fools will talk bloody revolution as they gather offal from the spittle-
drenched sidewalk along Mile End Road to Poplar Workhouse.

Being a foreigner, and a young man, the Carter and the Carpenter
explained things to me and advised me. Their advice, by the way, was
brief, and to the point; it was to get out of the country. "As fast as
God'll let me," I assured them; "I'll hit only the high places, till you
won't be able to see my trail for smoke." They felt the force of my
figures, rather than understood them, and they nodded their heads
approvingly.

"Actually make a man a criminal against 'is will," said the Carpenter.
"'Ere I am, old, younger men takin' my place, my clothes gettin' shabbier
an' shabbier, an' makin' it 'arder every day to get a job. I go to the
casual ward for a bed. Must be there by two or three in the afternoon or
I won't get in. You saw what happened to-day. What chance does that
give me to look for work? S'pose I do get into the casual ward? Keep me
in all day to-morrow, let me out mornin' o' next day. What then? The
law sez I can't get in another casual ward that night less'n ten miles
distant. Have to hurry an' walk to be there in time that day. What
chance does that give me to look for a job? S'pose I don't walk. S'pose
I look for a job? In no time there's night come, an' no bed. No sleep
all night, nothin' to eat, what shape am I in the mornin' to look for
work? Got to make up my sleep in the park somehow" (the vision of
Christ's Church, Spitalfield, was strong on me) "an' get something to
eat. An' there I am! Old, down, an' no chance to get up."

"Used to be a toll-gate 'ere," said the Carter. "Many's the time I've
paid my toll 'ere in my cartin' days."