“I could eat three other men’s portions,” said the Carter.  “I ’aven’t ’ad a bit this blessed day.”

“Then what?”

“Then you’ve got to do your task, pick four pounds of oakum, or clean an’ scrub, or break ten to eleven hundredweight o’ stones.  I don’t ’ave to break stones; I’m past sixty, you see.  They’ll make you do it, though.  You’re young an’ strong.”

“What I don’t like,” grumbled the Carter, “is to be locked up in a cell to pick oakum.  It’s too much like prison.”

“But suppose, after you’ve had your night’s sleep, you refuse to pick oakum, or break stones, or do any work at all?” I asked.

“No fear you’ll refuse the second time; they’ll run you in,” answered the Carpenter.  “Wouldn’t advise you to try it on, my lad.”

“Then comes dinner,” he went on.  “Eight ounces of bread, one and a arf ounces of cheese, an’ cold water.  Then you finish your task an’ ’ave supper, same as before, three parts o’ skilly any six ounces o’ bread.  Then to bed, six o’clock, an’ next mornin’ you’re turned loose, provided you’ve finished your task.”

We had long since left Mile End Road, and after traversing a gloomy maze of narrow, winding streets, we came to Poplar Workhouse.  On a low stone wall we spread our handkerchiefs, and each in his handkerchief put all his worldly possessions, with the exception of the “bit o’ baccy” down his sock.  And then, as the last light was fading from the drab-coloured sky, the wind blowing cheerless and cold, we stood, with our pitiful little bundles in our hands, a forlorn group at the workhouse door.

Three working girls came along, and one looked pityingly at me; as she passed I followed her with my eyes, and she still looked pityingly back at me.  The old men she did not notice.  Dear Christ, she pitied me, young and vigorous and strong, but she had no pity for the two old men who stood by my side!  She was a young woman, and I was a young man, and what vague sex promptings impelled her to pity me put her sentiment on the lowest plane.  Pity for old men is an altruistic feeling, and besides, the workhouse door is the accustomed place for old men.  So she showed no pity for them, only for me, who deserved it least or not at all.  Not in honour do grey hairs go down to the grave in London Town.

On one side the door was a bell handle, on the other side a press button.

“Ring the bell,” said the Carter to me.

And just as I ordinarily would at anybody’s door, I pulled out the handle and rang a peal.

“Oh!  Oh!” they cried in one terrified voice.  “Not so ’ard!”

I let go, and they looked reproachfully at me, as though I had imperilled their chance for a bed and three parts of skilly.  Nobody came.  Luckily it was the wrong bell, and I felt better.

“Press the button,” I said to the Carpenter.

“No, no, wait a bit,” the Carter hurriedly interposed.