The Autobiography of a Super-Tramp

not only was the time of the year unfavourable, it being summer, and most of the subscribers were away from home on their holidays⁠—but, unfortunately, the South African war was still in progress, and numbers of soldiers were daily returning from the front in need of artificial assistance one way or another. Although I ruminated with some bitterness on the idea that I would almost pay in postage the value of that which I required, before it became mine, I still had enough common sense to see that no one was actually to blame. Several letters were received, offering to assist me on certain conditions. One lady would assist on a clergyman’s recommendation, and another subscriber would have no other than a Roman priest. I offered to get these ladies a Salvation Army Officer’s recommendation, which, apparently, would not do, for our correspondence came to an end. One lady, who did not recognise the house of Salvation under the address of 96 Southwark Street, regretted that she had already given her letters away, but advised me to go to the Salvation Army, who would most certainly attend to my wants. I explained to this person that I was already at one of their places, and had been here over five months; and that I had not been seen drunk in the place, and that my behaviour had not, at any time, raised objections, also that I was on the most friendly terms with the officer in charge; but that I could live here for many years to come, and no man would enquire my wants or offer to assist me.

One afternoon, when I returned to the Ark, after having been out all day, I was surprised to hear from a lodger that two gentlemen had been there that afternoon to see me. After which another lodger came forward with the same information, and still another, until I was filled with curiosity to know who those gentlemen could be. “What did they look like?” I asked one. “Like solicitors,” he answered. “What kind of looking men were they?” I asked of another. “Very much like lawyers,” he answered at once. “Don’t forget to remember yer old pals,” chimed in another, “when yer come into the property.” First I examined my mother’s side of the family, and then my father’s, but could find no relative, near or distant, at home or abroad, whose death would be likely to befriend me. At last I went to the office, but found this place closed, the Lieutenant being out walking, and the Captain not yet having arrived. Never in my life did I have such an excitable half hour as this. When I saw the Captain coming forward, smiling, with an envelope in his hand, I went to meet him, and, taking the letter in my own hand, began to examine its outside. “Of course,” said the Captain, “you know who it is from?” “Not the least idea,” I said, “how should I?”, and proceeded to open it. It was a short note, with a request that I should call on the Charity Organisation, between the hours of ten and eleven a.m. on the day following. The Captain went back to his office, and I sat down, thinking of what this would amount to. Again I decided to consult the Canadian, the lodger who had first mentioned to me the Surgical Aid Society. “As to that,” said this man, “it’s a wonder to me that you have not run foul of these people before now. My friend, who sells papers in the city, was continually meddled and interfered with by these people, but they gave him no assistance, although they seemed curious to know all about him.” This information surprised me not a little, but I came to the conclusion that the Canadian’s friend was addicted to drink and other bad habits, and was an undeserving case.

The next morning I arose, lighthearted in anticipation of hearing something to my good, and was leaving the house when I saw the Captain standing at the front door. Feeling some misgiving, I turned to this gentleman and asked him point blank⁠—what was his opinion of the Charity Organisation. “Well,” he replied slowly, “to give you my candid opinion⁠—although I may be mistaken⁠—the object of the Charity Organisation is not so much to give alms, as to prevent alms being wasted.” How I remembered these words in the light of my after experience with these people!

At ten o’clock punctually, I was at their office in the Borough Road, and was at once shown into a side room, where I sat waiting patiently, for an hour. At last a gentleman in black came forward, saying, very politely⁠—“Mr. Davies, will you please come this way.” I followed him up two or three flights of stairs, and we entered a quiet room on the top floor. Seating himself at a table, and taking pencil and paper, he then asked me to be seated and began. “Mr. Davies,” he said, “I have received a letter from a lady who has become interested in your case, and wishes to better your conditions. So as to answer this lady, it is necessary to know something of yourself, for which reason I propose asking you a few questions, which, of course, you need not answer except you think proper.” This he proceeded to do, at the same time making notes of my answers. After answering a dozen or more questions truthfully, dealing with particulars of my family, and my past life⁠—he brought the case up to that time. “Surely,” he said, “you do not live on eight shillings a week. I should have thought that to be impossible.” “As for that,” I answered, “not only has that sum been sufficient for myself, but I have been able to make another an allowance of two shillings a week, but have not been able to do so since I applied to the Surgical Aid Society.” “Now tell me