It was a weary walk.  Down St. James Street I dragged my tired legs, along Pall Mall, past Trafalgar Square, to the Strand.  I crossed the Waterloo Bridge to the Surrey side, cut across to Blackfriars Road, coming out near the Surrey Theatre, and arrived at the Salvation Army barracks before seven o’clock.  This was “the peg.”  And by “the peg,” in the argot, is meant the place where a free meal may be obtained.

Here was a motley crowd of woebegone wretches who had spent the night in the rain.  Such prodigious misery! and so much of it!  Old men, young men, all manner of men, and boys to boot, and all manner of boys.  Some were drowsing standing up; half a score of them were stretched out on the stone steps in most painful postures, all of them sound asleep, the skin of their bodies showing red through the holes, and rents in their rags.  And up and down the street and across the street for a block either way, each doorstep had from two to three occupants, all asleep, their heads bent forward on their knees.  And, it must be remembered, these are not hard times in England.  Things are going on very much as they ordinarily do, and times are neither hard nor easy.

And then came the policeman.  “Get outa that, you bloomin’ swine!  Eigh! eigh!  Get out now!” And like swine he drove them from the doorways and scattered them to the four winds of Surrey.  But when he encountered the crowd asleep on the steps he was astounded.  “Shocking!” he exclaimed.  “Shocking!  And of a Sunday morning!  A pretty sight!  Eigh! eigh!  Get outa that, you bleeding nuisances!”

Of course it was a shocking sight, I was shocked myself.  And I should not care to have my own daughter pollute her eyes with such a sight, or come within half a mile of it; but—­and there we were, and there you are, and “but” is all that can be said.

The policeman passed on, and back we clustered, like flies around a honey jar.  For was there not that wonderful thing, a breakfast, awaiting us?  We could not have clustered more persistently and desperately had they been giving away million-dollar bank-notes.  Some were already off to sleep, when back came the policeman and away we scattered only to return again as soon as the coast was clear.

At half-past seven a little door opened, and a Salvation Army soldier stuck out his head.  “Ayn’t no sense blockin’ the wy up that wy,” he said.  “Those as ‘as tickets cawn come hin now, an’ those as ’asn’t cawn’t come hin till nine.”

Oh, that breakfast!  Nine o’clock!  An hour and a half longer!  The men who held tickets were greatly envied.  They were permitted to go inside, have a wash, and sit down and rest until breakfast, while we waited for the same breakfast on the street.  The tickets had been distributed the previous night on the streets and along the Embankment, and the possession of them was not a matter of merit, but of chance.