IN A “TRAMP” WARD.

Lyttelton Times, Volume LXXX, Issue 10105, 2 August 1893, Page 2

IN A “TRAMP” WARD .

•_ / [by A EEA.Ii “ CASUAL.” (Pall Moll Budget.) Most people suppose that those luckless wretches who take refuge in the casual wards of workhouses have a rather good time of it at the expense of the ratepayers. Nothin* could be further removed from tho fact. Some unions and their officials treat "casuals" better than do others, but « bad is the best,” and, as a rule, London unions rank worse than country ones, St Giles’ being the very worst of all, for the' shopkeepers who constitute the Board or Guardians—not of the poor, but of the rates—in that parish, impose upon casuals a task of etone-breaking which no able* bodied man, no matter how powerful or skilful—and there is skill or "knack" in stone-breaking, as in other things—*, could possibly perform in the time allotted. Hence, as failure to perform the task means being charged at Bow-; street as a "refractory pauper," and as magistrates never, or hardly over, believe aught the accused “ casual" says, a night’s lodging in the Mocklin street, Drury lone, “ Bastille” usually means a month’s hard labour in Rentonville' Prison to follow. The casual ward of the parish of St Ursula is not far from a main thoroughfare, and is not open until 8 p.m. Ou the occasion when fate caused me to seek its shelter I had about thirty companions in miseryall ragged, all dirty, and all down at heel. We were hustled into a large room, which had, of course, that harsh and chilling aspect common to all workhouses. The "labour master”—they used to be sailed "tramp masters”—who had admitted us, took his seat at a table and commenced to take our names. &c. This was the way in which he went about it

"Now, then. No. 1, come on, if you are a-coming.” The man nearest, the bully crawled forward, hat in hand, and body bent forward, the very picture of abjeotnees. Then the “ bully-ragging ” commenced.

"What’s your name—if you’ve got one ?”—" Timothy Snooks." " Fine name that. How old do yon call yourself ?”—" Forty, please, sir.” "I don’t please. What ate yer?” —" Nothing.” “Si I should think,” grunted Bully, and made an entry of some kind. " Where did you sleep last night P”—" Nowhere.” "Nowherel” repeated Bally. - "Ain’t you a-going hack to ther same place?” No answer.

" Where are you going to P”—“ Anywhere.”

“ Anywhere! Here, that won’t do for me. You must say where you're going, even if it’s only to make a hole in the water.” Bully laughed at hio own poor wit, Snooks mattered something, and Bally wrote it down. “Haveyer got any money P”—“ No,” “Then take everything out of yer pockets and pitch ’em into that basket,” pointing to one close by. And uo went on the examination.

At last came my turn. Bully, who was evidently not a bad judge of men, at once discovered that 1 did not belong to the habitual tramp brigade; and accordingly, in order to aggravate me, put an additional question, viz., “ Are you a good hand at picking oakum ?”—“ No.” “ Well, that’s all right. Ton’ll have a good spell of it to-morrow."

Now came the food. A regular pauper, or inmate, entered, carrying a wooden tray, upon which were slices of bread, and each casual was ordered to take one slice. This was our supper. Having eaten it, we were marched into a shed and told to undress. Then each man bad to walk across a courtyard and plunge into a bath of water. The one supply of water did for the whole crowd (at some provincial unions, notably Melton Mowbray and Northampton, the same uncleanly kind of cleanliness prevails), and soap there was not. Next we were marched into the dormitory, which is simply a brick-floored shed like a barn, along the sides of which were ranged rows of* what looked like shallow coffins, but which I, from previous experience gained at the Salvation Army Salvage Wharf at Battersea, knew to be sleeping bunks, without bottoms except the floor of bricks. In eaoh of these was a straw palliasa and one rug or blanket.' As we had left our clothes done up in bundles in the bath shed, It may be imagined how we shivered that winter'll night through. At six in the morning a bell rang, and the tramp-master entered. “Now then,” he roared out, “out of it all of you. Tumble out! No skulking here. 801 lup your mattresses, and put your shirts on top of ’em.” (I forgot to mention that each man had been given “ a collection of holes with rags round them,” supposed to be a nightshirt, when he left the "bath” overnight.) Quickly we dressed, and than marched out into the yard. Some of the men were selected as cleaners, others us stone-breakers, and others as caknmpickera. I was among the last. Each man was handed a bundle of short pieces of tarry rope, almost as hard as iron. These were to bo unravelled into spun yarn almost as flue ; s floss silk. There was a time when such a task would have seemed to me impossible. But practice and experience, if they do not make perfect, at least teach one even to pick oakum, and, by the aid of the worn heeltip of my boot I managed to achieve my task in the course of the day.

For dinner we were served out six ounces of bread and one and a quarter ounces .of mouldy cheese; for supper the same as for breakfast. Then we were marched off to “ bed " (P). At 6 a.m, we were turned out into the streets—breakfastless.