The public-houses of Burwell Road--and there were many of them for the
length of the street--were rather proud of Joe Hollends. He was a
perfected specimen of the work a pub produces. He was probably the most
persistent drunkard the Road possessed, and the periodical gathering in
of Joe by the police was one of the stock sights of the street. Many of
the inhabitants could be taken to the station by one policeman; some
required two; but Joe's average was four. He had been heard to boast
that on one occasion he had been accompanied to the station by seven
bobbies, but that was before the force had studied Joe and got him down
to his correct mathematical equivalent. Now they tripped him up, a
policeman taking one kicking leg and another the other, while the
remaining two attended to the upper part of his body. Thus they carried
him, followed by an admiring crowd, and watched by other envious
drunkards who had to content themselves with a single officer when they
went on a similar spree. Sometimes Joe managed to place a kick where it
would do the most good against the stomach of a policeman, and when the
officer rolled over there was for a few moments a renewal of the fight,
silent on the part of the men and vociferous on the part of the
drunkard, who had a fine flow of abusive language. Then the procession
went on again. It was perfectly useless to put Joe on the police
ambulance, for it required two men to sit on him while in transit, and
the barrow is not made to stand such a load.
Of course, when Joe staggered out of the pub and fell in the gutter,
the ambulance did its duty, and trundled Joe to his abiding place, but
the real fun occurred when Joe was gathered in during the third stage
of his debauch. He passed through the oratorical stage, then the
maudlin or sentimental stage, from which he emerged into the fighting
stage, when he was usually ejected into the street, where he forthwith
began to make Rome howl, and paint the town red. At this point the
policeman's whistle sounded, and the force knew Joe was on the warpath,
and that duty called them to the fray.
It was believed in the neighborhood that Joe had been a college man,
and this gave him additional standing with his admirers. His eloquence
was undoubted, after several glasses varying in number according to the
strength of their contents, and a man who had heard the great political
speakers of the day admitted that none of them could hold a candle to
Joe when he got on the subject of the wrongs of the working man and the
tyranny of the capitalist. It was generally understood that Joe might
have been anything he liked, and that he was no man's enemy but his
own. It was also hinted that he could tell the bigwigs a thing or two
if he had been consulted in affairs of State.
One evening, when Joe was slowly progressing as usual, with his feet in
the air, towards the station, supported by the requisite number of
policemen, and declaiming to the delight of the accompanying crowd, a
woman stood with her back to the brick wall, horror-stricken at the
sight. She had a pale, refined face, and was dressed in black. Her
self-imposed mission was among these people, but she had never seen Joe
taken to the station before, and the sight, which was so amusing to the
neighborhood, was shocking to her. She enquired about Joe, and heard
the usual story that he was no man's enemy but his own, although they
might in justice have added the police. Still, a policeman was hardly
looked upon as a human being in that neighborhood. Miss Johnson
reported the case to the committee of the Social League, and took
counsel. Then it was that the reclamation of Joe Hollends was
determined on.
Joe received Miss Johnson with subdued dignity, and a demeanor that
delicately indicated a knowledge on his part of her superiority and his
own degradation. He knew how a lady should be treated even if he was a
drunkard, as he told his cronies afterwards. Joe was perfectly willing
to be reclaimed. Heretofore in his life, no one had ever extended the
hand of fellowship to him. Human sympathy was what Joe needed, and
precious little he had had of it. There were more kicks than halfpence
in this world for a poor man. The rich did not care what became of the
poor; not they--a proposition which Miss Johnson earnestly denied.
It was one of the tenets of the committee that where possible the poor
should help the poor. It was resolved to get Joe a decent suit of
clothes and endeavor to find him a place where work would enable him to
help himself. Miss Johnson went around the neighborhood and collected
pence for the reclamation. Most people were willing to help Joe,
although it was generally felt that the Road would be less gay when he
took on sober habits. In one room, however, Miss Johnson was refused
the penny she pleaded for.
