Yes, all sorts, sir, and we takes the innercent and the guilty too
sometimes, no doubt on it. Yer see we're men as generally has
everybody's ill word, and nobody ever has a good word for us unless
there's somebody as wants us, when it's "Oh, my good man, and ah, my
good man," and at other times they won't look at us.
I remember once taking a poor chap for stealing bread, and if there's
anything a poor fellow might be forgive it might be that. Well, sir, as
I was a-sayin', I was on my beat one day, or more properly speaking, it
was evening, for it was just gettin' dusk, one November arternoon, and a
bitter cold, raw arternoon it was, with the smoky fog givin' yer the
chokes, and gettin' into yer eyes, and makin' yer feel all on edge like,
and as gritty as if yer was in a bed where someone had been a eatin' of
bread. Folks was lighting up their shops, and I was a-growling to
myself and wishin' it was time to go off duty when I sees a crowd on in
front, and there in the middle of it was a floury baker, goin' on like
anything and shakin' away like any savage at a miserable-looking
hollow-faced chap in a wesket and trousers, and his bare arms all a
showin' through his ragged shirt. He hadn't got no hat, and his skin
looked as blue and pinched as if he'd been frozen or just taken out of
the river.
"Well," I says, "what's up?"
"Take him into custody, p'leeceman," says the baker.
"No, no, no," says the crowd. "Now, none of that," says I.
"Take him into custody, p'leeceman," says the baker; "he stole a
quartern loaf. Comes into my shop a-beggin', and because I would not
give him anythin' he whips up a quartern loaf and bolts with it, but I
ran after him and ketched him."
Well, I looks at the baker and I looks at the man, and I thinks to
myself, "Here's a case." But there was nothin' else for it, so I takes
the loaf under my arm, and gets hold of the poor shiverin' crittur, and
away we goes with a long train of boys and sech a follerin of us; but
what with the bad night and the long ways as we had to go, they soon all
drops off, and we goes along together, me and the poor chap, with only
the people a lookin' at us as we passed 'em.
"P'leeceman," says my prisoner all at once, and it was the first word he
had spoken. "P'leeceman," he says, "are you a man?"
Well, yer see, sir, I didn't like my job that evenin', for it raly did
seem as if the poor chap took the bread because he was a starvin', and
he wasn't a common chap neither, and we knows pretty well what sort a
feller is by his looks, I can tell yer. So when he says them words in
such an appealin' way like, I ain't werry soft, but I didn't like my job
half so much as I did afore. However, it don't do for us to be soft, so
I says quite chuffy, as if I'd cut up rough--
"What d'yer mean?" I says. "Were you ever hungry--ever famishing?"
"Well," I says, "I can't say I ever was, but I've been precious dry."
"Ah!" he says, with a sigh as went right through me, for I could see
there was no sham in him, and then he hangs down his head and walks on
without sayin' a word.
He didn't say no more, so I thinks perhaps as he was hungry, and I says,
you may as well carry this here loaf, and if it is picked why it don't
much matter.
Lord, sir, it was a precious good job we weren't in a busy street, for
I'm blessed if he didn't ketch hold of my hand with both his and bust
out a cryin' just like a child.
"Hold up, old chap," I says, "I don't want to be rough with you. Are
yer hungry?"
"It's those at home," he says, "those at home; but I can't help it, I'm
weak--weak--weak."
And I'm blessed if he wasn't, sir, so weak that he tottered in his walk,
and I could see there was no dodge in him, poor chap. Jest then we
comes up to an "All hot" can, "Two or none for a penny," yer knows.
Beefsteaks and hot kidney; so I pulls up, makin' believe as I should
like one myself, and we has some half-a-dozen I think I bought, and
makes him have best part of 'em; but, Lord bless yer, he wouldn't touch
'em, but begs of me to take 'em to Number 99, King's Court.
"For God's sake," he says, "take 'em, and I'll bless yer."
"Now come," I says, "none o' that ere; you're in custody, you know, so
you'll jest eat them kidney or beefsteak pies, or whatsomever they is,
and then come along; and if so be as you wants half-a-dozen hot kidney,
or a few taters, or what not, took to number 99, King's Court, why I
knows the man as'll take 'em, so peg away."
