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George Orwell > Down and Out in Paris and London > Chapter XXXV

Down and Out in Paris and London

Chapter XXXV

Arrived at Lower Binfield, we sprawled for a long time on the green,
watched by cottagers from their front gates. A clergyman and his daughter
came and stared silently at us for a while, as though we had been aquarium
fishes, and then went away again. There were several dozen of us waiting.
William and Fred were there, still singing, and the men who had fought, and
Bill the moocher. He had been mooching from bakers, and had quantities of
stale bread tucked away between his coat and his bare body. He shared it
out, and we were all glad of it. There was a woman among us, the first
woman tramp I had ever seen. She was a fattish, battered, very dirty woman
of sixty, in a long, trailing black skirt. She put on great airs of
dignity, and if anyone sat down near her she sniffed and moved farther off.

'Where you bound for, missis?' one of the tramps called to her.

The woman sniffed and looked into the distance.

'Come on, missis,' he said, 'cheer up. Be chummy. We're all in the
same boat 'ere.'

'Thank you,' said the woman bitterly, 'when I want to get mixed up
with a set of TRAMPS, I'll let you know.'

I enjoyed the way she said TRAMPS. It seemed to show you in a flash
the whole other soul; a small, blinkered, feminine soul, that had learned
absolutely nothing from years on the road. She was, no doubt, a respectable
widow woman, become a tramp through some grotesque accident.

The spike opened at six. This was Saturday, and we were to be confined
over the week-end, which is the usual practice; why, I do not know, unless
it is from a vague feeling that Sunday merits something disagreeable. When
we registered I gave my trade as 'journalist'. It was truer than 'painter',
for I had sometimes earned money from newspaper articles, but it was a
silly thing to say, being bound to lead to questions. As soon as we were
inside the spike and had been lined up for the search, the Tramp Major
called my name. He was a stiff, soldierly man of forty, not looking the
bully he had been represented, but with an old soldier's gruffness. He said

'Which of you is Blank?' (I forget what name I had given.)

'Me, sir.'

'So you are a journalist?'

'Yes, sir,' I said, quaking. A few questions would betray the fact
that I had been lying, which might mean prison. But the Tramp Major only
looked me up and down and said:

'Then you are a gentleman?'

'I suppose so.'

He gave me another long look. 'Well, that's bloody bad luck, guv'nor,'
he said; 'bloody bad luck that is.' And thereafter he treated me with
unfair favouritism, and even with a kind of deference. He did not search
me, and in the bathroom he actually gave me a clean towel to myself--an
unheard-of luxury. So powerful is the word 'gentleman' in an old soldier's

By seven we had wolfed our bread and tea and were in our cells. We
slept one in a cell, and there were bedsteads and straw palliasses, so that
one ought to have had a good night's sleep. But no spike is perfect, and
the peculiar shortcoming at Lower Binfield was the cold. The hot pipes were
not working, and the two blankets we had been given were thin cotton things
and almost useless. It was only autumn, but the cold was bitter. One spent
the long twelve-hour night in turning from side to side, falling asleep for
a few minutes and waking up shivering. We could not smoke, for our tobacco,
which we had managed to smuggle in, was in our clothes and we should not
get these back till the morning. All down the passage one could hear
groaning noises, and sometimes a shouted oath. No one, I imagine, got more
than an hour or two of sleep.

In the morning, after breakfast and the doctor's inspection, the Tramp
Major herded us all into the dining-room and locked the door upon us. It
was a limewashed, stone-floored room, unutterably dreary, with its
furniture of deal boards and benches, and its prison smell. The barred
windows were too high to look out of, and there were no ornaments save a
clock and a copy of the workhouse rules. Packed elbow to elbow on the
benches, we were bored already, though it was barely eight in the morning.
There was nothing to do, nothing to talk about, not even room to move. The
sole consolation was that one could smoke, for smoking was connived at so
long as one was not caught in the act. Scotty, a little hairy tramp with a
bastard accent sired by Cockney out of Glasgow, was tobaccoless, his tin of
cigarette ends having fallen out of his boot during the search and been
impounded. I stood him the makings of a cigarette. We smoked furtively,
thrusting our cigarettes into our pockets, like schoolboys, when we heard
the Tramp Major coming.

Most of the tramps spent ten continuous hours in this comfortless,
soulless room. Heaven knows how they put up with it. I was luckier than the
others, for at ten o'clock the Tramp Major told off a few men for odd jobs,
and he picked me out to help in the workhouse kitchen, the most coveted job
of all. This, like the clean towel, was a charm worked by the word

