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.
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