To ha' seen him stare you might ha' thought he'd never had a good word
said to him in his life; and when he had had his stare out, if he didn't
lay hold o' them pies and eat 'em in a way as made one uncomfortable, it
seemed so un-Christian like and wolfish.
Well, sir, I never did like my job a takin' him, but now I hated myself,
and s'elp me, sir, if he'd ha' cut and run if I wouldn't ha' gone after
him down the wrong street.
When he'd done he looked as if another half-dozen would ha' been
welcome; but I know'd what was what, so I takes him into the first
public we passes and orders a pint o' dog's-nose, what we calls purl,
yer know, and then I does my half pull o' that, for I knows in his state
he couldn't stand much; and then we goes on towards the station; while
the stuff made him open his lips, and he begs on me to go as I had said,
and if I could, take half the loaf too. For, says he--
"They're nearly starved."
"Who is?" says I.
"My wife and the little ones," he says.
"More shame for you to let 'em," says I.
"Man, man," says he, and he looks me so savage in the face that I
thought he meant to hit me. "Man, man," he says, "I've tried all,
everything that a husband and father could do; I've fought for, prayed
for, begged for work; I've tramped the great city through day after day;
I've sought work till I've turned home heartsick and weary, to sell,
piece by piece, everything we could sell, till look at me," he says,
"look at me; who'd give me work? Who'd believe me honest? Who wouldn't
drive me away as a vagabond if I asked for work? And what did I do
to-night? I took what no man would give me--bread for my starving wife
and children, and now--God help them, for I can't!"
He'd been speaking as fierce as a lion at first, and now he broke down
all at wunst, and seemed as though he was a-goin' to bust out a crying
again; but he didn't. And so we walks on, and I breaks the loaf in two
pieces, pulls it apart, yer know, sir, crummy way, and when the charge
was made, for I found the baker a-waitin' at the station, for he got
there first, I waited to see my prisoner into a cell, and afore he was
locked up, I shoves the half-loaf under his arm, and a great-coat as lay
over a bench as we went along. Then off I goes arter the baker, who was
one o' your red-faced, chuffy little chaps, one o' them coves as has
sech a precious good opinion o' themselves. He'd only jest got round
the corner when I hails him, and he stops short.
"Well, governor," I says, "what'll yer take to drink? give it a name."
"Oh," says he, with a bit of a sneer, "you mean what am I a-goin' to
stand?"
"No I don't," I says, "for I've jest had plenty."
"What d'yer mean?" sez he.
"Why, that there poor chap as we've jest locked up."
"Why, I never knowed you p'leecemen could come the soft like that," sez
he; "but what d'yer mean about `poor chap?'"
"Well, come in here," I says, "and I'll tell yer."
So we goes in, and as it was cold we has two fours o' gin hot, with
sugar, and as I was now up, I begins to tell him about what took place
comin' to the station, and I says as I was a-goin' to take something to
Number 99, King's Court, and see if all he'd said was true.
"Here," says baker to the barman, "fill these here glasses again,
Charles," and then turnin' to me, says he:--
"Governor, if I'd ha' known all this when that pore chap come in to my
shop to-day I'd ha' give him a dozen loaves; I'm hanged if I wouldn't."
Which was rather hot of him, yer know, sir, and I hope you'll excuse me
a-sayin' it, but them was his very words, and if he didn't look as
excited as if he didn't know what to do with hisself.
"Tip that glass off, p'leeceman," he says, "and let's be off."
"Well, good night," I says, "and if I was you, I don't think I should
press the charge agin him to-morrow."
"May I never rise another batch if I do," he says; "but come on."
"Well, once more good night," I says.
"Wait a bit," says he, "I'm goin' with you."
"Are yer?" I says.
"I just am," says he.
"Then come on," says I; and away we went.
On the way I gets a sixpenny Watling at a public, and then at a
tater-can a dozen hot mealies, which I shoves in my coat pockets, and
the pie in my hat; while the baker he slips into the fust shop we comes
to, and picks out a couple of the best crusted cottages as he could
find.
