Suddenly his eyes brightened. “Why, take them street-walkers you see about at night; now what d’you think ladies in their carriages thinks of them—dirt! But them women ’alf the time’s no worse than what the ladies are. They took their bit o’ sport, as you may call it—same as lots o’ ladies take it. That’s where money comes in—they ’adn’t the money to keep off the streets. But what are you to do? You can’t have the creatures about.” A frown came on his brow, as though this question had long been troubling him. “The rich,” he went on, “are able for to educate their daughters, and look after them; I don’t blame them—it’s human nature to do the best you can for your own family; but you’ve got to think of others that haven’t got your money—you’ve got to be human about it. The mischief is, when a man’s got money, it’s like a wall between ’im an’ ’is fellows. That’s what I’ve found. What’s your opinion? Look here! My father was a farm labourer, at eight shillin’s a week, an’ brought up six of us. And ’owever ’e managed it I don’t know; but I don’t think things are any better than they were then—I don’t—I think they’re worse. This progress, or what do they call it, is destroyin’ of us. You can’t keep it back, no more than you could keep back that there roller if you pushed against it; all you can do’s to keep ahead of it, I suppose. But talk about people’s increasin’ in the milk of human kindness—I don’t see it, nor intelligence. Look at the way they spend their ’olidays—it gives you stomach-ache to see them. All a lot o’ rowdy fellers, never still a minute, that’s lost all religion—a lot o’ town-bred monkeys. This ’ere modern life, it’s hollowed of ’em out, that’s what it’s done, in my opinion. People’s got so restless; they keep on tryin’ first one thing and then another; anything so long as they can be doing something on their own. That’s a fact. It’s like a man workin’ on a job like this road-mendin’; he just sees the stones he’s puttin’ down himself, and he don’t see nothing else. That’s what everybody’s doin’. But I don’t see how you can prevent it; it looks as if ’twas in the blood. They talk about this Socialism; well, but I’m not very sweet on it—it’s mostly all a-lookin’ after your neighbour, ’s far’s I can see.”
He paused, staring hard, as though trying to see further. “Well,” he went on suddenly; “that won’t work! Look at the police—never met such meddlesome creatures; very nice men in themselves, I dare say, but just because they’ve got a little power—! And they’re as thick as thieves together. Take these fellers that they send to prison; they talk about reformin’ of them, but when they get them there it’s all like that roller, crushin’ the life out—awful, I call it. Them fellers come out dead, with their minds squashed out o’ them; an’ all done with the best intentions, so they tell me. I tell you what I think, there’s only one man in a ’undred fit to ’ave power over other men put in his ’ands. Look at the workhouses—why ain’t they popular? It’s all because you’ve got to live by rule. I don’t find no fault with rules so long as you don’t order people about; what you want to do’s to get people to keep rules of their own accord—that’s what I think. But people don’t look at it that way, ’s far ’s I can see. What’s your opinion? Mind ye,” he went on suddenly, “I’m not saying as there isn’t lots o’ things Government might do, that you’d call Socialism, I dare say. See the women in them slums—poor things, they can’t hardly drag themselves along, and yet they breed like rabbits. I don’t blame them, they don’t know no better. But look ’ere!” and thrusting the handle of the flag into his pocket, he took a button of his listener’s coat between his finger and his thumb; “I’d pass a law, I would, to stop ’em. That’s going too far, you say! Well, but what’s to be done? There’s no other way, in my opinion. Then, of course, if you stop ’em, you won’t ’ave none o’ this cheap low-class labour. That won’t please people. It’s a difficult matter!”
He sank his voice to a sort of whistling whisper. “’Alf the children in them slums is brought about under the influence of drink. What d’ you make of that? And that’s only the beginning—they feed them poor little things on all sorts o’ mucky stuff—an’ lots o’ them ’alf fed at that. Pretty state o’ things for a country like this—it’d disgrace the savages, I think. I’d ’ave every child full-fed by law. I’d make it a crime, I would, to ’ave half-starved children about the streets or schools, or anywhere. I’d begin at the beginning. But then you say that’s pauperising of the parents. That’s what they said when they began this ’ere free education—nobody ain’t been pauperised by that. A country that can’t keep its children fed ain’t fit to ’ave them, that’s what I think; ’t isn’t fair to them little things. But then you say that’d cost a mint o’ money—millions! Of course it would! Well, look at the ’ouses in this road, look at them big flats—’undreds an’ thousands of streets an’ ’ouses like that all over England. They say that sixpence on the rates would feed the children, but they won’t put it on—of course they won’t, it’s too much off their comfort. People don’t like parting; that’s a fact, as you know yourself. But what’s the good of raisin’ millions of these ’ere dry-rotted people—they’re so expensive, you can’t do nothing with them——” He broke off to intercept a cart. “But I dare say,” he said, returning, “they’d call that Socialism. What’s your opinion? Shall I tell you what I think about it? These Socialists are like men that keep a shop, an’ some one walks in an’ says: ‘How much for the coat there?’ he says. ‘Ten bob!’ they say. ‘I’ll give you five,’ he says. ‘No, we wants ten,’ they say. ‘No,’ ’e says, ‘five!’ And both of them knows all the time they’re goin’ to do a deal at seven an’ six!”
He sank his voice, as though imparting a State secret: “It wouldn’t never do for them to say seven an’ six straight off; then ’e’d only give ’em six an’ three. See? If you want to get a proper price you’ve got to keep hollerin’ for more—that’s human nature.”
Then, waving his flag towards the block of flats, he said: “Look at all this class of comfortable people. They don’t see things the same as I do, an’ I don’t know why they should. They’re comfortable themselves. It stands to reason they’re not goin’ to think about such things. They’ve been brought up to believe the world was made for them. They never see no other people but their own sort; same as workin’ people never see no other but workin’ people. That’s what makes the classes, in my opinion. All these fellers here,” and he waved his hand towards the figures working at the road, “talk very big about betterin’ their position, but as soon as it comes to standin’ by each other it’s every man for himself. It’s only what you can expect—if you don’t look out for yourself, nobody else will, that’s as sure as eggs. They say, in England all men’s equal under the law; well, but then you’ve only got to look around—that isn’t true, how can it be? You’ve got to pay for law same as you’ve got to pay for everything. That’s where it is! They talk about Justice in the country, the same for rich and poor; that’s all very fine, but there’s a ’undred ways where a man that’s poor has to suffer for it, because he can’t pull the lawyers’ tails and make ’em jump.”
And with these words he tried to raise both arms, but he had only one. “You haven’t told me what you think?” he said: “I’ll tell you my opinion,” and his voice dropped to an emphatic whisper: “There’s things that want improvin’, and there’s things that stand in the way of things improvin’. But I’ve noticed one thing; it don’t matter how low people get, they’re always proud of something, even if it’s only of their troubles. There must be some good in human nature, or we’d never keep ahead of that great thing at all;” he stretched his arm out to the roller, approaching with its slow crunching sound like the sound of Life crunching the bones of men; “we’d let it go right over us.” And nodding his grey head twice, he stood holding up his red flag as still as stone, with his eyes fixed intently on a coming milk-cart.
THE LOST DOG
I
The Lost Dog
It was the first October frost. Outside a half-built house, before a board on which was written, “Jolly Bros., Builders,” I saw a man, whose eyes seemed saying: “In the winter building will stop; if I am homeless and workless now, what shall I be in two months’ time?” Turning to me he said: “Can you give me a job, sir? I don’t mind what I do.”