The Autobiography of a Super-Tramp

by W. H. Davies

  Days, weeks, and months went on, and it was now the month of October. It was now that I began to find the necessity of having a bed every night, having been satisfied up till then with a bed once or perhaps twice a week, according to the coppers received. I was back again in Swindon, having been there some time previous, when on my way to Devonshire. The first three months of sacrifice were over, and I was very little the worse for it; but the next three months required different means, to correspond with the difference in the time of year. Shelter was necessary every night, and to meet these stern demands, I needed something to sell, so as to be sure of coppers for this purpose. With this idea, I bought two dozen laces with the last three coppers I had, and re-opened business as a hawker. The success with which I met in this town astonished me, owing, I believe, to its being a working man’s town, and not filled with half-pay officers and would-be aristocrats that cannot afford, but still feel it their duty, to live in fine villas in the locality of a royal residence. The poor, sympathetic people seemed to understand a man’s wants. Business was often transacted without the utterance of words. Taking a pair of laces, they would give a copper, and, smiling their sympathy, close the door. Often one would pay for these useless things and not take them. The kindness of these people so filled me with gratitude, that I found it impossible to continue selling after I had received enough to supply the day’s wants, which would often be in less than half an hour. I remained here for two weeks, being able to allow myself half an ounce of tobacco and a halfpenny paper every day. The only thing that worried me in this town was the persistence of an old beggar in the lodging house. Night after night, this man would advise me to go out and stand pad. This was, he explained, that a man, who is afflicted with the loss of an arm, a hand or a leg, blind, paralysed or lame, should stand or sit in a public place in the town, holding in his hand matches, laces or any other cheap trifle, so that he might invite the charity of passers by. This old man could not understand why this was not done, seeing that it required no eloquence—the very act and the affliction speaking for themselves—and was so successful a dodge that even ablebodied men could often pick up a shilling or two in this way. At last I became so impressed with this old man’s eloquence, that I left the lodging house three times in one night with a firm resolution to stand pad, and three times I returned without having done so. On the last occasion I did make a little attempt, but foolishly took up a position where no one could see me.

  Before I left Swindon I wrote to a friend of mine in Canada, requesting him to forward me a pound to London, as soon as possible, which would be returned to him at the beginning of the new year. I did this so that I might have a couple of weeks at the end of December to prepare my MS. and to be ready for business as soon as that time arrived. It was now the latter end of October, and this pound could not reach London far short of a month. Thinking I was not likely again to suffer for want of a bed or food, after this success in Swindon, I bought a good stock of laces and left that town, with the intention of working the towns on the outskirts of London, so that when ready to enter I would be within a day’s march. Unfortunately, after leaving Swindon, success deserted me, which was certainly more my fault than that of the people, for I made very little appeal to them. Arriving at Maidenhead, I had the bare price of my bed, with a dry bread supper and breakfast. My laces were being exhausted, and I was without means to replenish them. From town to town I walked around London, sometimes making sixpence, and always less than a shilling a day; and this small amount had to purchase bed, food, and occasionally a couple of dozen laces. The monotony of this existence was broken a little at Guildford, where I was arrested on suspicion of crime. A plain clothes officer happened to be in the office of the lodging house, who, when he set eyes upon me, requested a few moments conversation, at the same time leading the way out into the yard. He then came to a halt under a lamp, and, taking from his pocket some papers, began to read, often raising his eyes to scrutinise my person. “Yes,” he said, at last, “no doubt you are the man I want, for you answer his description.” “I suppose,” was my answer, “it is a case of arrest?” “It is,” he said, “and you must accompany me to the station.” On my way to that place he asked many a question of what I had done with my overcoat, and as to the whereabouts of my wife. It had been several years since I had owned the former, and the latter I had never possessed; but this man could not be convinced of either. “Which way have you come?” he asked. To which I mentioned one or two shires. At this he pricked up his ears, and asked if I had been in a certain town in one of those shires, which I had, and saw no reason to say otherwise. Unfortunately this was the town where the guilty man had operated. The detective was certainly not very smart when he took this confession as evidence of guilt, for the guilty man would have mentioned that particular town as one of the last places to visit. I certainly answered to the description of the man wanted, with the exception of not having a blotchy face, which had been characteristic of the guilty man. But on my face they saw no blotches, nor signs of any having been there in the past. Of course, I was discharged in an hour, and returned to the lodging house for the night. The following day I happened to be in Dorking, and was walking through that town, when I heard quick steps behind me, and a voice cry—“Halt: I want you.” Turning my head I saw it was a police officer. This man at once took possession of me, saying that he fortunately had been looking through the police station window, when he saw me passing, and that I answered to the description of a man wanted—“for that affair at Cheltenham,” I added. “Ha,” he said, his face lighting with pleasure, “how well you know.” We returned quietly to the police station, and when I confronted his superior officer, I asked that person if I was to be arrested in every town through which I passed; telling my experience the night before at Guildford. After one or two questions, and a careful reading of the description paper, also an examination of my pedlar’s certificate, he told me I was at liberty to go my way, at the same time saying that no man with any sense would have arrested me. After this I was not again troubled by police officers, owing perhaps, to their having arrested the guilty man.

  CHAPTER 29

  A DAY’S COMPANION

  I HAD MANY A STRANGE EXPERIENCE IN THOSE DAYS, especially one with an old man, who must have been between seventy and eighty years of age. He accosted me through the hedges and, looking in that direction, I saw him in the act of filling a quart can with blackberries, aided by a thick long stick with a crooked end. “Wait a moment,” said he, “for I also am going Bedford way.” I was nothing loth to wait, for I was a stranger in that part of the country, and required information as to which was the best cheap lodging house for the night. I knew that in a town of the size of Bedford there must be more than one common lodging house, and one must be better than another, if only in the extra smile of a landlady, regardless of clean blankets or cooking accommodation.

