lodger stores her resentment until it serves her purpose, and, the
morning she is going away, she will often make an hour's delay to
tell the landlord her opinion of his place, and he never likes to
hear the truth; whereas men come and go, and are not so particular.
On one occasion I had the pleasure of hearing Irish Molly speak her
mind to a landlord who begrudged coke for the kitchen fire, making it
necessary for lodgers to bring in pieces of wood, picked up in the
streets. Molly, her husband, and two children, had been here for two
weeks, and, having thoroughly begged the town and its surrounding
districts, were to seek fresh quarters on the morrow. But Molly swore
the night before that she would not leave until she told the landlord
what she thought of him. At nine o'clock on the following morning,
they were ready to leave, and in spite of the husband's hurry
to be off, Molly would not budge until she saw the lodging-house
keeper. At last that gentleman entered the kitchen, and Molly at
once rose to her feet, and set on him like a fury. For a moment the
man was astonished, and tried to pacify her, but failing to do so,
he hurriedly left the kitchen, and took refuge in his private room.
Irish Molly at once followed and, standing outside, emphasized her
words with her fists on the door. For ten minutes she hammered and
abused, and the men and women in the kitchen encouraged her with
their laughter. "I shall send for a constable," shouted the landlord
from behind the door. "Send for fifty," cried Molly. "I shall have
you locked up," he shouted. "Come out, and be knocked down," cried
she.
Now it happened that Molly's husband and two children had stood
waiting at the front door all this time. More than once he had asked
her impatiently if she was coming, and at last, receiving no answer,
went away with the children. Love in Molly's bosom was stronger than
revenge, for she at once prepared to follow them. But, wishing to
give the lodging-house keeper a new specimen of her powers, she sang
him one verse of a ditty, beginning, "O, I am waiting for you, love."
After which she danced the chorus down the wooden passage, arriving
at the front door just in time to give it the final high kick.
XXXIII
Meeting Old Friends
It is a great pleasure to have a sharp eye and a clear memory for
people we have met years ago, if only for a few minutes, and try to
remember the condition under which they were met. For this reason
I always enjoy a day in London, for I am sure to meet some strange
characters that surprised or amused me in days gone by. These people
do not know me. Perhaps their eyesight is not so good as mine,
or their memories are not so clear. Moreover, they do not study
character, and one man to them is much the same as another, with only
the difference of outward appearance.
When I met a man the other day in Fleet Street, I touched him lightly
on the shoulder and said, "Have a drink?" "Certainly," he answered,
looking at me very hard; "but I don't remember meeting you before."
After we had drunk part of our beer, I asked him if he had read
anything of the scandal in high life, which the papers were then
making much of. Now I had only met this man once, and that had been
years before, in a common lodging-house in Blackfriars Road. On that
occasion he had laid claim in fierce tones to the very purest French
blood, and had laughed to scorn the blood of our English aristocracy.
As soon as I mentioned this scandal in English high life, the man
immediately began in his old manner to compare the blood of England
to that of France, and proved to me at once that he had the same
subject for his delight.
After I left him I wandered into the Embankment Gardens, and there I
saw a very ragged man sleeping on a seat. I recognized him at once,
in spite of a great change in appearance. He was the man whom I
met at a superior lodging-house, who hid himself when a celebrated
Duchess was brought there to see the place. He told me, after she had
gone, that he had been valet to the Duke, but that the lady had never
liked him, and had at last succeeded in getting him dismissed. At
that time he looked healthy, clean, and was well dressed, but he did
not want the Duchess to see him in a lodging-house. Suppose she saw
him now, ragged, dirty, and without a house of any kind.
In the same house I knew many other queer characters, whom I often
meet now. There was the man that starved on a small allowance made
by his brother, and knew so much about finance and yet could make no
money. Occasionally he received a few shillings for an article on
finance, but he had hard work to keep body and soul together.