There was no work to do in the kitchen, and I sneaked off into a small
shed used for storing potatoes, where some workhouse paupers were skulking
to avoid the Sunday morning service. There were comfortable packing-cases
to sit on, and some back numbers of the FAMILY HERALD, and even a copy of
RAFFLES from the workhouse library. The paupers talked interestingly about
workhouse life. They told me, among other things, that the thing really
hated in the workhouse, as a stigma of charity, is the uniform; if the men
could wear their own clothes, or even their own caps and scarves, they
would not mind being paupers. I had my dinner from the workhouse table, and
it was a meal fit for a boa-constrictor--the largest meal I had eaten
since my first day at the Hotel X. The paupers said that they habitually
gorged to the bursting-point on Sunday and were underfed the rest of the
week. After dinner the cook set me to do the washing up, and told me to
throw away the food that remained. The wastage was astonishing and, in the
circumstances, appalling. Half-eateh joints of meat, and bucketfuls of
broken bread and vegetables, were pitched away like so much rubbish and
then defiled with tea-leaves. I filled five dustbins to overflowing with
quite eatable food. And while I did so fifty tramps were sitting in the
spike with their bellies half filled by the spike dinner of bread and
cheese, and perhaps two cold boiled potatoes each in honour of Sunday.
According to the paupers, the food was thrown away from deliberate policy,
rather than that it should be given to the tramps.

At three I went back to the spike. The tramps had been sitting there
since eight, with hardly room to move an elbow, and they were now half mad
with boredom. Even smoking was at an end, for a tramp's tobacco is
picked-up cigarette ends, and he starves if he is more than a few hours
away from the pavement. Most of the men were too bored even to talk; they
just sat packed on the benches, staring at nothing, their scrubby faces
split in two by enormous yawns. The room stank of ENNUI.

Paddy, his backside aching from the hard bench, was in a whimpering
mood, and to pass the time away I talked with a rather superior tramp, a
young carpenter who wore a collar and tie and was on the road, he said, for
lack of a set of tools. He kept a little aloof from the other tramps, and
held himself more like a free man than a casual. He had literary tastes,
too, and carried a copy of QUENTIN DURWARD in his pocket. He told me that
he never went into a spike unless driven there by hunger, sleeping under
hedges and behind ricks in preference. Along the south coast he had begged
by day and slept in bathing-huts for weeks at a time.

We talked of life on the road. He criticized the system that makes a
tramp spend fourteen hours a day in the spike, and the other ten in walking
and dodging the police. He spoke of his own case--six months at the
public charge for want of a few pounds' worth of tools. It was idiotic, he

Then I told him about the wastage of food in the workhouse kitchen,
and what I thought of it. And at that he changed his tone instantly. I saw
that I had awakened the pew-renter who sleeps in every English workman.
Though he had been famished along with the others, he at once saw reasons
why the food should have been thrown away rather that given to the tramps.
He admonished me quite severely.

'They have to do it,' he said. 'If they made these places too
comfortable, you'd have all the scum of the country flocking into them.
It's only the bad food as keeps all that scum away. These here tramps are
too lazy to work, that's all that's wrong with them. You don't want to go
encouraging of them. They're scum.'

I produced arguments to prove him wrong, but he would not listen. He
kept repeating:

'You don't want to have any pity on these here tramps--scum, they
are. You don't want to judge them by the same standards as men like you and
me. They're scum, just scum.'

It was interesting to see the subtle way in which he disassociated
himself from 'these here tramps'. He had been on the road six months, but
in the sight of God, he seemed to imply, he was not a tramp. I imagine
there are quite a lot of tramps who thank God they are not tramps. They are
like the trippers who say such cutting things about trippers.

Three hours dragged by. At six supper arrived, and turned out to be
quite uneatable; the bread, tough enough in the morning (it had been cut
into slices on Saturday night), was now as hard as ship's biscuit. Luckily
it was spread with dripping, and we scraped the dripping off and ate that
alone, which was better than nothing. At a quarter past six we were sent to
bed. New tramps were arriving, and in order not to mix the tramps of
different days (for fear of infectious diseases) the new men were put in
the cells and we in dormitories. Our dormitory was a barn-like room with
thirty beds close together, and a tub to serve as a common chamber-pot. It
stank abominably, and the older men coughed and got up all night. But being
so many together kept the room warm, and we had some sleep.

We dispersed at ten in the morning, after a fresh medical inspection,
with a hunk of bread and cheese for our midday dinner. William and Fred,
strong in the possession of a shilling, impaled their bread on the spike
railings--as a protest, they said. This was the second spike in Kent that
they had made too hot to hold them, and they thought it a great joke. They
were cheerful souls, for tramps. The imbecile (there is an imbecile in
every collection of tramps) said that he was too tired to walk and clung to
the railings, until the Tramp Major had to dislodge him and start him with
a kick. Paddy and I turned north, for London. Most of the others were going
on to Ide Hill, said to be about the worst spike in England*.

[* I have been in it since, and it is not so bad]

Once again it was jolly autumn weather, and the road was quiet, with
few cars passing. The air was like sweet-briar after the spike's mingled
stenches of sweat, soap, and drains. We two seemed the only tramps on the
road. Then I heard a hurried step behind us, and someone calling. It was
little Scotty, the Glasgow tramp, who had run after us panting. He produced
a rusty tin from his pocket. He wore a friendly smile, like someone
repaying an obligation.

'Here y'are, mate,' he said cordially. 'I owe you some fag ends. You
stood me a smoke yesterday. The Tramp Major give me back my box of fag ends
when we come out this morning. One good turn deserves another--here

And he put four sodden, debauched, loathly cigarette ends into my

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