The Autobiography of a Super-Tramp

a good audience in a public house, I can often make a day’s living in a quarter of an hour, with several drinks in the bargain.” “What, by singing or dancing?” I asked. “No,” said he, “but by reciting. Listen to this.” With that he began to recite a long poem, line after line, until I began to hope his memory would fail him. What a memory it was! Hundreds of lines without a break. When he came to the most dramatic parts he paused for action, and I knew that he was heedless of the approach of night, and had forgotten that Bedford was still afar off. There was now no stopping of him; poem after poem he recited, and he introduced his subjects with little speeches that were so different from his ordinary conversation, that it was apparent that he had committed them also to memory for the benefit of a fit audience. If he was so zealous after a weary day’s walk, and without stimulants, what would he be under the influence of several glasses of strong ale? I shuddered to think of it.

We were now about a mile from Bedford, and my companion had for the last hour been reciting; as for myself I was travelling alone, for I had forgotten him. Sometimes to my confusion he would startle me by a sudden question, but seeing that he made no pause for an answer, I soon understood that no answer was required of me, for that he was still reciting.

As we entered the outskirts of Bedford, my companion found it necessary, owing to increase of traffic, to raise his voice, which he continued to do until at last the traffic became so very great that he could not make himself heard. I had not heard his voice for the last five minutes, when he suddenly clutched my shoulder and demanded what I thought of that. “You have a wonderful memory,” I said. “Oh,” said he, “that is nothing; I could entertain you for several days in like manner, with fresh matter each day. Here we are at the ‘Cock.’ I like your company and, if you are travelling my way tomorrow, let us go together. It is not every man that I would travel with two days in succession.” And, thought I, it is not every man would travel in your company two days in succession. “Which way are you going?” I asked him. “Towards Northampton,” said he. “Alas,” I answered, “my direction is altogether different.”

We now entered the “Cock,” and after calling for two glasses of ale, enquired as to accommodation for travellers, which we were informed was good, there being plenty of room. Sometimes, if ale is not called for, they are disinclined to letting beds, especially in the winter, when they find so little difficulty in filling the house.

On entering the kitchen we found it occupied by a number of men, some of whom recognised my fellow traveller, and spoke to him. But, strange to say, although this man had proved so garrulous with one for a companion, with the many he had very little to say, and sat in a corner all through the evening smoking in silence, and paying no heed to others either by tongue, eye, or ear. Once or twice I saw his lips move, when filling his pipe, or knocking out its ashes, and I thought that he was perhaps rehearsing and training his memory for the following day, in case he would be again fortunate in picking up with an easy fool like myself. For, no doubt, the poor old fellow had been often commanded to desist from reciting, and ordered to hell by impatient and unsympathetic men whom he had at first mistaken for quiet and good natured companions. I had not by a look or a word sought to offend him, but one day of his company was certainly enough.

XXX

The Fortune

It is not unusual to read of cases where men who have descended to the lowest forms of labour⁠—aye, even become tramps⁠—being sought and found as heirs to fortunes, left often by people who either had no power to will otherwise, or whom death had taken unawares. Therefore, when one fine morning a cab drove up to a beer-house, which was also a tramps’ lodging house, and a well dressed gentleman entered and enquired of the landlord for a man named James Macquire⁠—the landlord at once pronounced him to be a solicitor in quest of a lost heir. “Sir,” said he, “we do not take the names of our lodgers, but several are now in the kitchen. James Macquire, you said?” On receiving answer in the affirmative the landlord at once visited the lodgers’ kitchen, and standing at the door enquired in a very respectable manner if there was any gentleman present by the name of Macquire, whose Christian name was James. At which a delicate looking man, who had arrived the previous night, sprang quickly to his feet and said in a surprised voice⁠—“That is my name.” “Well,” said the landlord, “a gentleman wishes to see you at once; he came here in a cab, and, for your sake, I trust my surmises are right.”

With the exception of having on a good clean white shirt, the man Macquire was ill clad, and he looked ruefully at his clothes, and then at the landlord. “Please ask the gentleman to wait,” said he, and, going to the tap, began to wash his hands and face, after which he carefully combed his hair.

The strange gentleman was seated quietly in the bar when the man Macquire presented himself, and the landlord was engaged in washing glasses and dusting decanters. “Mr. James Macquire?” asked the gentleman, rising and addressing the ill-clad one in a respectful manner, which the landlord could not help but notice. “That is my name,” answered Macquire, with some dignity. “Do you know anything of Mr. Frederick