Another strange character was Darky. This man had read verses to
every one of the four hundred regular lodgers at the house, and
hardly one stranger that came there for a single night escaped
without hearing him. Seeing that every lodger in the house knew him
for a poet, I had the good sense to confide in no one; for I knew
that the dignity of a poet had suffered for all time, as far as this
house was concerned. Darky had written an ode to the man who founded
this class of lodging-house, and had received personal thanks. The
Boer War kept him busy day and night, as it also did many another
poet, but poor Darky could not make sixpence for one night's lodging.
He had also written lines on his sister's death, which I am sorry to
say he read to every stranger that would listen. He always ended by
cursing his brother-in-law, that he would not--although a successful
undertaker, that could have got the job done cheap--have the lines
engraved on the tombstone.
I have also lately met the old-time actor, who used to borrow pennies
of me, and always paid them back. One night, when I was playing a
game of draughts, this old actor came and sat beside me to whisper.
"I am in great difficulty," he said hurriedly; "lend me a shilling
till to-morrow noon." Now a shilling was a large sum to me, and even
a penny was more than I could afford to lose; for a man, however
honest his intentions may be, can never be sure of paying his debts.
Seeing my thoughtful expression, he said, "You shall have my watch
and chain for security; I would rather let you have it than the
pawnshop." A watch, thought I, is worth redeeming for a shilling,
even if it is out of repair and only common metal--without a question
of the chain. I did not like anyone to see our transaction, for I
felt a shame in taking a security. In fact he was more careful than
I was. So I slipped the shilling into his hand and received in mine
something smooth, large, and round, twice the size of an ordinary
watch. This manoeuvring was done with our hands under the table,
but I took a swift glance downward to inspect the watch before
putting it into my pocket. That it had a white face I saw at once,
but what surprised me was its extraordinary lightness. However, it
was not worth while to examine it more closely, for the old actor
had now gone with the shilling, and I would not see him again till
the morrow. When I went to bed that night I examined the watch and
found it to be a most extraordinary one. It was not only common
metal, but it was all in one piece, and not one part to move; and,
to account for its very light weight, there was nothing inside it.
I have been told since that it was a property watch, which some
actors use on the stage, and was not worth twopence. This old actor
was a gambler and, fortunately for me, he had a winner the next day.
Knowing that honesty was the best policy--for he would soon want to
borrow again--he no sooner saw me than he stepped forward with great
dignity, and with a very solemn face thanked me for my kindness, paid
the shilling, and received his property.
I often meet the man who has for a number of years relied on
Providence for his food and lodging. On more occasions than one I
have been an instrument in the hands of Providence in assisting this
artful hypocrite to a meal or his bed. When in the lodging-house
he is always to be seen reading the Bible, committing passages to
memory, but he enters into conversation with anyone that comes near.
Then he explains that although he has had no dinner, he has faith
in Providence to supply his supper; and though he has no money to
pay for his bed, Providence will not let him walk the streets all
night. In a large house where there are more than six hundred beds,
and strangers are coming and going every day, this man often finds a
sympathetic ear. And in the parks and gardens, and at street corners,
where he enters into conversation with strangers, he can generally
get enough to keep him independent of work.
The other day I met a very small, old-fashioned looking figure
dressed in black, and with a tall silk hat which looked the worse
for wear. I was really startled when I saw this quaint, little, old
man, for I had known him in a lodging-house five years before, and
he then gave his age as ninety years. He used to sleep so sound in
the chairs that lodgers believed him to be dead, and would call the
manager. And when they had succeeded, after great difficulty, in
rousing him, he would accuse them of trying to rob him. One day he
slept so long that the porters thought that his end had come at last,
and they fetched the manager. The latter did many things to rouse
the old man, pinching, slapping, and shaking him, but all in vain.
Giving one porter orders to send for the doctor, he told the others
to carry the old man downstairs, so that the many lodgers passing to
and fro would not have their attention drawn to the dead man. Taking
the little figure in their strong arms, they carried it downstairs,
and there it remained till the doctor came. But no sooner was that
gentleman on the spot than the old man opened his eyes and, seeing
to his amaze five or six men around him, scrambled to his feet and
shouted, "Thieves!" The manager could not forgive this trick of
the dead coming to life, and sternly bade the old man to go to his
relatives, as he--the manager--had been deceived more than once.
