"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