The old man-of-war's man gave me a lesson.Opening his pouch, he emptied the tobacco (a pitiful quantity) into a piece of paper.
This, snugly and flatly wrapped, went down his sock inside his shoe.
Down went my piece of tobacco inside my sock, for forty hours without tobacco is a hardship all tobacco users will understand.
Again and again the line moved up, and we were slowly but surely approaching the wicket.At the moment we happened to be standing on an iron grating, and a man appearing underneath, the old sailor called down to him:
'How many more do they want?'
'Twenty-four,' came the answer.
We looked ahead anxiously and counted.Thirty-four were ahead of us.
Disappointment and consternation dawned upon the faces about me.It is not a nice thing, hungry and penniless, to face a sleepless night in the streets.But we hoped against hope, till, when ten stood outside the wicket, the porter turned us away.
'Full up,' was what he said, as he banged the door.
Like a flash, for all his eighty-seven years, the old sailor was speeding away on the desperate chance of finding shelter elsewhere.
I stood and debated with two other men, wise in the knowledge of casual wards, as to where we should go.They decided on the Poplar Workhouse, three miles away, and we started off.
As we rounded the corner, one of them said, 'I could a' got in 'ere to-day.I come by at one o'clock, an' the line was beginnin' to form then- pets, that's what they are.They let 'm in, the same ones, night upon night.'