LIFE STORIES OF LONDON BEGGARS.

Wanganui Chronicle, Volume LXVI, Issue 17552, 23 April 1919, Page 7

LIFE STORIES OF LONDON BEGGARS.

By STUART

"Ye 3." said the official who sat opposite me in a plain little office in Queen Victoria Street, London. "We have some queer cases here. You can't run an anti-suicide bureau without coming up against the seamy side of life." We were sitting in the Salvation Army headquarters in the department calilng itself the Anti-Suicide Bureau, k> which all down-and-outs, all who are weary of the world, and have the wish to end their lives are invited to come and talk matters over before they commit the deed. That there is such an organisation in London is ample proof that the great Oity is filled with tragedy, and has its share of hopeless souls. Into this office there walked one day an elderly man whose short-crapped hair was steel grey, and whose eyes were heavy and sullen. He gave his name as Bill Winters. His manner was hesitating, and seemed to be suspicious; it took tho officials some time before they could get him to entirely trust them, and then he blurted out his story. "I've just come out of prison after doing ten years' penal," he said, in a peculiarly soft voice. "I was wqndoring whether it is worth while ending it in tho Thames."

The officer in charge of the bureau 4rgued with him. talked sympathetically with him, offered to get him some sort of job, pointed out to him that while there was life there was hope. There was no word of religion in the discourse, for the Salvation Army me>? know'that to talk re.'igion to such a case is to talk almost hopelessly. The men who come to the Anti-Suicide Bureau need human sympathy fire*.

"There is something you are keeping hack," said the officer at last. "Most of you poor men keep something back while you tell your story. Tell me what it is." "I'll tell you," said the man. "I have told you that I come ou<b of prison. I am—or was—a burglar. I have a daughter living with my old father in one of the suburbs out Clapham way. They are comfortably off. She doesn't know that I have been in (prison. My father and mother told her that I was in America —they could not bear to tell her that her father waa a burglar. My wife died twelve years ago. What sbouM I do?"

It was a hard question to answer. For over an hour the two men talked it over, the one listening to the pleadings of the other, and nodding his head now and then to signify that he agreed. At length he rose to leave. "I may take your advice and tell Rosie everything." he said slowly, "and on the other hand, I mayn't. But there is one thing.l will promise you— I won't take my life. If I want a job to start me again in life I'll come to

you again." "Yon can have J+. now," said the officer. "You can start work when you like at otir paper factory in Bermondsey. The conditions may not be all you, whY ere a clever engineer as I understaud, desire, but it will be a, start, since you do not. intend to live with your father anil daughter. Come to our factory for a little while, and you may be alile to get,other work. We'll help you " "I'll corae," said the ex-burglar. It was in the paper factory that I first saw Bill Winters. He had been there for three weeks, but much to his disappointment he had been unable to get a job in any of the engineering shops around London. Every one of th© firms had asked for references, and where he was working last, and these Bill could not supply. *Ehe Salvation Army people had offered to use their influence to get him work on trial after they had stated his case to the managers of the firms; but this Bill refused to alow them to do. "I'll work at my old job in my oiyn way," he said. "I waa a union man once. I won't ask charity of any manager." And then one night he disappeared from the factory and never returned. A. week later he was found in High Holbora, ragged, dirty, and forlorn, ostensibly a gutter merchant, in reality «i beggar. The Salvation Army officer who saw him stopped and spoke, asking how he was getting along and why he had ruu away. Bill briefly replied that he nraferred being outside with liberty than m any factory. He had been unable, to get a job owing to his record, and now he was trying to scrape a living from the passing public. "They don't ask any questions, the public," he remarked. "It would be bettor for the world if peop.'e asked less." "But do your daughter and your ! father know what you are doing?" asked tiio officer, ignoring the hint the ex-burglar had dropped.

