James Greenwood at Islington Workhouse Casual Ward, 1906.

AFTER 40 YEARS.

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THE AMATEUR CASUAL OF 1906.—III.

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By JAMES GREENWOOD.
(The "Amateur Casual" of 1866.)

I would have given something considerable to have been spared a share in the hideous performance that then ensued. The majority of the lazy skulkers would, no doubt, have much preferred a couple of hours longer under the rugs, but they knew the sort of man they had to deal with, and in less than two minutes all the beds were vacated and their late occupants — including, of course, the bewildered victim who pens these lines — bereft of their only garment, were swarming from the ward to the adjoining bath-room, where their bundles of rags were deposited. Careful of the comfort of their casual pauper lodgers, as the guardians of Islington Parish undoubtedly are, they are remiss in this particular. They should provide numbered tickets, one to be attached to each bundle of clothing deposited on the shelves, with a duplicate, production of which would establish the owner's claim But no such system being adopted, what happened was, that there was a savage mob of nude ruffians scrambling and struggling to possess themselves of their belongings and wrangling and wrestling over "bundles" unintentionally or designedly misappropriated, and all in such a Babel of blackguardly and filthy language that was nothing less than horrifying. By accident I trod on a bristly-muzzled rascal's sore toe, and, cursing my eyesight and every limb I possessed, he gnashed his teeth and made a naked grab at me, which, in my defenceless condition, I could do no other than "duck" to avoid. In doing so I spied my boots with my socks stuffed into them and my old cap in the corner, where the kindly bathman had stowed them the night before, and having already secured my precious clothes bundle, I was glad to wriggle out of the scrimmage and get behind the door while I dressed myself. But while the "fun" lasted it was certainly equal to the choicest bits that embellished my forty years' ago experience, and I have no doubt that, afforded similar facilities, this same crew of blackguards bred and born would have delighted in a night of such diabolical pranks as were played in the dreadful "shed" at Old Lambeth Workhouse.

WAITING FOR BREAKFAST.

I have already said it was half-past five when we were turned out of our dormitory, and by six o'clock those of our number who had "come in" the previous night — not more than ten or a dozen (it was the second night the others had been there, and their forty hours were nearly accomplished) were escorted to a bare room where there were some forms and tables, and there we sat in the grey daybreak of a frosty morning waiting for early breakfast. As far as I could judge there were not more than two of our number who were really unfortunate fellows on whom pity and sympathy would not be wasted. The others (three of whom were mere lads of eighteen or so) were able-bodied and sturdy ruffians who never did any manner of work unless absolutely compelled, and who to all intents and purposes lived in workhouses, boarding and lodging there, and spending their brief intervals of liberty in roaming from one parish to another. Not suspecting a spy in the camp, they talked freely on this and other interesting subjects and in the foulest language discussed the merits and advantages of this "lump" (casual ward) and the general opinion of a certain parochial establishment at the East End, which shall be nameless, that this was the "wust of the bloomin' lot,' one gentleman present not being content with joining in the general anathema against the Guardians, but insisting that the "—— ought to be boiled."

MR BILBERRY SPOTS WHITE FEET.

It had not entered into my calculations, but I now found myself in greater danger of being "found out" in my bold-faced imposture even than during the crucial few minutes while I was under inspection by the lynx-eyed guardian of the portal at which I sought admission and subject to his severe cross-examination. Wise as he was in the practised deceits and dissimulations of the habitual casual tribe, he was less cunning and shrewd of observation than the gifted professional himself. Of this I had alarming proof before I had been ten minutes in private company with my fellow-lodgers of the night previous, who were hungrily waiting for their breakfast. There was one, a big hulking rascal of middle age, fat and well-fed, and with a merry twinkle in his eyes, who was well known to most of the other gentlemen present, and was addressed by them as "old Bilberry." It was Mr. Bilberry who obligingly accepted part of my bowl of skilly, as well as the greater portion of my bread, my apology for making him the offer being that I was "a bit off my peck." "It ain't the sort of peck you've been used to, you mean," he retorted with a knowing grin. "Never was in a lump (workhouse) before, wery likely." I was taken aback, but kept my countenance. "Very likely not," I made answer. "How did you guess it?" "How? Why I spotted your white feet when you was in the bathroom, and your wearing tidy socks instead of toe-rags."

And instantly my eyes were opened to the fact that by the same tell-tale tokens I might have betrayed myself even while I was being put through my "facings." and stood at word of command, bare-footed and with my trousers tucked up above my ankles before the inquisitor. I had taken the precaution to stain my hands and finger-nails, but had never thought of adopting the same disguise for my pedal extremities, and so had the "super been as keen as Mr. Bilberry my respectable feet might have originated a suspicion that would have proved disastrous to my enterprise.

