The Autobiography of a Super Tramp 36

The Autobiography of a Super Tramp 36

In less than two hours we were at the gentleman's lodge. Passing

boldly through the gates we followed the drive until we saw before us

a fine large mansion. Reaching the front door we rang the bell, which

was soon answered by a servant. To our enquiries as to whether the

master was in the servant replied in the negative, but intimated that

the mistress was. Of course, this made not the least difference, as

many a tramp knew, except that had we been old soldiers the lady not

being able to test us by drill, would therefore not have given more

than the civilian's shilling. Now, almost unfortunately for us,

the downrighter, knowing that the lady would not drill us, and

thinking that there might be a possibility of getting the master's

double pay to old soldiers, without danger of drill or cross

examination--suddenly made up his mind to say that we were two old

soldiers. For, thought he, if it does no good, it cannot do any harm.

Therefore, when the lady appeared smiling at the door Long John, being

spokesman, told a straightforward tale of hardship, and added that we

had both served our country on the battlefield as soldiers. He had

scarcely mentioned the word soldiers when a loud authoritative voice

behind us cried--"Shoulder Arms!" I was leaning heavily on a thick

stick when this command was given, but lost my balance and almost fell

to the ground. We both turned our faces towards the speaker and saw a

tall military looking gentleman scrutinising us with two very sharp

eyes. Giving us but very little time to compose ourselves he shouted

again--"Present Arms!" This second command was no more obeyed than the

first. Long John blew his nose, and I stood at ease on my staff, as

though I did not care whether the dogs were set upon us or we were to

be lodged in jail. After another uncomfortable pause the retired

officer said, looking at us severely--"Two old soldiers, indeed! You

are two imposters and scoundrels! Perhaps you understand this

command"--and in a voice fiercer and louder than ever he cried, "Quick

March!" Long John and I, although not old soldiers, certainly

understood this command, for we started down the drive at a good pace,

with the military looking gentleman following. When we reached the

public road, he gave another command--"Halt!" But this was another of

those commands which we did not understand. However, on its being

repeated less sternly we obeyed. "Here," said he, "you are not two old

soldiers, but you may not be altogether scoundrels; and I never turn

men away without giving them some assistance." Saying which he gave us

a shilling each. But what a narrow escape we had of being turned

penniless away, all through Long John's greed and folly!

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXXII

 

AT LAST

 

 

In spite of these occasional successes with Long John and others, I

was often at my wits' ends to procure food and shelter. This always

happened when I travelled alone. I was now heartily sick of this

wandering from town to town, and every day seemed to get more

unfortunate; until the first day in December, when, forced by extreme

want, I resolved to enter the city at once, knowing that a pound was

already there waiting my pleasure. That night I was back in the

Farmhouse; and what a genial spirit seemed to animate the old coke

fire! Not at all like the death dealer, the waster of time, who robbed

a human being of his energy and a kitten of its play. Oh, no; for this

one night we were the best of friends, and sunny smiles passed between

us until bed time.

 

I had been away five months, and would still have to suffer owing to

this early return; knowing that I would not have courage to sell in

the streets of London, and that I would be compelled to eke out a

living on five shillings a week, until the beginning of the new

year--this being a half crown for lodgings, and the same for food.

 

I was very well satisfied with myself at this time, with the prospect

of the new year before me; and at once began to get my work ready for

the press. When all original composition was done, and it was

necessary to make ready a copy for the printer, even at this time I

was confronted with a foolish hindrance. One library in Lambeth, which

at one time had a table with pens, ink and blotting pads for the

convenience of visitors, had had these things removed; but seeing no

sign to the contrary, I still thought I would be allowed to take

possession of a corner of this table and write, providing I supplied

my own material. So, this library was chosen for my week's writing,

but I was warned off at the commencement. Thoroughly incensed at this

fresh and paltry hindrance, I sought a library where I knew my work

could be continued without interference, even if the writing of it

took some years. This library was not so convenient as the other,

being some distance away, but there I at last succeeded in performing

my task.

 

Now came the new year when, independent of others, I would be enabled

to assist myself. If I failed in making success, the disappointment

would be mine only, and if I succeeded, there would be none other to

thank but myself. On receiving this money, in the first week in

January, I lost no time in seeing the printer and arranging for an

edition of two hundred and fifty copies, the cost to be nineteen

pounds. This amount certainly did not cover expenses, and here began

the series of kindnesses which, after a few more disappointments, were

to follow. This printer placed the MS. in the hands of a good reader,

and that gentleman was put to considerable trouble, being baffled and

interested in turns. The last two lines of a poem entitled "The hill

side park" are entirely his, both in thought and __EXPRESSION__. I mention

this because two or three correspondents liked the poem in question,

and one thought the last two lines the best; so, I take this

opportunity to clear my conscience. There was nothing to complain of,

both printer and reader being at great pains and patience to make the

work better than it was. Naturally, I thought if there was any

interest shown, it would not be in the author's personality, but in

the work itself, and for this reason, gave the Farmhouse, a common

lodging house, as my address. I was under the impression that people

would uninterestedly think the Farmhouse to be a small printing

establishment, or a small publishing concern of which they had not

heard; to which they would forward their orders, and business would be

transacted without their being any the wiser. In the first week in

March I received my first printed copy.

