RAIN AND POVERTY
The greatest enemy to the man who has to carry on his body all his
wardrobe, is rain. As long as the sun shines he is indifferent, but if
he is caught in a wet condition after sunset he is to be pitied. He
does not fear any ill consequences to health from being wet through,
as does his more fortunate brother, but he does not like the
uncomfortable sensation of shivering and not being able to keep warm.
This unsettled feeling is often made worse by an empty stomach. In
fact a full stomach is his one safeguard against the cold, and he
cares not then if the rain and the wind penetrate his clothes. No
seaman ever searched the heavens for a dark speck, or astronomer for a
new light, as does this homeless man for a sign of rain. To escape
from the coming deluge he seeks shelter in the public library, which
is the only free shelter available; and there he sits for hours
staring at one page, not a word of which he has read or, for that
matter, intends to read. If he cannot at once get a seat, he stands
before a paper and performs that almost impossible feat of standing
upright fast asleep, so as to deceive the attendants, and respectable
people who are waiting a chance to see that very paper. To be able to
do this requires many unsuccessful efforts, which fail on account of
hard breathing, nodding and stumbling against the paper stand; but
success has at last been attained, and there he stands fast asleep and
apparently absorbed in a most interesting paragraph. He attains such
perfection in this one act that he has been known to stand like a
marble statue before a large sheet of costly plate glass, what time
sleep had overpowered him in the act of admiring a baker's art. The
homeless man must always remember one thing, that though he may sit on
wooden seats and stone parapets, eat in public and go in rags, he must
not, on any account, sleep. Working men only are allowed that
privilege and those who can afford to remain idle. No policeman would
think of indulging in a short nap until he made sure that there was no
vagrant sleeping on his beat. And what respectable householder could
rest in bed knowing that a tramp was sleeping in his doorway? If
necessity is the mother of invention, sleep must certainly be
necessary to a human being, or the tramp, according to his many
chances of experiments, would be the first to prove the contrary. So
much for the very lowest men.
But there are others who, in that they have a shelter at night, scorn
the name of being called homeless men. These men live in common
lodging houses, and are well satisfied with a place to sleep and
enough food to keep body and soul together. Most of these men earn
their living, such as it is, in the open air, and they earn so little
that they are seldom prepared for a rainy day. Therefore, when comes
this rainy morn, and the poor fellow rises penniless from his bed, it
is then that you see a little seriousness come over him; for he cannot
expose his wares to spoil in the rain and, did they not spoil, who
would be foolish enough to tarry in bad weather to make an idle
purchase? The rain would spoil his paper-toys, his memorandum-books,
or his laces and collar studs. In truth, as long as the rain continues
his occupation is gone. The paper seller can take his stand regardless
of weather, and earn enough for the day thereof, at the expense of a
wet skin. Sometimes he is fortunate enough to be stationed near some
shelter, but sometimes his stand happens to be outside an aristocratic
club or hotel, and he dare not enter its porch, not even if the devil
was at his heels.
Then there is the "downrighter," the man who makes no pretence to
selling, but boldly asks people for the price of his bed and board. On
a rainy day he has to make sudden bursts between the heaviest showers
and forage the surrounding streets, which, being near a lodging house,
are invariably poor and unprofitable, whereas his richest pastures are
in the suburbs or better still the outskirts of them. The bad weather
is, of course, a blessing to those distant housekeepers, however hard
it is on the "downrighter," for it comes as the Sabbath day to their
bells and knockers.
Then there are the market men who work two or three early hours in the
morning, when the majority of people are asleep. These men are
returning in their wet clothes between eight and nine o'clock and
their day's work is done. Often they have no change of clothing,
therefore it is not unusual for two men to be standing at the same
fire, the one drying his wet socks and the other toasting his dry
bread, with the articles in question almost embracing one another on
the most friendly terms.