  For this reason I waited, and, in less than three minutes, the old man joined me. His answer to my first question was disappointing, for it seemed that the number of lodging houses which Bedford could boast were all public houses, and there was not one private house that catered for beggars. This was a real disappointment, for I knew that whosoever made tea at such a place, did so under the ill favoured glance of a landlady or landlord, perhaps both, who sold beer ready made. In fact the facilities for making tea, cooking, or even washing one’s shirt, were extremely limited at such a place, which made it very undesirable for a poor beggar like myself, who had great difficulty in begging sufficient for his bed and board, and did not wish to be reminded of beer.

  “Surely,” I said, “there must be in a town the size of Bedford one private lodging house, at least, to accommodate tramps.”

  “Well,” said he, “as a tramp I have been going in and out of that town for over thirty years, and I never heard of such a place. You can make enquiries, and I should like to know different,” he continued, rather sarcastically that I had doubted his knowl
edge. “The two best houses are the ‘Boot’ and the ‘Cock,’ but seeing that the former takes in women, the latter I think would be the best for us. Are you going to do business on the road?” he enquired. “Not to-day,” I answered him, “for I have enough for my bed, and an extra few coppers for food.” “All right,” said he, “we will travel together, and if I do a little business on the way it won’t interfere with you, and we have plenty of time to reach the lodging house before dark.” Having no objection to this proposal we jogged pleasantly along.

  We were now descending a steep incline and my companion, seeing a man coming in the opposite direction, walking beside a bicycle, lost no time in confronting that gentleman and pushing the blackberries under his nose. “No,” said the man, gruffly, “do you think I am going to carry those things? but here’s a copper for you.” Well, thought I, this man will never sell his berries if he does not show more discretion and offer them to more likely customers.

  Just after this we met a lady and gentleman, both well dressed and apparently well to do. Touching his cap to these people my companion soon had his blackberries within a few inches of their eyes, at the same time using all his persuasive powers to induce them to make a purchase. In this he failed, as was to be expected, but continued to walk step by step with them for several yards, until the gentleman hastily put his hand in his pocket and gave the old fellow sixpence, the smallest change that he had.

  Several others were stopped after this, and although my fellow traveller failed to sell his perishable goods, a number of people assisted him with coppers. In one instance I thought he surely could not be of sound mind, for he had seen a party of ladies and gentlemen seating themselves in a motor car, and was hurrying with all speed in that direction. In this case he failed at getting a hearing, for before he was half way towards them, the party had seated themselves and the car was moving rapidly away. My companion’s lips trembled with vexation at seeing this.

  “Wait a moment,” said he, crossing the road to a baker’s shop—“I am going to exchange these berries for buns.” Waiting outside I was soon joined again by this strange old fellow who then carried in his left hand four buns, his right hand still being in possession of the blackberries.

  “You will never sell them,” I said, “if you do not offer them at more likely places. See, there is a shop with fruit and vegetables: try there.” “Why,” he answered with a grin, “how do you think I could make a living if I sold them? The market value of these berries is about one farthing, and it takes sixteen farthings to pay for my feather (bed) not reckoning scrand (food), and a glass or two of skimish (drink). In fact,” said he, “my day’s work is done, and I am quite satisfied with the result.” Saying which he tumbled the blackberries into the gutter and placed the can—which he used for making tea—into a large self-made inside pocket. On getting a better view of them, I remarked that no person could buy such berries, for they were about the worst assortment I had ever seen in my life. “It would not pay to make them very enticing,” said he, “or they would find a too ready sale.” “But what do you do when the season is over?” I asked, “for you cannot pick blackberries all the year round.” “Oh,” he answered, “I have other ways of making a living. If I can get 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 to-morrow, 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.

  CHAPTER 30

  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.

&n
bsp; 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 Macquire, of Doggery Hall?” asked the gentleman. “I do,” said the ill-clad one; and, after a long pause, and seeming to give the information with much reluctance, he added—“Mr. Frederick Macquire, of Doggery Hall, is my uncle.” Several other questions were asked and answered. “That will do, thank you,” said the gentleman; “will you please call at the ‘King’s Head’ and see me at seven p.m.? You have been advertised for since the death of Mr. Frederick Macquire, some weeks ago. Good morning,” he said, shaking James Macquire by the hand in a highly respectful manner, as the landlord could not fail to see, totally regardless of the man’s rags.

  The ill-clad one stood at the bar speechless, apparently absorbed in deep thought. “What will you have to drink?” asked the landlord kindly. “Whisky,” answered Macquire, in a faint voice. After drinking this, and another, he seemed to recover his composure, and said to the landlord—“I am at present, as you must know, penniless, and you would greatly oblige me by the loan of a few shillings, say half a sovereign until I draw a couple of hundred pounds in advance. Whatever I receive from you, you shall have a receipt, and, although nothing is said about interest, the amount owing will be doubled, aye trebled, you may rest assured of that, for I never forget a kindness.” “You had better take a sovereign,” said the landlord, “and, of course, the Mrs. will supply any meals you may need, and drink is at your disposal.” “Thank you,” said Macquire, in a choking voice—“let me have a couple of pots of your best ale for the poor fellows in the kitchen.”