 

The printer had sent thirty copies or more to the various papers, and

I was now waiting the result, which at last came in the shape of two

very slim reviews from the North; a Yorkshire paper saying that the

work had rhymes that were neither intricate nor original, and a Scotch

paper saying that the work was perfect in craftsmanship rather than

inspired. This was very disappointing, more so to know that others,

who were powerless to assist me, were interesting themselves on my

behalf. Although I still had confidence that the work contained some

good things, I began to think that there must be some glaring faults

which made the book, as a whole, impossible to review. This first

thought became my first belief when other notices did not follow.

 

Weeks and weeks went by and, having now started to drink, and losing

control of my will in this disappointment, I had come down to my last

ten shillings, and had a good seven months to go before my money was

again due. First of all I had serious thoughts of destroying this

work--the whole two hundred and odd copies, which were under lock and

key in my room, and to then set to work carefully on new matter, and,

when my income was again due, to again mortgage it in another attempt.

Being very impulsive, this no doubt would have been there and then

commenced, had I not been confronted with the difficulty of doing so.

There was only one way of doing this properly, and that was by fire,

which would require privacy. My room was the only place where I could

do this without being seen, but that contained neither stove nor

grate; and, even if it had, two hundred books would take a number of

sleepless nights to render into ashes. I thought with some bitterness

of having to go on tramp again, and it was in one of these bitter

moments that I swore a great oath that these copies, good or bad,

should maintain me until the end of the year. For I would distribute

the books here and there, sending them to successful people, and they

would probably pay for their copies, perhaps not so much for what

merit they might think the work contained, as for the sake of

circumstances. This idea no sooner possessed me than I began preparing

for its execution. For this purpose I obtained stamps and envelopes,

and six copies were at once posted. The result was seen in a couple of

days--three letters, two containing the price of the book, and the

third from the Charity Organisation, the latter writing on behalf of a

gentleman who had become interested, and would like to come to my

assistance. Remembering these people in the past, through my former

experience with them, I had no great hopes at the present time, in

spite of the kind hearted interest of the gentleman in question.

However, I called on them the next morning, and after the usual long

wait in a side room--which, I believe, is not through any great stress

of business, but so as to bring one's heart down to the freezing point

of abject misery, and to extinguish one by one his many hopes--after

this weary waiting, I received an interview. There is not sufficient

venom in my disposition to allow me to describe this meeting in words

fit and bitter for its need. This life is too short to enable me to

recover from my astonishment, which will fill me for a good many years

to come. The questions and answers which had passed between us on our

former interview,--two years previous, were now before them. But they

questioned again in the same strain, and my answers corresponded with

those of the past, for I told no lies. Apparently they had no chance

here, so they came at once to the business in hand. "You have written

to a gentleman, asking for his assistance?" Not liking this way of

explaining my conduct, I said--"No, not exactly that, but have been

trying to sell him some work that I had done." It seemed that they

knew nothing of this work--or that it better suited their purpose to

appear ignorant--so it was necessary to give them the full

particulars. "Was not the book a success?" they asked. Not caring to

admit failure, and still thinking the work worthy of a little success,

I answered--"Not yet, but it is too early to judge it as a failure."

Then I gave it in confidence that a gentleman, well known in

Southwark, and who often wrote articles on literary subjects, had

promised to review it in one of the evening papers, which might lead

to other notices. "What is the name of this gentleman?" The name was

at once mentioned, for there was no reason that I knew of, to

withhold it. But instead of this name doing me good, as I then

expected, it probably made this case of mine more unfavorable; for I

have been told since that this gentleman had more than once attacked

the ways and methods of this Organisation, both on the public platform

and through the press. Not knowing this, at that time, I thought it

extremely fortunate to be enabled to mention the favour of such a well

known local man. All went smoothly for a while--although I could

plainly see that these people did not recognise the writing of books

as work, and were plainly disgusted at the folly of sacrificing an

income to that end. Their next question confirmed this opinion--"Do

you ever do anything for a living?" I mentioned that I had tramped the

country as a hawker, during the previous summer, but had suffered

through want of courage, could not make anything like a living, and

was often in want and without shelter. There was a rather long pause,

and the Charity Organisation rose slowly to their feet, and said--"Mr.

Davies, do you really expect this gentleman, who has written to us, to

maintain you? Is there anything the matter with you?" What was the

matter with me did not seem to escape many people, and it was most

certainly noted by the smallest toddler that played in the street, but

the Charity Organisation did not think proper to recognise any other than an able man, strong in the use of all his limbs.