge where the waterman doesn’t
make more than half as much; and that for a man that’s expected to
be respectable. He can give his children a good schooling--can’t
he, sir?--on 12_s._ a-week, and the best of keep, to be sure. Why,
my comings-in--it’s a hard fight for me to do as much. I have
eight children, sir. I pay 16_l._ a year for three tidy rooms in a
mews--that’s rather more than 6_s._ a-week; but I have the carriage
place below, and that brings me in a little. Six of my children don’t
earn a halfpenny now. My eldest daughter, she’s 17, earns 6_d._ a-day
from a slop-tailor. I hate to see her work, work, work away, poor lass!
but it’s a help, and it gets them bits of clothes. Another boy earns
6_d._ a-day from a coach-builder, and lives with me. Another daughter
would try her hand at shirtmaking, and got work from a shirtmaker
near Tabernacle Square; and in four days and a half she made five
bodies, and they came to 1_s._ 10-1/2_d._; and out of that she had to
pay 7-1/2_d._ for her thread and that, and so there was 1_s._ 3_d._
for her hard work; but they gave satisfaction, her employer said, as
if that was a grand comfort to her mother and me. But I soon put a
stop to that. I said, ‘Come, come, I’ll keep you at home, and manage
somehow or anyhow, rather than you shall pull your eyes out of your
head for 3-1/2_d._ a-day, and less; so it’s no more shirts.’ Why,
sir, the last time bread was dear--1847, was it?--I paid 19_s._ and
20_s._ a-week for bread: it’s now about half what it was then; rather
more, though. But there’s one thing’s a grand thing for poor men, and
that’s such prime and such cheap fish. The railways have done that.
In Tottenham-court-road my wife can buy good soles, as many pairs for
6_d._ of a night, as would have been 3_s._ 6_d._ before railways.
That’s a great luxury for a poor man like me, that’s fonder of fish
than meat. They are a queer set we have to do with in the ranks.
The ‘pounceys,’ (the class I have alluded to as fancy-men, called
‘pounceys’ by my present informant), are far the worst. They sometimes
try to bilk me, and it’s always hard to get your dues from contractors.
That’s the men what sign for heavy figures. Credit them once, and
you’re never paid--never. None signs for so much as the pounceys.
They’d sign for 18_s._ Why, if a pouncey’s girl, or a girl he knows,
seems in luck, as they call it--that is, if she picks up a gentleman,
partickler if he’s drunk, the pouncey--I’ve seen it many a time--jumps
out of the ranks, for he keeps a look-out for the spoil, and he
drives to her. It’s the pounceys, too, that mostly go gagging where
the girls walk. It’s such a set we have to deal with. Only yesterday
an out-and-out pouncey called me such names about nothing. Why, it’s
shocking for any female that may be passing. Aye, and of a busy night
in the Market (Haymarket), when it’s an opera-night and a play-night,
the gentlemen’s coachmen’s as bad for bad language as the cabmen; and
some gentlemen’s very clever at that sort of language, too. It’s not as
it was in Lord ----’s days. Swells now think as much of one shilling
as they did of twenty then. But there’s some swells left still. One
young swell brings four quarts of gin out of a public-house in a pail,
and the cabmen must drink it out of pint pots. He’s quite master of
bad language if they don’t drink fairly. Another swell gets a gallon
of gin always from Carter’s, and cabmen must drink it out of quart
pots--no other way. It makes some of them mad drunk, and makes them
drive like mad; for they might be half drunk to begin with. Thank God,
no man can say he’s seen me incapable from liquor for four-and-twenty
years. There’s no racketier place in the world than the Market. Houses
open all night, and people going there after Vauxhall and them places.
After a masquerade at Vauxhall I’ve seen cabmen drinking with lords and
gentlemen--but such lords get fewer every day; and cockney tars that
was handy with their fists wanting to fight Highlanders that wasn’t;
and the girls in all sorts of dresses here and there and everywhere
among them, the paint off and their dresses torn. Sometimes cabmen
assaults us. My mates have been twice whipped lately. I haven’t,
because I know how to humour their liquor. I give them fair play; and
more than that, perhaps, as I get my living out of them. Any customer
can pick his own cab; but if I’m told to call one, or none’s picked,
the first on the rank, that’s the rule, gets the fare. I take my meals
at a coffee-shop; and my mate takes a turn for me when I’m at dinner,
and so do I for him. My coffee-shop cuts up 150lbs. a-meat a-day,
chiefly for cabmen. A dinner is 6-1/2_d._ without beer: meat 4_d._,
bread 1_d._, vegetables 1_d._, and waiter 1/2_d._; at least I give him
a halfpenny. At ----’s public-house I can dine capitally for 8-1/2_d._,
and that includes a pint of beer. On Sundays there’s a dessert of
puddings, and then it’s 1_s._ A waterman’s berth when it’s one of the
best isn’t so good, I fancy, as a privileged cabman’s.”