XXXIV
The Comparison
The finest and most perfect piece of begging that was ever brought to
my notice was performed in Brooklyn by Boston Shorty. Such an example
in the art of begging does not deserve oblivion, so I will record it,
at the same time feeling a little jealousy, which is quite natural,
that I was not the hero on that occasion.
The time was morning, and Boston Shorty felt disposed for breakfast.
Seeing a tenement house, with three storeys and a basement, he
at once entered, and, climbing the stairway to the top storey,
knocked at the door in a business-like manner--for the short one
was too proud a beggar to knock humbly at any man's door. In fact,
he knew well from experience that a business-like method was just
as likely to meet with success as to bother his brains to invent
lies. Therefore, when a stout, pleasant-looking woman answered the
door, he politely wished her good morning, and with a pleased smile
told her in a few words that he had come for a little breakfast--in
the same manner as a landlord or his agent would ask for the rent.
"Sit down," said the good woman; and Shorty at once sat down on the
stairs. In a few moments she stood before him with a plate of hot
buckwheat cakes and a large basin of coffee. After he had disposed
of these, he again knocked at the door, and returned the empty
articles, at the same time thanking the woman for her kindness. There
was nothing in this act to distinguish Shorty from a thousand other
beggars; but it chanced that after walking about for two or three
hours, he found himself at dinner-time passing the same house. Now,
no man, except a born beggar, would think of climbing the same stairs
again, with so many other houses near, for in all likelihood he would
be confronted by his former benefactress. But this Shorty did, for,
going up to the second storey of the same tenement, he knocked at the
door, which was soon answered by--the same woman! This unexpected
meeting considerably surprised the short man, and it took him so long
to recover his wits that the good woman, knowing his wants, came to
his assistance, and called indoors, "Mrs. Smith, here's a man wants
some dinner." Saying which, she smiled at Shorty and went to her own
flat above.
On hearing this call, Mrs. Smith immediately came forward, and,
looking at Shorty, and being satisfied with his appearance, said,
"Come in."
It was after this success that Boston Shorty, when leaving the house,
proved himself to be the born beggar that he was; for he at once
made up his mind to consult the tenant on the main floor as to the
prospects of supper. So he strayed idly about till evening, and, when
supper-time came, entered the house for the third time.
Beggars have great confidence at this time of the day, for the men
are at home, and kind-hearted women often refuse beggars for the
simple reason that they are afraid of them. For this reason Shorty
felt quite relieved when the door was answered by a man, for it was
beginning to get dark, and the most kind-hearted of women are apt to
be unreasonable at that time. Shorty heard a whispered consultation
between the man and woman, which was soon followed by the man
saying, "Walk in, my man," which the latter did.
The lady looked rather surprised when she saw Shorty's face. "Didn't
I see you go upstairs at noon?" she asked. "Madam," answered the
short one, not a bit abashed--"Madam, I may have done so, for the
houses hereabout are so much alike."
Now, what do you think of that? Three meals in succession at one
house, and from three distinct families. That in itself was a gem of
begging, but to Shorty's eyes it still lacked perfection; for, during
supper-time, he explained his homeless condition, and requested as
another favour that they would give him an old blanket and allow him
to sleep in the basement!
How it pleased my Uncle T---- to hear this, who is himself a good
beggar, but confines himself to Wales, with an occasional trip to an
adjoining county.
Some years ago my family always referred to me as a second Uncle
T----. In his young days he was a roofer, but through getting so
many black eyes in taking his own part, his sight failed him so much
that he could not follow his calling. It was then that he began to
hawk laces, etc., and found the life to be more pleasant than hard
labour. He has a strong dislike to navvies, because, I suppose, they
are the hardest workers. Whenever my Uncle T---- sees a gang of
navvies at work, he feels while passing through them like a comet
through a host of stars. It has quite upset him to hear that I have
degenerated into a worker; but he is pleased to know that it is
mental work, and that I never sweat or soil my hands.
