CARRYING THE BANNER
“To carry the banner” means to walk the streets all night; and I, with
the figurative emblem hoisted, went out to see what I could see. Men
and women walk the streets at night all over this great city, but I
selected the West End, making Leicester Square my base, and scouting
about from the Thames Embankment to Hyde Park.
The rain was falling heavily when the theatres let out, and the
brilliant throng which poured from the places of amusement was hard put
to find cabs. The streets were so many wild rivers of cabs, most of
which were engaged, however; and here I saw the desperate attempts of
ragged men and boys to get a shelter from the night by procuring cabs
for the cabless ladies and gentlemen. I use the word “desperate”
advisedly, for these wretched, homeless ones were gambling a soaking
against a bed; and most of them, I took notice, got the soaking and
missed the bed. Now, to go through a stormy night with wet clothes,
and, in addition, to be ill nourished and not to have tasted meat for a
week or a month, is about as severe a hardship as a man can undergo.
Well fed and well clad, I have travelled all day with the spirit
thermometer down to seventy-four degrees below zero—one hundred and six
degrees of frost[1]; and though I suffered, it was a mere nothing
compared with carrying the banner for a night, ill fed, ill clad, and
soaking wet.
[1] This in the Klondike.—J. L.
The streets grew very quiet and lonely after the theatre crowd had gone
home. Only were to be seen the ubiquitous policemen, flashing their
dark lanterns into doorways and alleys, and men and women and boys
taking shelter in the lee of buildings from the wind and rain.
Piccadilly, however, was not quite so deserted. Its pavements were
brightened by well-dressed women without escort, and there was more
life and action there than elsewhere, due to the process of finding
escort. But by three o’clock the last of them had vanished, and it was
then indeed lonely.
At half-past one the steady downpour ceased, and only showers fell
thereafter. The homeless folk came away from the protection of the
buildings, and slouched up and down and everywhere, in order to rush up
the circulation and keep warm.
One old woman, between fifty and sixty, a sheer wreck, I had noticed
earlier in the night standing in Piccadilly, not far from Leicester
Square. She seemed to have neither the sense nor the strength to get
out of the rain or keep walking, but stood stupidly, whenever she got
the chance, meditating on past days, I imagine, when life was young and
blood was warm. But she did not get the chance often. She was moved on
by every policeman, and it required an average of six moves to send her
doddering off one man’s beat and on to another’s. By three o’clock, she
had progressed as far as St. James Street, and as the clocks were
striking four I saw her sleeping soundly against the iron railings of
Green Park. A brisk shower was falling at the time, and she must have
been drenched to the skin.
Now, said I, at one o’clock, to myself; consider that you are a poor
young man, penniless, in London Town, and that to-morrow you must look
for work. It is necessary, therefore, that you get some sleep in order
that you may have strength to look for work and to do work in case you
find it.
So I sat down on the stone steps of a building. Five minutes later a
policeman was looking at me. My eyes were wide open, so he only grunted
and passed on. Ten minutes later my head was on my knees, I was dozing,
and the same policeman was saying gruffly, “’Ere, you, get outa that!”
I got. And, like the old woman, I continued to get; for every time I
dozed, a policeman was there to rout me along again. Not long after,
when I had given this up, I was walking with a young Londoner (who had
been out to the colonies and wished he were out to them again), when I
noticed an open passage leading under a building and disappearing in
darkness. A low iron gate barred the entrance.
“Come on,” I said. “Let’s climb over and get a good sleep.”
“Wot?” he answered, recoiling from me. “An’ get run in fer three
months! Blimey if I do!”
Later on I was passing Hyde Park with a young boy of fourteen or
fifteen, a most wretched-looking youth, gaunt and hollow-eyed and sick.
“Let’s go over the fence,” I proposed, “and crawl into the shrubbery
for a sleep. The bobbies couldn’t find us there.”
“No fear,” he answered. “There’s the park guardians, and they’d run you
in for six months.”
Times have changed, alas! When I was a youngster I used to read of
homeless boys sleeping in doorways. Already the thing has become a
tradition. As a stock situation it will doubtless linger in literature
for a century to come, but as a cold fact it has ceased to be. Here are
the doorways, and here are the boys, but happy conjunctions are no
longer effected. The doorways remain empty, and the boys keep awake and
carry the banner.
“I was down under the arches,” grumbled another young fellow. By
“arches” he meant the shore arches where begin the bridges that span
the Thames. “I was down under the arches wen it was ryning its ’ardest,
an’ a bobby comes in an’ chyses me out. But I come back, an’ ’e come
too. ‘’Ere,’ sez ’e, ‘wot you doin’ ’ere?’ An’ out I goes, but I sez,
‘Think I want ter pinch [steal] the bleedin’ bridge?’”
Among those who carry the banner, Green Park has the reputation of
opening its gates earlier than the other parks, and at quarter-past
four in the morning, I, and many more, entered Green Park. It was
raining again, but they were worn out with the night’s walking, and
they were down on the benches and asleep at once. Many of the men
stretched out full length on the dripping wet grass, and, with the rain
falling steadily upon them, were sleeping the sleep of exhaustion.
And now I wish to criticise the powers that be. They _are_ the powers,
therefore they may decree whatever they please; so I make bold only to
criticise the ridiculousness of their decrees. All night long they make
the homeless ones walk up and down. They drive them out of doors and
passages, and lock them out of the parks. The evident intention of all
this is to deprive them of sleep. Well and good, the powers have the
power to deprive them of sleep, or of anything else for that matter;
but why under the sun do they open the gates of the parks at five
o’clock in the morning and let the homeless ones go inside and sleep?
If it is their intention to deprive them of sleep, why do they let them
sleep after five in the morning? And if it is not their intention to
deprive them of sleep, why don’t they let them sleep earlier in the
night?
In this connection, I will say that I came by Green Park that same day,
at one in the afternoon, and that I counted scores of the ragged
wretches asleep in the grass. It was Sunday afternoon, the sun was
fitfully appearing, and the well-dressed West Enders, with their wives
and progeny, were out by thousands, taking the air. It was not a
pleasant sight for them, those horrible, unkempt, sleeping vagabonds;
while the vagabonds themselves, I know, would rather have done their
sleeping the night before.
And so, dear soft people, should you ever visit London Town, and see
these men asleep on the benches and in the grass, please do not think
they are lazy creatures, preferring sleep to work. Know that the powers
that be have kept them walking all the night long, and that in the day
they have nowhere else to sleep.