But such is not the luck of woman. Too often she is regarded as a perambulatory dust bin, and packets of bread the worse for wear, mouldy potatoes, cheese rinds, are thrust upon her, thus clearing the pantry and poulticing the faint sense of reproach that sometimes attacks the amply nurtured. But make no mistake; those cruelly deceptive packages, unacceptable to man or beast, only serve to dishearten. I can imagine no greater nor more cruel disappointment, than awaits the poor woman who undoes the brown paper and white string so thoughtfully provided by the villa resident, only to discover the spring cleanings of the larder.
It is not for food alone that the outcast comes to the back door. There is always the lingering hope that a pair of boots may come her way. But since the war, such gifts are very rare and very precious, and indeed as a fellow outcast, some fifteen years upon the road, assured me, it is but seldom nowadays that you get so much as an old skirt.
Country houses are far more responsive in this respect than London. Probably the tradition of a large hearted hospitality still lingers, and the old commandment of the Middle Ages that none should be sent empty away may yet hold good. At any rate, I know that some of my outcast friends possess not only boots, but comfortable waterproofs and well-worn tweeds, and, as they have told me, there are places where they make a call each month or six weeks, and always there is a pile of garments waiting for them. It is interesting to note that when an outcast does obtain a decent garment she does not, as is popularly supposed, hurry to the pawnshop to raise the price of a pint of beer. For, I say again, beer plays a very small part in the life of the down-and-out, and once having got a garment able to resist the wind and weather, she will cling to the same until its final dissolution or her extreme need.
There is a nice legal point in relation to this collecting of clothes. He or she who goes to a house and asks for food or raiment is held guilty of begging and may be given in charge. But, so says the law, you may call at any house and offer to sell matches, or pins, or hairpins, or some other unimportant trifle, and there is nothing against the suggestion that the wares may be exchanged for the cast-offs of the wardrobe. Thus are the police placated and the liberty of the individual secured. Only in one case may proffered sale be omitted. You may call at any religious institution and ask for food without fear of the courts, even under the very shadow of a constable.
A dear old tramp of my acquaintance indulges in this exercise as a form of sport and greatly delights to ring the bell of a certain Nazareth House with the appraising eye of a policeman upon her. Women do not, as a rule, offer plants in exchange for clothes. That is a branch of industry reserved for men. Nor is this to be wondered at. The enthusiastic young wife who joyfully surrenders her husband’s favourite jacket for an aspidistra, at the persuasion of a man, would indignantly refuse a similar proposal from a member of her own sex. She would, indeed, immediately credit the woman with sinister designs. What should she do with a jacket? While the bare notion that any of her pretty garments should go to the clothing of the vagrant would be so distasteful as to induce the abrupt closing of the door. It may be that better luck attends the outcast at the country house because there we still find the male retainer. Even in moderate mansions or dwellings of still lesser calibre, something like a butler, a footman or a tweeny man, is yet to be found, and the immutable law of sex decrees that the most battered specimen of femininity will find a readier sympathy in the bosom of a man than from a more blooming specimen of womanhood.
This then, seems to me, an additional reason why the case of the outcast woman should be dealt with justly. Most of these street wanderers have been wives, many of them have been mothers, and for this reason alone their cry should appeal to the heart of man.
VIII
The Awful Business of the Door-Handle
I first went to the casual ward under very melancholy conditions. I was dispirited to find that my entry into commerce had been postponed. I had high hopes as to what I should achieve in the sale of cigarette cases, etc., on commission. But my friend of the plush coat did not turn up. I went to the public-house again that evening, but she was not there. My low spirits were reflected in my trade—I could not get my matches off, and no one would give me more than twopence. I watched the outside of that public house with a sinking heart. I had two coppers on me after a purchase of a cup of tea and a miserable bun, and there was no means by which I could raise any more. My only chance of escaping an unpleasant experience was to go home. But that would have been to confess failure, and when it comes to the fundamentals of life I always develop a certain sticking power. I decided to see
