Another beautiful touch was that displayed by the “Hopper” and his “ole woman.”  He had been in line about half-an-hour when the “ole woman” (his mate) came up to him.  She was fairly clad, for her class, with a weather-worn bonnet on her grey head and a sacking-covered bundle in her arms.  As she talked to him, he reached forward, caught the one stray wisp of the white hair that was flying wild, deftly twirled it between his fingers, and tucked it back properly behind her ear.  From all of which one may conclude many things.  He certainly liked her well enough to wish her to be neat and tidy.  He was proud of her, standing there in the spike line, and it was his desire that she should look well in the eyes of the other unfortunates who stood in the spike line.  But last and best, and underlying all these motives, it was a sturdy affection he bore her; for man is not prone to bother his head over neatness and tidiness in a woman for whom he does not care, nor is he likely to be proud of such a woman.

And I found myself questioning why this man and his mate, hard workers I knew from their talk, should have to seek a pauper lodging.  He had pride, pride in his old woman and pride in himself.  When I asked him what he thought I, a greenhorn, might expect to earn at “hopping,” he sized me up, and said that it all depended.  Plenty of people were too slow to pick hops and made a failure of it.  A man, to succeed, must use his head and be quick with his fingers, must be exceeding quick with his fingers.  Now he and his old woman could do very well at it, working the one bin between them and not going to sleep over it; but then, they had been at it for years.

“I ’ad a mate as went down last year,” spoke up a man.  “It was ’is fust time, but ‘e come back wi’ two poun’ ten in ‘is pockit, an’ ’e was only gone a month.”

“There you are,” said the Hopper, a wealth of admiration in his voice.  “’E was quick.  ’E was jest nat’rally born to it, ’e was.”

Two pound ten—­twelve dollars and a half—­for a month’s work when one is “jest nat’rally born to it!” And in addition, sleeping out without blankets and living the Lord knows how.  There are moments when I am thankful that I was not “jest nat’rally born” a genius for anything, not even hop-picking,

In the matter of getting an outfit for “the hops,” the Hopper gave me some sterling advice, to which same give heed, you soft and tender people, in case you should ever be stranded in London Town.

“If you ain’t got tins an’ cookin’ things, all as you can get’ll be bread and cheese.  No bloomin’ good that!  You must ’ave ‘ot tea, an’ wegetables, an’ a bit o’ meat, now an’ again, if you’re goin’ to do work as is work.  Cawn’t do it on cold wittles.  Tell you wot you do, lad.  Run around in the mornin’ an’ look in the dust pans.  You’ll find plenty o’ tins to cook in.  Fine tins, wonderful good some o’ them.  Me an’ the ole woman got ours that way.” (He pointed at the bundle she held, while she nodded proudly, beaming on me with good-nature and consciousness of success and prosperity.) “This overcoat is as good as a blanket,” he went on, advancing the skirt of it that I might feel its thickness.  “An’ ’oo knows, I may find a blanket before long.”