AN OLD HAND.

Old Bilberry, warmed to friendly chat with me by my gift of hot gruel that had supplemented his own, informed me, with some pride, that be had been in every "lump" in England and in as many "spikes" as most men. "Not," he added with a virtuous wag of his head, "that I ever did anything what you might call wrong. It wasn't in my line of business for one thing, and I wasn't brought up to it for another. No, I never did more than three months at a time, and that was mostly for refusals (refusal to work), which, not being a born slave, a man has a right to be the best judge of." And he then abruptly asked me: "And what's your game, and where do you pad to next having done your forty?" I told him I had no intention of padding very far. Indeed, to the best of my belief, there was a man no farther away than Stoke Newington who would give me a job if I was let out in time to call on him. He had written to tell me so. But if I was detained as long as forty hours I should lose the chance. "And you told the bloke about your job when he admitted you?" queried Mr. Bilberry. "I wanted him to read my letter, but he refused." "Very good! ' he remarked, briskly, and at the same time giving the collar of my jacket a congratulatory shake, then you've got him on a bit of toast! He refused you, you refuse him." "How do you mean?" "This how. When we get to the oakum shed, which we shall presently, and he shows you your pile, and says, 'Now, then, make a start on it !' says you, 'I shan't.' 'Why not?' he ses. Because,' ses you, 'as I've already told you, and got the letter to prove it, I can go to work outside at once if you let me out.' But then," continued Mr. Bilberry, as though he envied me the good thing I was in for, "most likely they'll send for a copper, and you'll be given in charge as a refusal; but when you get before the magistrate you out with your letter and shows it to him and most likely, 'stead of giving you a month, he'll order you a quid out of the poor-box."

BREAD AND SK1LLY.

Just before seven o'clock a pauper appeared with a tray laden with small loaves such as those I was served with for my supper, and with a bowl of skilly for each breakfaster. What with remaining so long unclad in the bath-room while the Battle of Bundles was in progress, and what with the long wait in the cheerless room, I was rather chilled, and, somehow, the measure of skilly placed before me, although not positively tempting, seemed much less objectionable than the rations my qualmish appetite had rejected overnight. It was smoking hot! I sprinkled it plentifully with salt, and making an effort swallowed a mouthful! Really, it was not so bad if you closed your eyes tight and took it down at one gulp. I bolted a second big spoonful, and a third, and felt so interiorally benefited that I resolutely swallowed at least half-a-pint of the oatmeal concoction, and, I am bound to admit, felt all the better for it.

I likewise managed to munch the top crust of my little loaf, feeling bound to fortify myself for the day's work before me I had gathered from the conversation of my comrades that they were "out of granite" just now, and that the labour to which we all should be presently put was oakum-picking This was disastrous news for me I had seen what wood-sawing with a heavy American saw was like, and had indeed tried it at Camberwell. I had had some experience at the "crank" as a means of grinding corn, and, though not a practised hand at stone-breaking, I had tried my skill with the hammer; but oakum-picking I had never attempted. I had a horror of, and had seen the excoriated hands and the broken finger-nails of unfortunate novices who had been compelled to give in after a few hours trying, and, now aware of my impending doom, I should have liked something more stimulating than skilly and dry bread to have braced up my courage a bit. But there was no help for me. The stern labour-superintendent himself had given me most unmistakably to understand that if I imagined I should be able to get away until I had completed my forty hours I was much mistaken, so there was no use in funking over the oakum-picking or anything else.

RELEASE.

And then a bell rang, and in came that inexorable official himself, and remarked sharply "Now then, it is time you fellows were at work! Come along!"

And we rose from the tables, and he leading the way, we went along in single file through a passage that led to the oakum sheds. But a marvellous surprise was in store for me. I was stepping out in line with the rest when he laid an arresting hand on my shoulder, and, pointing to a side-passage, said, as it seemed to me ferociously, "You go in there!" What did it mean? Had I given him such offence the previous night by what he erroneously supposed to be my prevaricating replies to his questions that he had a special labour task for me by way of punishment that was more arduous even than oakum-picking? Not so. This man, gruff and austere as I thought him, was in reality — he must have been — as kind-hearted a fellow as a poor wretch in such desperate strait as I was could wish to meet with. How it happened I have not the least idea except it was that he had compassion for me, but just what happened was this. Returning to where he had left me, said he, brusque as ever, "I am going to let you out, and think yourself lucky. It won't happen twice, I can tell you!"

And next minute I was out in the street, and inexpressibly thankful that my adventures as an "amateur casual" were now at an end.