The Beetle

'No room!—Full up!'

He banged the door in my face.

That was the final blow.

To have tramped about all day looking for work; to have begged
even for a job which would give me money enough to buy a little
food; and to have tramped and to have begged in vain,—that was
bad. But, sick at heart, depressed in mind and in body, exhausted
by hunger and fatigue, to have been compelled to pocket any little
pride I might have left, and solicit, as the penniless, homeless
tramp which indeed I was, a night's lodging in the casual ward,—
and to solicit it in vain!—that was worse. Much worse. About as
bad as bad could be.

I stared, stupidly, at the door which had just been banged in my
face. I could scarcely believe that the thing was possible. I had
hardly expected to figure as a tramp; but, supposing it
conceivable that I could become a tramp, that I should be refused
admission to that abode of all ignominy, the tramp's ward, was to
have attained a depth of misery of which never even in nightmares
I had dreamed.

As I stood wondering what I should do, a man slouched towards me
out of the shadow of the wall.

'Won't 'e let yer in?'

'He says it's full.'

'Says it's full, does 'e? That's the lay at Fulham,—they always
says it's full. They wants to keep the number down.'

I looked at the man askance. His head hung forward; his hands were
in his trouser pockets; his clothes were rags; his tone was husky.

'Do you mean that they say it's full when it isn't,—that they
won't let me in although there's room?'

'That's it,—bloke's a-kiddin' yer.'

'But, if there's room, aren't they bound to let me in?'

'Course they are,—and, blimey, if I was you I'd make 'em. Blimey
I would!'

He broke into a volley of execrations.

'But what am I to do?'

'Why, give 'em another rouser—let 'em know as you won't be
kidded!'

I hesitated; then, acting on his suggestion, for the second time I
rang the bell. The door was flung wide open, and the grizzled
pauper, who had previously responded to my summons, stood in the
open doorway. Had he been the Chairman of the Board of Guardians
himself he could not have addressed me with greater scorn.

'What, here again! What's your little game? Think I've nothing
better to do than to wait upon the likes of you?'

'I want to be admitted.'

'Then you won't be admitted!'

'I want to see someone in authority.'

'Ain't yer seein' someone in authority?'

'I want to see someone besides you,—I want to see the master.'

'Then you won't see the master!'

He moved the door swiftly to; but, prepared for such a manoeuvre,
I thrust my foot sufficiently inside to prevent his shutting it. I
continued to address him.

'Are you sure that the ward is full?'

'Full two hours ago!'

'But what am I to do?'

'I don't know what you're to do!'

'Which is the next nearest workhouse?'

'Kensington.'

Suddenly opening the door, as he answered me, putting out his arm
he thrust me backwards. Before I could recover the door was
closed. The man in rags had continued a grim spectator of the
scene. Now he spoke.

'Nice bloke, ain't he?'

'He's only one of the paupers,—has he any right to act as one of
the officials?'

'I tell yer some of them paupers is wuss than the orficers,—a
long sight wuss! They thinks they owns the 'ouses, blimey they do.
Oh it's a—fine world, this is!'

He paused. I hesitated. For some time there had been a suspicion
of rain in the air. Now it was commencing to fall in a fine but
soaking drizzle. It only needed that to fill my cup to
overflowing. My companion was regarding me with a sort of sullen
curiosity.

'Ain't you got no money?'

'Not a farthing.'

'Done much of this sort of thing?'

'It's the first time I've been to a casual ward,—and it doesn't
seem as if I'm going to get in now.'

'I thought you looked as if you was a bit fresh.—What are yer
goin' to do?'

'How far is it to Kensington?'

'Work'us?—about three mile;—but, if I was you, I'd try St
George's.'

'Where's that?'

'In the Fulham Road. Kensington's only a small place, they do you
well there, and it's always full as soon as the door's opened;—
you'd 'ave more chawnce at St George's.'