It is on this rainy day that one sees those little kindnesses which
are only seen among the very poor: one who has not sufficient for
himself assisting some other who has nothing. One man who has made
eighteen pence at the market, returns, pays fourpence for his bed,
buys food, and then in addition to paying for another man's bed,
invites yet another to dine with him and in the end gives his last
copper to another. One, who happens to have done well the previous
day, gives here and there until he is himself penniless. The
consequence of all this is that whereas you saw in the morning dull
and anxious faces, at midday you see more than half of the lodgers
cooking, their beds already paid for. All worry is at an end, and
they are whistling, humming songs, or chaffing one another.
It is on this rainy day when they are made prisoners without spare
money to pay into the beer house, that they mend and wash their
clothes, repair their boots, and have abundant time to cook
vegetables. It is a day for Irish stews and savoury broths.
It was on one of these days, when the kitchen was so crowded, that I
unfortunately attempted to make pancakes. I knew that such an unusual
experiment could not fail to cause a sensation which I did not desire,
so I placed myself in a dark corner and quietly and without being
observed, made the flour into paste, exactly as I had seen another
lodger do some time previous. The flour had been in my possession ever
since that occasion, but my courage had up to the present failed.
Three or four men were now at the stove, and a number of others were
idly walking up and down. I had made half a basin of paste, and this
was to make one big thick fat pancake. But how was I to get it into
the frying pan without attracting notice? I covered the basin with a
saucer, placed the frying pan on the stove, with butter therein, and
waited my chance. I had taken the precaution of having in readiness a
large plate. At last my chance came, for two cooks were having high
words as to whether cabbage should be put into cold or boiling water.
Others joined in this argument, so without receiving notice, I dropped
the paste into the frying pan and quickly covered it with a large
plate. So far, so good: my only difficulty now would be to turn it;
for after it was cooked I could carry the pan and its covered contents
to the dark corner where I intended to dine; and where, although men
might see me eat, none would be the wiser as to what I was eating.
Five minutes had passed and no doubt its one side was cooked. The
argument was still in full swing, for each man stoutly maintained his
opinions, and almost every man who took part cited his mother or
sister as an authority, except one, who proudly mentioned a French
chef in an Australian gold diggings. Now was my chance. I cast one
furtive glance around, rose the hot plate with a stocking, which I had
been washing, made one quick turn of the wrist, spun the pancake in
the air, caught it neatly and promptly, clapped the plate over it--the
whole process done, I believe, in less than ten seconds. The
difficulty was now over and I breathed relief. I went to my dining
corner and sat down, intending to fetch the pancake in five minutes
time.
Three minutes perhaps I had been seated when I heard a loud voice
cry--"Whose pancake is this burning on the stove?" How I did detest
that man: he was always shouting through the kitchen--"Whose stew is
this boiling over?" or "Whose tea is stewing on the fire?" The man
always seemed to be poking his nose into other people's business. I
did not think it worth while drawing every one's attention by
answering him, but made my way as quietly as possible towards the
stove. Alas! the idiot, not thinking that I was the owner of the
pancake, and was then on my way to attend to it, shouted the second
time, louder, and it seemed to me, too impatiently--"Whose pancake is
this?" If I was vexed when I heard that second enquiry, imagine how I
felt when every lodger in the kitchen, not seeing or hearing from the
pancake's lawful claimant, began to shout in angry voices, "Whose
pancake is that burning on the fire?" My own patience was now
exhausted. "The pancake is mine," I said, "and what about it? What is
all this fuss about? It is the first pancake I have ever attempted to
make and by heavens! if it is to cause such a stir as this, it will be
the last." But while I was making this speech another voice, which
froze the blood in my veins cried angrily--"Whose pancake is this?" It
was a woman's voice, it was the Mrs. of the house; and I now knew that
something more serious was happening than the burning of a pancake--I
was burning her frying pan. If I dallied in respect to my pancakes, I
must certainly not make further delay in saving the frying pan. To her
I at once apologised, but I gave that meddler a look that for ever
again kept him silent as to what belonged to me. Such are the doings
in a lodging house, vexatious enough at the time, but amusing to
recall.