"We cannot spare even a penny," said the woman, whose sickly little boy
clung to her skirts. "My husband is just out of work again. He has had
only four weeks' work this time."
Miss Johnson looked around the room and saw why there was no money. It
was quite evident where the earnings of the husband had gone.
The room was much better furnished than the average apartment of the
neighborhood. There were two sets of dishes where one would have been
quite sufficient. On the mantelshelf and around the walls were various
unnecessary articles which cost money.
Miss Johnson noted all this but said nothing, although she resolved to
report it to the committee. In union is strength and in multitude of
counsel there is wisdom. Miss Johnson had great faith in the wisdom of
the committee.
"How long has your husband been out of work?" she asked.
"Only a few days, but times are very bad and he is afraid he will not
get another situation soon."
"What is his trade?"
"He is a carpenter and a good workman--sober and steady."
"If you give me his name I will put it down in our books. Perhaps we
may be able to help him."
"John Morris is his name."
Miss Johnson wrote it down on her tablets, and when she left, the wife
felt vaguely grateful for benefits to come.
The facts of the case were reported to the committee, and Miss Johnson
was deputed to expostulate with Mrs. Morris upon her extravagance. John
Morris's name was put upon the books among the names of many other
unemployed persons. The case of Joe Hollends then came up, and elicited
much enthusiasm. A decent suit of clothing had been purchased with part
of the money collected for him, and it was determined to keep the rest
in trust, to be doled out to him as occasion warranted.
Two persuasive ladies undertook to find a place for him in one of the
factories, if such a thing were possible.
Joe felt rather uncomfortable in his new suit of clothes, and seemed to
regard the expenditure as, all in all, a waste of good money. He was
also disappointed to find that the funds collected were not to be
handed over to him in a lump. It was not the money he cared about, he
said, but the evident lack of trust. If people had trusted him more, he
might have been a better man. Trust and human sympathy were what Joe
Hollends needed.
The two persuasive ladies appealed to Mr. Stillwell, the proprietor of
a small factory for the making of boxes. They said that if Hollends got
a chance they were sure he would reform. Stillwell replied that he had
no place for anyone. He had enough to do to keep the men already in his
employ. Times were dull in the box business, and he was turning away
applicants every day who were good workmen and who didn't need to be
reformed. However, the ladies were very persuasive, and it is not given
to every man to be able to refuse the appeal of a pretty woman, not to
mention two of them. Stillwell promised to give Hollends a chance, said
he would consult with his foreman, and let the ladies know what could
be done.
Joe Hollends did not receive the news of his luck with the enthusiasm
that might have been expected. Many a man was tramping London in search
of employment and finding none, therefore even the ladies who were so
solicitous about Joe's welfare thought he should be thankful that work
came unsought. He said he would do his best, which is, when you come to
think of it, all that we have a right to expect from any man.
Some days afterwards Jack Morris applied to Mr. Stillwell for a job,
but he had no sub-committee of persuasive ladies to plead for him. He
would be willing to work half-time or quarter-time for that matter. He
had a wife and boy dependent on him. He could show that he was a good
workman and he did not drink. Thus did Morris recite his qualifications
to the unwilling ears of Stillwell the box maker. As he left the place
disheartened with another refusal, he was overtaken by Joe Hollends.
Joe was a lover of his fellow-man, and disliked seeing anyone
downhearted. He had one infallible cure for dejection. Having just been
discharged, he was in high spirits, because his prediction of his own
failure as a reformed character, if work were a condition of the
reclamation, had just been fulfilled.
"Cheer up, old man," he cried, slapping Morris on the shoulder, "what's
the matter? Come and have a drink with me. I've got the money."
"No," said Morris, who knew the professional drunkard but slightly, and
did not care for further acquaintance with him, "I want work, not
beer."
"Every man to his taste. Why don't you ask at the box factory? You can
have my job and welcome. The foreman's just discharged me. Said I
wouldn't work myself, and kept the men off theirs. Thought I talked too
much about capital and labor."
"Do you think I could get your job?"