"No, of course not. llosie is about to he married to a young stockbroker who is doinw well in the City. He is a good hoy, and keen on getting on in life. Do think I could tell him, mister, what I am —I mean what I was?" And that was all the information Bill would give. He changed his pitch, however, and was never seen in Holborn. or near the City again. For over a year he plied his gutter trade, which wag really hogging, in the busy part of Hammersmith and Shepherd's Bush, far from where his daughter and father lired. He was always in rags, but there was a strange expression w%ich attracted and interested people. He seemed to be the wreck of a man who had been "somebody" at one period in his life.

But though Bill Winters had thrown over the helping influence of the Salvation Army there were other agencies which did not lose sight of him. Being out ot: prison on licence he had to ' eporfc periodically and, give an address, otherwise he was liable to re-arrest. It was this fear that the police might come to him at any moment that caused him, as it linnspifcd to live in another part of the city to that in which his daughter resided.

When a burglary or a crime that looks like the work of a professional is oommftted in the Metropolis, the first thins the police do is to locate the men who are on licence; and Bill feared that his daughter would jret to know what he had been, so with his father's knowjedi<7« he lived owtside their district. All this became known, of course, later.

It was through one of the societies for aidine ex-prisoners that I came m touch with Bill again. A representative of the organisation had called on him continually. Bill received him without emotion. He steadily refused the worlc which was offered him. saying that ho would never accept charity. "He lived in his little bar>k room. <!oin<r his own chores, and enting: at coffee stall* or tniperal>lv eating-houses. Once or twice- he went to see his daughter, but then he wns aKvnys dressed like an artisan and was no longer a beggar. When his period for reporting to the police jwaa over ha announced to them that he

MARTIN.

THE REFORMATION OF A BURGLAR

intended living with his father in Clapham. His father was then ill. and failing fast. "How will you be able to get to your work in Hamersmith. dad?" asked Rosie innocently when her father told her of his intention. "That's all right, girlie," replied Bill. "I have saved,a little money, and we will be all right for a while at any rate. I don't want to be far away from grandad when he pegs out." When he came to the little house Brl began to take a great interest in th© little garden. At the bottom of the garden stood a chestnut tree. It had stood there when Bill was a boy, and many times he had climbed it. Rosie used* to look out of tho back door and watch her father standing at the foot of the tree deep in thought; once she questioned him, 'asking if tlvere was anything troubling him. "Ah, I know what it is," she exclaimed when he told her he was quite happy. "You are thinking of cutting down that chestnut trfee. .1 know its roots have been spoiling the garden, but I like it. Please do not cut it down, dad." Bill took his lovely girl in his arms and kissed her.

" I wouldSmpt cut down that tree sup■nosing it spoi'ed all the gardens in the district," he said passionately; and his vehemence only caused. Rosie to wonde&the more. They were a happy trio in the little house. In the grandad's eyes Bill had never been the bad man that some people thought him. To the eyes of the parent Bill, always impetuous and a little wild, had been led away by wicked companions. Parents never look on their sons in the same light as the police do.

And then, suddenly, there came traSiedy to the little home. A bank in the City in which grandad had placed his modest savings fai'ed and left them penniless. Bill, too, had had a small account in the bank; and to complete the tragio blow George Marohant ? Rosie's sweetheart, who v had advised the grandad to place his money in the bank, came hurrying out from the City to tell them that he too was ruined by the failure.

Readers may remember the failure of such a, bank -some years ago in London which spread destitution and despair throughout thecountry.

Rosie's father and, George Marchant haft become good friends by this time. Bill had recognised in the young n;an sterling qualities and a boundless-en-ergy. They were attracted to each other, and were better able to resist the sheck than the o'd grandad. That poor old man died within a week.

