In Darkest London

affect the psychology of the buyer. As a matter of form I called at various Labour Exchanges and registered as a cook. It was a hopeless quest, but I wanted to make sure of my facts. I could, I suppose, have got a situation had I written Annie Turner a reference in my own name. But that would have been loading the dice, and I wanted to go through my adventures on the level. Therefore, I went around characterless, and found every door shut. It is a curious proof of the distrust of their own judgment that neither the officials nor the individuals to whom I applied could persuade themselves that I was not a thief. You will often hear the expression that character is written in the face, but it is only the very few who believe in the value of such testimony. For this reason I was slowly but surely being forced into the permanent calling of street vendor, from which, only by the merest chance, I found an escape.

With what was left after my meal I replenished my stock of matches, and once again made a good harvest. In possession of three shillings, I decided to try an experiment. I would see what could be done in the bar of a public house. In the majority of West End bars, street sellers are not allowed: the advent of a woman with flowers, bootlaces, or any other trifle, always causes a hubbub. The barmaids shout at her, the commissionaire hustles her, the poor thing might be a walking pestilence to judge by the disturbance. This is not a sex question, however; the male itinerant vendor is equally taboo. The objection does not come from the customers, but from the proprietary, and I have never been able to understand the psychological reaction.

There are, however, still a few Christian public houses off Shaftesbury Avenue where street vendors are admitted. I had spotted one of these, and about eight o’clock that evening I decided to stop active business, to buy myself a drink and to look round. The bar I chose was one of those cosy places where you sit on a high stool, close to the counter, which is flanked by a buffet, groaning with good things in the cheese and biscuit line, cold beef, ham and pickles, tomatoes and French mustard. I bought myself a glass of port, biscuit and cheese, borrowed an evening paper and waited events.

Presently a bunch of men came in, all in good spirits, after a day’s racing. Racing men are always kindly and most human, and I felt I was in for a good sale. I bided my time, and, when one of them started fumbling for a pipe, I intrigued the inevitable box towards him.

“Times are hard,” I said, with a sweet smile.

My victim, a tall, bearded creature with blue eyes, gave a sympathetic grin.

“That’s all right, my dear,” he said, and handed me a shilling.

Two of his friends followed suit to the same tune, and I was so pleased that I bought myself another port and some more biscuits.

“You’re doing well, miss,” said the barman. (There are no barmaids in this establishment). “Here, I’ll take a box. Will fourpence suit you?”

I gathered up the money with a rising pulse. For the first time I felt the joy of buying in the cheapest market and selling in the dearest. I began to think there was a great deal in finance. Presently, a man came in selling pocket glasses and powder-puffs. I was not in a position to buy anything, so he waited till a prosperous looking man arrived, and landed him for ninepence. Meanwhile, an elderly woman seated at the other end of the counter left her stool and came towards me.

She was dressed in one of those black, plush coats which seem to go on for ages. Nothing is able to destroy them; fifty years after they are made they still flourish in undiminished vigour, though time depresses their one time glossy look. She wore a battered straw hat with a droopy feather, her complexion was leaden, but her eyes, were large and intelligent.

“You’ve done rather brightly with your matches,” said she.

“Yes,” I answered, “much better than in the street.”

“You’re clever at selling,” she went on, and I could feel her studying me closely. “Will you have a drink?” she asked, and, nothing daunted, I accepted yet another port and further biscuits.

You never refuse anything when you are destitute. It is a mistake not to eat because you are not hungry. As a wise woman once observed to me, “You may want it later.”

“I’ve been watching you,” she went on, sipping her port, “and it occurs to me that we might do business together.”

Here indeed was an adventure! I felt myself on the threshold of a great discovery. What sort of business could the lady of the plush coat have with me?

“You might sell on commission. I’d offer you quite good terms, and you’d find a ready market for the goods.”

She produced a brown paper parcel and showed me a collection of cigarette cases, matchboxes, pencil cases, all of them very neatly made in attractive-looking metal, brightly burnished. I discovered that this class of goods, made in Germany, can be bought wholesale at a very low figure.

“I’ll give you twenty-five percent commission on everything you sell according to my listed price, and fifty percent of all that you get over. You ought to get a good deal over,” she added, “as I say, you can sell well.”

I did a rapid mental calculation, and discovered that twenty-five percent meant threepence in the shilling. Most of the articles were marked at one and three to one and six, with sixpence for the pencil cases. With any degree of good fortune I ought to make more at this than at matches.

“It won’t be any good for you to offer these in the street, my dear; you’ll have to try public houses, and I can’t give