Another round is to Croydon, Reigate, and the neighbourhoods; another to Edgeware, Kilburn, Watford, and Barnet; another to Maidstone; but the costermonger, if he starts trading at a distance, as he now does frequently, has his barrow and goods sent down by railway to such towns as Maidstone, so he saves the delay and cost of a donkey-cart. A “mate” sees to the transmission of the goods from London, the owner walking to Maidstone to be in readiness to “work” them immediately he receives them. “The railway’s an ease and a saving,” I was told; “I’ve got a stock sent for 2s., and a donkey’s keep would cost that for the time it would be in travelling. There’s 5,000 of us, I think, might get a living in the country, if we stuck to it entirely.”
If the country enterprise be a failure, the men sometimes abandon it in “a pet,” sell their goods at any loss, and walk home, generally getting drunk as the first step to their return. Some have been known to pawn their barrow on the road for drink. This they call “doing queer.”
In summer the costermongers carry plums, peas, new potatoes, cucumbers, and quantities of pickling vegetables, especially green walnuts, to the country. In winter their commodities are onions, fresh and red herrings, and sprats. “I don’t know how it is,” said one man to me, “but we sell ing-uns and all sorts of fruits and vegetables, cheaper than they can buy them where they’re grown; and green walnuts, too, when you’d think they had only to be knocked off a tree.”
Another costermonger told me that, in the country, he and his mates attended every dance or other amusement, “if it wasn’t too respectable.” Another said: “If I’m idle in the country on a Sunday, I never go to church. I never was in a church; I don’t know why, for my silk handkerchief’s worth more than one of their smock-frocks, and is quite as respectable.”
Some costermongers confine their exertions to the fairs and races, and many of them are connected with the gipsies, who are said to be the usual receivers of the stolen handkerchiefs at such places.
Of the Earnings of Costermongers.
The earnings of the costermonger—the next subject of inquiry that, in due order, presents itself—vary as much as in more fashionable callings, for he is greatly dependent on the season, though he may be little affected by London being full or empty.
Concurrent testimony supplied me with the following estimate of their earnings. I cite the average earnings (apart from any charges or drawbacks), of the most staple commodities:
In January and February the costers generally sell fish. In these months the wealthier of the street fishmongers, or those who can always command “money to go to market,” enjoy a kind of monopoly. The wintry season renders the supply of fish dearer and less regular, so that the poorer dealers cannot buy “at first hand,” and sometimes cannot be supplied at all; while the others monopolise the fish, more or less, and will not sell it to any of the other street-dealers until a profit has been realised out of their own regular customers, and the demand partially satisfied. “Why, I’ve known one man sell 10l. worth of fish—most of it mackarel—at his stall in Whitecross-street,” said a costermonger to me, “and all in one snowy day, in last January. It was very stormy at that time, and fish came in unregular, and he got a haul. I’ve known him sell 2l. worth in an hour, and once 2l. 10s. worth, for I then helped at his stall. If people has dinner parties they must have fish, and gentlemen’s servants came to buy.” The average earnings however of those that “go rounds” in these months are computed not to exceed 8s. a week; Monday and Saturday being days of little trade in fish.
“March is dreadful,” said an itinerant fish seller to me; “we don’t average, I’m satisfied, more nor 4s. a week. I’ve had my barrow idle for a week sometimes—at home every day, though it had to be paid for, all the same. At the latter end of March, if it’s fine, it’s 1s. a week better, because there’s flower roots in—‘all a-growing,’ you know, sir. And that lasts until April, and we then make above 6s. a week. I’ve heard people say when I’ve cried ‘all a-growing’ on a fine-ish day, ‘Aye, now summer’s a-coming.’ I wish you may get it, says I to myself; for I’ve studied the seasons.”