When the funeral waa over Bill and Rosie were in their sitting-room with George, talking matters over. "I think we will give up this house, George," said Bill suddenly. "I find that I shall have to go back to America. There is a little property I h>/ve there which needs looking after. I intend to sail in a week or so. I understand that you and Rosie -" "If I only had the money!" cried George, jumping to his feet. "You know how I love Rosie—the 'Wild Rose' I call her! We were to get married last year, but I put it off till I had saved a certain amount-r it was a thousand. And then the bank smash came. Mr. Winters, give me another six months "

Bill he\l up his hand. "George," he said kindly. "I^have l>een doing a lot of thinking lately, 1' and I have made up my mind to go to America. But I want to see you and Rosie settled before I go. You can begin in a humble way " He broke off and left the room. The two young people stood, arm in arm, looking out of the window at him as he strolled down the garden. He stopped at the foot of the chestnut tree/ and his head was bowed on his chest. He was in the attitude of a man praying. H© stood there for a long time-. When he returned to.the house Rosie noticed that there were beads of sweat on her father's forehead, and his face was pale and drawn.

The next morning when Rosie came into the kitchen she was astonished to see her father already up, the kitchen fire lit, and breakfast -'aid. "Whatever have you been doing, dad?" she asked. ""Where have you been with your muddy boots?" "Having a little exercise, Rosie," he laughed. "I got up early and did some digging at the root of the chestnut tree. I don't wonder that the rest of the garden ia poor, for the roots are very tough and near the surface. However, I'll do no more digging Have you been considering your wedding before I go to America?" They talked generally, and in a day or two the wedding was arranged. "GeorgeV* said Bill, on the day before th©-wedding, "1 shall see you for tho last; timo to-morroy, for I shall be in America by the time you are back from your honeymoon. I want to ask you ono thing. Will you be good to my litt'e girl?" "Dad," cried the young man —it was the first time he had used the word— "I will care for her as much as y-u cared for her mother when you were married. Can I say more than that?" "I believe you, George. Now, listen. When you come out of church to-mor-row I will bid you both good-bye. I have a little parcel which I want to give you. It contains a present for you both,* and it will help you to attain your aims. Don't interrupt, for I mean what I say. You will find a roll of hank-notes in the parcel. Use them well and prosper—and remember me sometimes, won't you?" When George Marchant left the little hosue that evening Bill Winters sat alone in the sitting-room with his head in his hands, thinking. He knew that without some money to start the fight whkh Marchant had before him would have been a hard one. "After ali." murmured the ex-burgiar as he rose to go to his room, "the money is mine. I bought it with t«.-n vcars of my life in prison. It's my property—and I think George will make eoocl." Next day the wedding took place., and tho young couple "met Rosie s father at the church door to say goodbye. BiP. handed the young bridegroom the package. "It's for Rosie and yon." he said. '•'Be hnppy and take care of her." He +ook the girl in his strong arms for a n omeht, then the taxi-cab with the newly rrarried (pair rolled off to the raiw'ay station. When tliey (rot into tlieir reserved romp.ir'tment of the train which \rns taking them to Ha.?tin™? for thoir honeymoon they opened the pnrcel. and *;b<» sisht of the banknotes gave them both a start. Tnsidp> the narc^l were notes to th^ value of £2,000.

Bill Winters left for America the £«!-

I lowing week. He received a letter from both Rosie and George, an amazing letter filW with wondpr and thanks at his gift. In his rooms in the Bronx in New York he read it over and over again, and his eyes filled with tears H© a'one knew that the money had been the proceeds of the burglaries he had committed. He had intended '^p give it up, but the failure of the bank had decided him in the other direction. He never returned to London, and the 'sif/t that was l»nown <rf*hfrn was that he had accepted a post under the Salvation Army in America, and was conducting a campaign among beggars with his old vehemence and power. And George Marchant and Rosie? The money laid the foundation of their fortune, ani to-day George is a wealthy man, and has been a member of a distinguished Bench of magistrates for some years. He and Rosie are as happy as they could possibly be, and ©very month "they look forward to the letter from Rosie's father which comes across the water to them telling them of America and the big work he is doing there. '