Tales of Mean Streets

ving been prepared, was ordered to strike — and struck. Other smaller armies of men, with no preparation, were ordered to strike to express sympathy — and struck. Oth

looked on with interest, making earnest suggestions, and comprehending nothing. Lots of strikers, having no strike pay and finding little nourishment in processions, started off to walk to Manchester, Birmingham, Liverpool or Newcastle, where work might be got. Along the Great North Road such men might be seen in silent companies of a dozen or twenty, now and ag

for a jury coming from a local inquest. As the streets got broken and detached, with patches of field between, they began to look about them. One young fellow in front (with no family to think of), who looked upon the enterprise as an amusing sort of tour, and had even brought an accordi

me away. An’ she’s on’y got a bob for ‘erself an’ the kids.” He broke into a swe

ll right, you lay your life. A woman allus knows ‘ow to look after ‘erself. You’ll bleed’n’ s

ts out ‘fore I got away. Shouldn’t wonder at bein’ sent after for leav

dion. At Palmer’s Green four went straight ahead to try for work at the Enfield Arms Fa

earest, Dave,” asked little Joey Cla

,” said Dave; “

s it, after all?” asked Joey, wistfu

ugh it’s rough enough. Matter

we’re goin’,” remarked the voluble you

ke there?” e

o’d call

o’ the wealth an’ the lukshry an’ the igstravagance they’ve produced with the sweat of their brow, why, then

ing this sort of thing in snatches whenever he saw the chance. He had learned the trick in a debating society; and Joey Clayton was alw

of it, my friends. I’m a miker out an’ out, an’ I ‘ope I shall always remain a miker. The less a worker does the more ‘as to be imployed

want for a week or two,” said

and cheese (or hunks of bread and nothing else) and to drink cold tea out o

aid, stretching himself and looking slyly at Joey Clayton: “If

toward the little inn hard by. “Dave,” he cried to Burge, who was walking on, “won’t you ‘a

rged on the improvidence of putting out of reach that which might be required on an emergency; he repeated his axiom as t

afternoon. The player wearied, and some of the older men, soon tired of walking, were worried by the noise. Joey Clayton, whose cough was aggravated by the dust, was especially

hey might possess; all but the master of the accordion, who had stayed at a little public-house at Welwyn, with the notion of earning a pot of beer and a stable-corner (or better) by a tune in the tap-room. Dave Burge lighted on a lone shed of thatched hurdles with loose hay in it, and Newman straightway curled in the snuggest corner on most of the hay. Dave B

he man with the accordion caught up. He had made his lodging and breakfast and eightpence. This had determined him to stay at Hitchin,

n, hinted at drinks. Dave Burge made twopence at Henlow level crossing by holding an unsteady horse while a train passed. Joey saw little of the rest of the day; the road was yellow and dazzling, his cough tore him, and things were red sometimes and sometimes blue. He walked without knowing it, now helped, now lur

t the door, but Newman was gone. Also

’,” said Dave;

E

n’ sneaked your tools. Gawd

Not sneaked ’em . . . is ‘e? . . . S’elp me! there’s a set o’ ca

e nodded

ckets,” he said, “p’r

, I was! . . . An’ what can I do without my tools? If I’d got no job I could ‘a pawned

m on the road again. He had forgotten yesterday afternoon, and asked, at first, for the others. The

huck it up, Gawd knows, but I come out promp’ when they told me. And when I found another job on the Island, four big blokes set about me an’ ‘arf killed me. I didn’t know the place was blocked. And when two o’ the blokes was took up,

rned, too, just what tramping means in many ways to a man unskilled both in begging and in theft, but was never equal to it. He coughed,

rom a reverie, he asked:

en aback. “Oh, yes, there was some ot

silence. Then he said: “Expect t

like,” s

to take a ‘cordion what goes trampin.’ I knew a man once that went trampin’, an’ ‘e took a ‘cordion. He done all right. It ai

in the afternoon, “No,” he said, “it ain’t so rough for them as plays the ‘cordion. They ‘as the best of it . . . S’elp me,” he added, suddenly, “we’re all ‘cordions!” He sniggered thoughtfully, and then burst into a cough that left hi

e looked curiously at his mate; for he h

n as it’s ordered, blimy . . . Are we ‘cordions? I don’t b’lieve we’re as much as that — no, s’elp me! We’re on’y the footlin’

But Joey rarely heard him. “I’ve bin played on plenty, I ‘ave,” h

leather-gaitered man with a dog, and for some distance no dormitory could be fo

ed by a clammy hand upon his

Gawd! I thought I’d lawst you. What’s all this ’ere —

nd told him to sleep; but a coughing fit prevented that. “I

re-dawn. And the two tramps left their perch, and

d short fits of dizz

oomin’ little tin key put out o’ toon.” And once he added, “I’

t with a shaggy little dog, gave him a shilling. Dave Burge picked it up as it dropped from his inca

t saw that Joey was served with stout with a penn’orth of gin in it. Soon the gin and stout reached

e took a piece of chalk from the bagatelle board in the corner, and wrot

here they lay, and stepped quietl