Well, sir, we gets at last to Number 99, King's Court, and afore we goes
in I says to the baker, says I--
"Now if this is a do, we'll just have a friendly supper off what we've
bought, and a drop of hot."
"Agreed," says life.
And we went up the stairs, and knocked at the fust floor front.
"Mrs Graham lodge here?" says I.
"Three pair back," says the lodger, a-slamming the door in our faces.
"You'd better go fust," says I to baker; "they don't like the looks o'
my hat." That was afore we took to 'elmets, yer know, sir.
So baker goes up fust, and I follows--up the dirty old staircase, till
we stood on the landing, opposite to the door, where we could hear a
young 'un a whimperin'. So baker knocks, and some one says, "Come in,"
and in we goes; and Lord, sir, it was a heart-breaking sight, sure-ly.
I'm a rough 'un, sir, and used to all sorts of things, and it takes a
good deal to get a rise out o' me; but I was done this time, and so was
baker. I never see nought as upset me like that did, and I hopes I
never shall again. No light--no fire--and pretty nigh no furniture, as
far as we could see from the light as shined up into the room from a
court at the back, where there was a gas lamp, and that warn't much, as
you may suppose, sir. And jest then the lodger in the front room opens
the door and offers her candle. I steps back and takes it, and then
comes back and shuts the door arter me. Good Lord--Good Lord, what they
must ha' suffered. There was a thin, half-dressed, pinched-faced woman,
huddling up three little children together; and though they didn't know
it, sir, I do. They didn't know as death had knocked at their doors,
and was only a-waiting a bit before he came in. Think, sir, a cold
November night in a bare garret-like room, and no fire, and no proper
coverin', and no proper food, but the mother and children, close up
together on a straw mattress, with some rags and an old blanket to cover
'em.
"Oh, my God!" said baker. You see, sir, he was rayther strong in what
he said, and he pulls off his coat and claps it over the poor wife's
shoulders. "Here, pull out them hot taters," he says, and he hurries me
so I could hardly get 'em out, but he soon has a hot 'un in each o' the
child's hands, and tellin' me to keep 'em goin', he cuts down stairs as
hard as he could pelt, and afore you could think it possible, back he
comes again, with his arms full o' bundles o' wood, an' he sticks a
couple all loose and sets light to 'em, and soon makes a cheerful blaze
as made the poor things creep up to, and so close as I was almost
obliged to keep the two littlest back, or they would ha' singed baker's
coat. Away goes baker agen, and very soon back he comes with one o'
them little sacks o' coals--half hundreds yer know, such as they sells
poor folks coals in, and then he rams these coals on like fury while the
poor woman looks on quite stupid like.
"God forgive me," says baker; looking ready to bust, "what could I ha'
been thinking of? Here, Bobby," he says, holdin' out a shilling, "go
down and get a pot of hot ale and some gin in; a drop'll do even them
kids good."
I goes down in such a hurry that I forgets all about his shilling, and
when they'd all had a taste round, it was wonderful how much better they
looked; and then baker says, says he--
"Now you jest stop here half an hour till I gets back."
And stop I did, sir, a talkin' to the poor woman, an' I told her all
about the loaf, and made her sob and cry to hear where her husband was.
But she brightened up when I told her as he'd had a good feed and was
well wrapped up; and how baker wouldn't prosecute, I was sure. And then
back comes baker, and his wife with him, and they'd got a couple o'
blankets and a rug, and at last, sir, there was such goin's on that I'm
blest if I warn't obliged to go out on the landin', for the poor woman
wanted to kiss me; and if I'd ha' stayed in the room a minute longer I
knows I should have disgraced the force by acting like a soft.
Soon afterwards baker and his wife comes out, and we all goes off, but
not till it was settled that I was to go and have dinner with 'em on the
next Sunday, which I did, and I'm blowed--which I hope you'll excuse,
sir--if I knew Mr Graham, which was the poor fellow I took, for baker
had rigged him out, and got him a place to go to; and since then I've
often seen--Well, if it ain't half-past ten, sir, and--Not a drop more,
thank ye, or I shall have the key of the street.