"Very likely. No harm in trying. If they don't take you on, come into
the Red Lion--I'll be there--and have a drop. It'll cheer you up a
bit."
Morris appealed in vain to the foreman. They had more men now in the
factory than they needed, he said. So Morris went to the Red Lion,
where he found Hollends ready to welcome him. They had several glasses
together, and Hollends told him of the efforts of the Social League in
the reclamation line, and his doubts of their ultimate success.
Hollends seemed to think the ladies of the League were deeply indebted
to him for furnishing them with such a good subject for reformation.
That night Joe's career reached a triumphant climax, for the four
policeman had to appeal to the bystanders for help in the name of the
law.
Jack Morris went home unaided. He had not taken many glasses, but he
knew he should have avoided drink altogether, for he had some
experience of its power in his younger days. He was, therefore, in a
quarrelsome mood, ready to blame everyone but himself.
He found his wife in tears, and saw Miss Johnson sitting there,
evidently very miserable.
"What's all this?" asked Morris.
His wife dried her eyes, and said it was nothing. Miss Johnson had been
giving her some advice, which she was thankful for. Morris glared at
the visitor.
"What have you got to do with us?" he demanded rudely. His wife caught
him by the arm, but he angrily tossed aside her hand. Miss Johnson
arose, fearing.
"You've no business here. We want none of your advice. You get out of
this." Then, impatiently to his wife, who strove to calm him, "Shut up,
will you?"
Miss Johnson was afraid he would strike her as she passed him going to
the door, but he merely stood there, following her exit with lowering
brow.
The terrified lady told her experience to the sympathizing members of
the committee. She had spoken to Mrs. Morris of her extravagance in
buying so many things that were not necessary when her husband had
work. She advised the saving of the money. Mrs. Morris had defended her
apparent lavish expenditure by saying that there was no possibility of
saving money. She bought useful things, and when her husband was out of
work she could always get a large percentage of their cost from the
pawnbroker. The pawnshop, she had tearfully explained to Miss Johnson,
was the only bank of the poor. The idea of the pawnshop as a bank, and
not as a place of disgrace, was new to Miss Johnson, but before
anything further could be said the husband had come in. One of the
committee, who knew more about the district than Miss Johnson, affirmed
that there was something to say for the pawnbroker as the banker of the
poor. The committee were unanimous in condemning the conduct of Morris,
and it says much for the members that, in spite of the provocation one
of them had received, they did not take the name of so undeserving a
man from their list of the unemployed.
The sad relapse of Joe Hollends next occupied the attention of the
League. His fine had been paid, and he had expressed himself as deeply
grieved at his own frailty. If the foreman had been less harsh with him
and had given him a chance, things might have been different. It was
resolved to send Joe to the seaside so that he might have an
opportunity of toning up his system to resist temptation. Joe enjoyed
his trip to the sea. He always liked to encounter a new body of police
unaccustomed to his methods. He toned up his system so successfully the
first day on the sands that he spent the night in the cells.
Little by little, the portable property in the rooms of the Morrises
disappeared into the pawnshop. Misfortune, as usual, did not come
singly. The small boy was ill, and Morris himself seemed to be unable
to resist the temptation of the Red Lion. The unhappy woman took her
boy to the parish doctor, who was very busy, but he gave what attention
he could to the case. He said all the boy needed was nourishing food
and country air. Mrs. Morris sighed, and decided to take the little boy
oftener to the park, but the way was long, and he grew weaker day by
day.
At last, she succeeded in interesting her husband in the little
fellow's condition. He consented to take the boy to the doctor with
her.
"The doctor doesn't seem to mind what I say," she complained. "Perhaps
he will pay attention to a man."
Morris was not naturally a morose person, but continued disappointment
was rapidly making him so. He said nothing, but took the boy in his
arms, and, followed by his wife, went to the doctor.
"This boy was here before," said the physician, which tended to show
that he had paid more attention to the case than Mrs. Morris thought.
"He is very much worse. You will have to take him to the country or he
will die."
"How can I send him to the country?" asked Morris, sullenly. "I've been
out of work for months."