It was a joy to meet him lately and hear his account of those
stirring days of 1905, during the revival in Wales, when beggars had
extraordinary success. His own success at that time almost ruined
him, all through the generosity of a lady that had been converted.
He had begged a house, and while the lady was feeding his body,
she enquired with much concern about my Uncle T----'s soul. He
immediately took advantage of this kind question by saying: "Lady,
if there is one religious man in Wales, it is me; and yet misfortune
follows me wherever I go." The upshot of this was that the lady took
a house for my Uncle T----, and furnished it, and kept him for a
whole month in idleness, supplying him with various sums from time to
time. Then, of course, the revival burned out, and the lady began to
cool towards my Uncle T----, and he began to see, to his indignation,
that the lady began to suspect him of being an undeserving rogue; so
he sold the furniture and took a tour through Wales. This success
almost ruined him, for, after being kept so long, he found it very
hard to start business again.
"America," I said to him, "is good all the year round; but it is only
during revivals that this country is of much account to a beggar."
"Hang the revivals," cried my Uncle T----; "for when they are over it
is hard to get a crust of dry bread."
It was at this stage of the conversation that I related to him an
experience of mine, which happened a few weeks before. I was in the
act of washing an old shirt, not having enough money to buy a new
one, and I was not rich enough to hire a washerwoman, when a knock
came to the door, which I thought must be the midday post. I dried my
hands, and, sure enough, it was the postman, who handed me a small
dainty letter. I opened this letter at once, and the first words that
caught my eyes were--"Most Distinguished Sir," and then went on to
make a request for my autograph. The lady also enclosed a list of
fifty or sixty names of those who had obliged her, beginning with the
head of the State. That, I said to my Uncle T----, is what they call
fame in England. Now let us compare it to begging in America. If I
had been in that country, I could have begged a clean shirt in less
time than it took to wash one, and no person there would have offered
me such a ragged one.
Again, as a beggar in America I have sat down to meals consisting of
turkey, sweet potatoes, mince pie, and bananas; but as a famous man
in England----"I know," interrupted my Uncle T----, whose intentions
had been to beg me, and whose hopes now vanished--"I know," said
he, "you have to put up with anything; but why? Why don't you
return to begging?" Not getting an answer to this, my Uncle T----
looked considerably perplexed for the time, but at last his face
brightened, and he said: "Well, lad, if you are determined on the
writing business, why don't you, in the name of goodness, go in for
limericks?"
XXXV
The Supper
I had been thinking all day of my strange companions of the past,
both in America and England, and that accounted for my dream at
night. In that dream I had invited them all to a grand supper, for
I was now leading a different life. I was seated at the end of the
table, which was full of fine things, and Brum, of America--the
greatest beggar I had ever met--was seated at my right hand. After
making them a short speech, in which I commended them on their way
of living, and expressed deep regret that I had ever been cheated to
follow Fame, who had led me into a treacherous swamp in which I stood
up to the knees, with little power to either return or advance--after
making this short speech, I invited them to help themselves, and to
receive my undying friendship.
They then began to assist themselves with a hearty goodwill, all
except Brum, who, to my surprise and confusion, sat motionless,
glancing with scorn at his companions. "There," said he, with deep
disgust; "do you call these men good beggars? See the way they
rush at the food, as though they had starved themselves all day in
anticipation of this meal." Saying this, he began slowly to feel
the lining of his coat, and, after much trouble, took out a greasy
paper parcel, placed it on his knees and began to make room for it
on the table. This being done, he spread the contents before him and
began to eat in a very slow and indifferent manner. As for myself, I
could not eat for joy, to see all these dear faces before me, and sat
smiling at one and another, laughing and sighing in turns. Sometimes
I closed my eyes, and opened them again on my companions, endeared to
me by a past that had few cares and worries.