He was silent. I turned his words over in my mind, feeling as
little disposed to try the one place as the other. Presently he
began again.

'I've travelled from Reading this—day, I 'ave,—tramped every—
—foot!—and all the way as I come along, I'll 'ave a shakedown at
'Ammersmith, I says,—and now I'm as fur off from it as ever! This
is a—fine country, this is,—I wish every—soul in it was
swept into the—sea, blimey I do! But I ain't goin' to go no
further,—I'll 'ave a bed in 'Ammersmith or I'll know the reason
why.'

'How are you going to manage it,—have you got any money?'

'Got any money?—My crikey!—I look as though I 'ad,—I sound as
though I 'ad too! I ain't 'ad no brads, 'cept now and then a
brown, this larst six months.'

'How are you going to get a bed then?'

'Ow am I going to?—why, like this way.' He picked up two stones,
one in either hand. The one in his left he flung at the glass
which was over the door of the casual ward. It crashed through it,
and through the lamp beyond. 'That's 'ow I'm goin' to get a bed.'

The door was hastily opened. The grizzled pauper reappeared. He
shouted, as he peered at us in the darkness,

'Who done that?'

'I done it, guvnor,—and, if you like, you can see me do the
other. It might do your eyesight good.'

Before the grizzled pauper could interfere, he had hurled the
stone in his right hand through another pane. I felt that it was
time for me to go. He was earning a night's rest at a price which,
even in my extremity, I was not disposed to pay.

When I left two or three other persons had appeared upon the
scene, and the man in rags was addressing them with a degree of
frankness, which, in that direction, left little to be desired. I
slunk away unnoticed. But had not gone far before I had almost
decided that I might as well have thrown in my fortune with the
bolder wretch, and smashed a window too. Indeed, more than once my
feet faltered, as I all but returned to do the feat which I had
left undone.

A more miserable night for an out-of-door excursion I could hardly
have chosen. The rain was like a mist, and was not only drenching
me to the skin, but it was rendering it difficult to see more than
a little distance in any direction. The neighbourhood was badly
lighted. It was one in which I was a stranger, I had come to
Hammersmith as a last resource. It had seemed to me that I had
tried to find some occupation which would enable me to keep body
and soul together in every other part of London, and that now only
Hammersmith was left. And, at Hammersmith, even the workhouse
would have none of me!

Retreating from the inhospitable portal of the casual ward, I had
taken the first turning to the left,—and, at the moment, had been
glad to take it. In the darkness and the rain, the locality which
I was entering appeared unfinished. I seemed to be leaving
civilisation behind me. The path was unpaved; the road rough and
uneven, as if it had never been properly made. Houses were few and
far between. Those which I did encounter, seemed, in the imperfect
light, amid the general desolation, to be cottages which were
crumbling to decay.

Exactly where I was I could not tell. I had a faint notion that,
if I only kept on long enough, I should strike some part of Walham
Green. How long I should have to keep on I could only guess. Not a
creature seemed to be about of whom I could make inquiries. It was
as if I was in a land of desolation.

I suppose it was between eleven o'clock and midnight. I had not
given up my quest for work till all the shops were closed,—and in
Hammersmith, that night, at any rate, they were not early closers.
Then I had lounged about dispiritedly, wondering what was the next
thing I could do. It was only because I feared that if I attempted
to spend the night in the open air, without food, when the morning
came I should be broken up, and fit for nothing, that I sought a
night's free board and lodging. It was really hunger which drove
me to the workhouse door. That was Wednesday. Since the Sunday
night preceding nothing had passed my lips save water from the
public fountains,—with the exception of a crust of bread which a
man had given me whom I had found crouching at the root of a tree
in Holland Park. For three days I had been fasting,—practically
all the time upon my feet. It seemed to me that if I had to go
hungry till the morning I should collapse,—there would be an end.
Yet, in that strange and inhospitable place, where was I to get
food at that time of night, and how?