The Autobiography of a Super Tramp 31

The Autobiography of a Super Tramp 31

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.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXVII

 

FALSE HOPES

 

 

The Farmhouse was under the management of an Irishman and his wife. He

with a generous heart that always kept him poor, for he often assisted

lodgers towards paying for their beds, who, I am sorry to say, were

sometimes ungrateful in return. She, more circumspect, but kind

hearted and motherly where she thought the case to be a deserving one.

 

With regards to literary ambition I always kept my own counsel,

confiding in one man only--"Cronje"; a man to be relied on, whose

sympathetic ears were always open to receive either good or bad news.

 

I must have been in this house something like twelve months, when I

took a sudden notion to send some work to a literary man, asking him

for his opinion of the same. In a few days I received a letter stating

that want of time prevented him from passing judgment on my work,

which he regretted he would have to return unread. This did not offend

me in the least, although I was greatly disappointed, for I knew that

a man in his position could have little time to spare, and no doubt

was pestered with correspondence of a like nature. But, unfortunately,

the MS. returned in an ill condition, having been roughly handled

through the post, and arrived at the Farmhouse with the ends of the

envelope in tatters. When I received this ragged and disreputable

parcel from the Manager, I knew that the cat was out of the bag, and

that the secret which I had guarded so jealously was now the property

of another, but I made no confession, thinking that he would broach

the subject, which he did on the following morning. On enquiring if

the parcel I had received on the day previous was a manuscript, I lost

no time in telling him everything. The upshot of this was that he

persuaded me to send some work to a publisher, and if that gentleman

thought the book worth publication, he, the Manager, had no doubt that

one of the many rich people who were connected with the Farmhouse

Mission could be induced to assist me. Hearing this I was sorry that I

had not confided in him of my own accord, for I had often seen these

rich people coming and going, looking, perhaps for deserving cases.

 

With these golden projects before me, I again set to work, and, in

less than a month, the MS. was ready and in the hands of a publisher.

That gentleman wrote in a few days saying that he thought there was

literary merit, and that the cost of production would be thirty

pounds. The publisher's name was well known, and the Manager was quite

satisfied as to its being a genuine offer from an old and respectable

firm. Quite contented in my own mind, my part having been performed

without difficulty, I gladly allowed this man to take possession of

this correspondence, and a few specimen books of verse, which the

publisher had sent with it, and, having full trust in the man's

goodness and influence, made myself comfortable, and settled down in a

fool's paradise. I have never had cause to doubt his goodness, but he

certainly overrated his power to influence the philanthropists on the

behalf of a lodger.

 

Several weeks passed, and I had received no encouraging news. No

mention had been made of my affairs, and I gave myself over to the

influence of the coke fire. After going out in the morning for two or

three hours, I would return at midday, often earlier, and sit

hopelessly before this fire for ten or eleven hours, after which I

would retire to my room. What a miserable time was this: the kitchen,

foul with the breath of fifty or sixty men, and the fumes of the coke

fire, took all the energy out of a man, and it was a hard fight to

keep awake. It has taken the play out of the kitten, and this small

animal lies stretched out, overcome by its fumes, without the least

fear of being trodden on. Sometimes, when I endeavoured to concentrate

my mind, with an idea of writing something, it was necessary to feign

a sleep, so that these kind hearted fellows might not disturb me with

their civilities. On these occasions it was not unusual for me to fall

into a real sleep. And, when I awoke, it sickened me to think of this

wasted time; for I was spending in bed more hours than were necessary

for my health, and it was a most cruel waste of time to be sleeping in

the day. This fire exerted a strange influence over us. In the morning

we were loath to leave it, and we all returned to it as soon as

possible. Even the books and magazines in the libraries could not

seduce me longer than an hour. There was one seat at the corner of a

table, which I have heard called "the dead man's seat." It was within

two yards of this great fire, which was never allowed to suffer from

want of coke. It was impossible to retain this seat long and keep

awake. Of course, a man could hardly expect to keep this seat day

after day for a long winter, and to be alive in the spring of the

year. This was the case with a printer who, unfortunately, had only

three days' work a week. The amount he earned was sufficient for his

wants, so, in his four idle days, he would sit on this seat, eating,

reading, but more often sleeping, until before the end of the winter,

he was carried away a dying man. Some of these lodgers claim to be

able to recognise in the public streets any strangers who are suffering from this coke fever.