"Have you friends in the country?"
"No."
"Hasn't your wife any friends in the country who would take her and the
lad for a month or so?"
"No."
"Have you anything to pawn?"
"Very little."
"Then I would advise you to pawn everything you own, or sell it if you
can, and take the boy on your back and tramp to the country. You will
get work there probably more easily than in the city. Here are ten
shillings to help you."
"I don't want your money," said Morris, in a surly tone. "I want work."
"I have no work to give you, so I offer you what I have. I haven't as
much of that as I could wish. You are a fool not to take what the gods
send."
Morris, without replying, gathered up his son in his arms and departed.
"Here is a bottle of tonic for him." said the doctor to Mrs. Morris.
He placed the half-sovereign on the bottle as he passed it to her. She
silently thanked him with her wet eyes, hoping that a time would come
when she could repay the money. The doctor had experience enough to
know that they were not to be classed among his usual visitors. He was
not in the habit of indiscriminately bestowing gold coins.
It was a dreary journey, and they were a long time shaking off the
octopus-like tentacles of the great city, that reached further and
further into he country each year, as if it lived on consuming the
green fields. Morris walked ahead with the boy on his back, and his
wife followed. Neither spoke, and the sick lad did not complain. As
they were nearing a village, the boy's head sunk on his father's
shoulder. The mother quickened her pace, and came up to them stroking
the head of her sleeping son. Suddenly, she uttered a smothered cry and
took the boy in her arms.
"What's the matter?" asked Morris, turning round.
She did not answer, but sat by the roadside with the boy on her lap,
swaying her body to and fro over him, moaning as she did so. Morris
needed no answer. He stood on the road with hardening face, and looked
down on his wife and child without speaking.
The kindly villagers arranged the little funeral, and when it was over
Jack Morris and his wife stood again on the road.
"Jack, dear," she pleaded, "don't go back to that horrible place. We
belong to the country, and the city is so hard and cruel."
"I'm going back. You can do as you like." Then, relenting a little, he
added, "I haven't brought much luck to you, my girl."
She knew her husband was a stubborn man, and set in his way, so,
unprotesting, she followed him in, as she had followed out, stumbling
many times, for often her eyes did not see the road. And so they
returned to their empty rooms.
Jack Morris went to look for work at the Red Lion. There he met that
genial comrade, Joe Hollends, who had been reformed, and who had
backslid twice since Jack had foregathered with him before. It is but
fair to Joe to admit that he had never been optimistic about his own
reclamation, but being an obliging man, even when he was sober, he was
willing to give the Social League every chance. Jack was deeply grieved
at the death of his son, although he had said no word to his wife that
would show it. It therefore took more liquor than usual to bring him up
to the point of good comradeship that reigned at the Red Lion. When he
and Joe left the tavern that night it would have taken an expert to
tell which was the more inebriated. They were both in good fighting
trim, and were both in the humor for a row. The police, who had
reckoned on Joe alone, suddenly found a new element in the fight that
not only upset their calculations but themselves as well. It was a
glorious victory, and, as both fled down a side street, Morris urged
Hollends to come along, for the representatives of law and order have
the habit of getting reinforcements which often turn a victory into a
most ignominious defeat.
"I can't," panted Hollends. "The beggars have hurt me."
"Come along. I know a place where we are safe."
Drunk as he was, Jack succeeded in finding the hole in the wall that
allowed him to enter a vacant spot behind the box factory. There
Hollends lay down with a groan, and there Morris sank beside him in a
drunken sleep. The police were at last revenged, and finally.
When the grey daylight brought Morris to a dazed sense of where he was,
he found his companion dead beside him. He had a vague fear that he
would be tried for murder, but it was not so. From the moment that
Hollends, in his fall, struck his head on the curb, the Providence
which looks after the drunken deserted him.
But the inquest accomplished one good object. It attracted the
attention of the Social League to Jack Morris, and they are now
endeavoring to reclaim him.
Whether they succeed or not, he was a man that was certainly once worth
saving.