By a strange coincidence, Irish Tim of London was paired with
Oaklahoma Sam of America. Now the latter was a man of very few words,
and he always had in hand a long dangerous-looking knife, with which
he trimmed his nails, whittled sticks, or threw at cracks in the
door, flies, or any other object that caught his eye. But he never
allowed that knife to remain long out of his hand, for, if he threw
it at a door nine feet away, he was sure to recover it at one leap,
and ere it had finished trembling in the wood. When I have seen him
asleep at the cattleman's office, he always had this knife between
his teeth.
As I have said, Sam was a man of few words, but on the subject of
war he was more talkative than an old man. His memory on that one
subject was extraordinary; knowing the dates of battles, the number
of their forces, names of generals and regiments, and the exact
position of their entrenchments. Tim must have unwittingly broached
this subject, for I was suddenly startled by hearing Oaklahoma Sam
say, "This is Napoleon"; at the same time down went his knife over
half an inch into the table. I had noticed from the first that Sam
had scornfully pushed aside my table knife, preferring to use his
own, although he had retained the use of my fork. Looking at once
in that direction, I saw Tim's face turned my way, with sarcasm
trembling on his lips, which only needed a little encouragement,
and he would then utter one of his scathing sentences, thinking to
blight at once the newly-opened flower of Sam's eloquence. "Don't
look that way, look at me," cried the man from Oaklahoma, placing
his left hand on Tim's shoulder, and speaking in a voice terribly
quiet and firm. "I see," answered Tim, leaning back, with his two
hands resting on the table--"I see; this is Napoleon." "Yes, and
this is Blucher," continued Sam, taking the knife out of the table,
and quickly planting it dangerously near to Tim's right hand. "And
this," cried Sam, forcing his words between his teeth, and holding
the knife suspended in the air, "is Wellington," and down it flashed
between the two big fingers of Tim's left hand. Tim grew much paler
as he removed that hand to his knee, and it was at once apparent to
me that for the rest of the evening he was a spell-bound man, afraid
to hazard even a civil question, for fear it would be misunderstood.
Next to Sam and Tim sat Chicago Slim, who was relating to Bony--an
English beggar--his awful suffering for a week in the State of Utah,
where a beggar had no other food than bread and milk confronting him
on every threshold he approached, and how travelling in that part
was known to all beggars as "the bread-and-milk route." Such were
his awful sufferings, related to the sympathetic ears of Bony, who,
in exchange, mentioned his own disappointments in England, "where,"
said he, "I find public-houses to be the easiest, quickest, and
most profitable places." He was just about to cite instances when
the Curly Kid, who had been listening to their conversation, asked
Chicago Slim this question: "How is it that, when I was in Utah,
the citizens did not baby _me_ with bread and milk?" "Don't know,"
answered Slim, disconcerted not a little. "I went to no houses, but
begged on the fly, and people had to give money or nothing. Slim, I
reckon no true beggar would allow himself to be fed day after day on
bread and milk." Chicago Slim did not answer, and at once fell in the
estimation of Bony, who now considered him to be unworthy of further
attention.
"I shall never forget," said Bony to the Curly Kid, who had by his
remarks proved himself to be a beggar equal to any emergency--"I
shall never forget my disgust when, one Sunday morning, I found
myself accidentally in a town where public-houses are shut on the
Sabbath day. I had to beg of proud, neatly-dressed church-goers, for
the good-natured drinking man had not the heart to come out of doors,
and you can imagine my ill success. How I wished all these people who
were carrying Bibles and Prayer-books had bottles and jugs instead!"
How the hours passed, looking on these delightful companions! The
first to leave was Tim, for Oaklahoma Sam had become personal about
his rough beard, and wanted to shave him, there and then, with his
knife; and, in fact, was sharpening it on a stone for that purpose,
which I had often seen him do before. Tim civilly but firmly refused
this kindness at Sam's hands, and, being afraid that he might be
forced to undergo such an operation, got up, and saying "Good night,
all," left the room.
Others followed, one by one, and two by two, until at last I was left
alone with Brum. "Yes, and I must go too," said he; "for I intend to
call on a dentist who is good for twenty-five cents." Saying which he
also departed, leaving me standing alone, sad and motionless, at the
end of the table.