skilly an' a six-ounce loaf.'
''Tisn't always six ounces,' corrected the Carter.
''Tisn't, no; an' often that sour you can 'ardly eat it.When first I started I couldn't eat the skilly nor the bread, but now I can eat my own an' another man's portion.'
'I could eat three other men's portions,' said the Carter.'I'aven't 'ad a bit this blessed day.'
'Then what?'
'Then you've got to do your task, pick four pounds of oakum, or clean an' scrub, or break ten to eleven hundredweight o' stones.Idon't 'ave to break stones; I'm past sixty, you see.They'll make you do it, though.You're young an' strong.'
'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 an' 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-colored sky, the wind blowing cheerless and cold, we stood, with our pitiful little bundles in our hands, a forlorn group at the workhouse door.