The Autobiography of a Super-Tramp quotes

It is not therefore to be wondered at when the old man ashore, returning at midnight from this rough voyage with me and my brother, would frequently pause and startle the silent hour with a stentorian voice addressed to indifferent sleepers—

“Do you know who I am? Captain Davies, master of his own ship.”

Whether the police were awed by this announcement, or knew him to be an honest, respectable man with a few idiosyncrasies, I cannot say;

Every now and then he would open the front door to look at the stars or to inform himself from what latitude the wind blew.

The wind never changed without his knowledge; for this wary mariner invariably surprised it in the act of doing so.

Three or four times in the evening he would open the kitchen door to see that his family were comfortable, as though he had just made his way from the hurricane deck to enquire after the welfare of passengers in the cabin.

I knew thee when thou wert glad to eat barley bread without butter.” Captain Jones looked disconcerted at this remark and then, quickly putting his own head around the partition, whispered:

“Hush, hush, Captain Davies; there’s nothing like making one’s self look big in a strange place.”

I was now in the last year of my apprenticeship, and was running a bit wild, taking no interest in my trade, and determined in a few months to throw off all restraint.

Several years elapsed before it occurred to me how foolish and thoughtless I had been. The postmark itself would prove that I had not landed in America, and they would also receive the letter several days before it would be due from those distant shores.

I can certainly not boast a large amount of common sense.

It was in the month of June, when we made this voyage, and the great Atlantic was as smooth as an inland river.

Seeing my lack of understanding, he enquired as to my financial resources. On shaking my head in the negative, implying that I had no money, he said.

“No more have I: and if you are agreeable, we will both beat our way to Chicago.”

This was Brum, a notorious beggar, who made himself at home in all parts of the country, from the Atlantic to the Pacific coast, and from the northern provinces of Canada to the Gulf of Mexico.

He scorned to carry soap, but went to a house like a Christian, and asked to be allowed to wash, with a request for warm water if the morning was cold.

Begging was to him a fine art, indeed, and a delight of which he never seemed to tire.

I have known him, when surfeited with an abundance of common food, such as steak, chops, etc.—to beg lozenges and sweets, complaining I suppose, of throat troubles.

but Brum never seemed to fail, and would certainly never lower his dignity by complaining of difficulty.

In every street, he said, there lived a good Samaritan, and seeing that a good beggar knocks at every door, he must ultimately succeed.

She may live in the last house, and therefore the unsuccessful beggar, having no patience and perseverance, fails in his calling. Brum was a slow man in action and went about his business in a dogged way.

Being interested in the Italian, the first thing we did on regaining our liberty was to enquire as to his fate. We were told that he had received a life sentence; or, as our alien informant strangely expressed it—

“Antonia, he didn’t get some of de time, but he got all of de time.”

Thus what promised to be a summer’s outing full of enjoyment, came to a disastrous close sooner than we expected. And, when we were again free, the summer season was practically over, the visitors were gradually leaving for their town houses;

Brum, like the faithful companion he was, waited my pleasure, until he too seemed to become impressed by some unusual feeling. The song ended, and as we went our way, I said—“There, Brum, what do you think of that?”

“O lor,” he answered, awestruck, “wasn’t she a blooming cat!”

making me laugh heartily at such a strange expression of praise, knowing that it was meant to be truthful and sincere.

We arrived at that place and stamped up and down the platform, to circulate our blood, for it was now snowing heavily, and the wind blowing in small gusts that discovered us, shelter wherever we would.

How the snow falls in the north!

Flake on flake falling incessantly, until the small dingles are almost on a level with the uplands. It throws itself on the leaves of Autumn, and holds them down in security from the strongest winds.

He was not satisfied at seeing no tear in the lining of his cap, but must hold it in his hand and feel every inch of it.

“Somewhere on my person,” he reiterated, “I have secreted three twenty dollar bills. I have a distinct recollection of doing so, but for the life of me I cannot remember what part.”

“You have been robbed,” I answered, with a little disgust.

If he borrowed a needle, and the said article was honestly returned, it behoved the lender, knowing the borrower’s thievish propensities, to carefully examine it to see that the eye had not been abstracted; for, as Donovan remarked—

“Cockney More could steal the milk out of one’s tea.”

When I have looked at Cockney’s long thin fingers, I have often wondered whether he had power to disjoint them at will, letting them down the legs of his trousers to rummage the locality, while he stood innocently talking to us with his hands in …

This was at once done, and Windy’s pensioner shook off his laziness from head to foot, which made Wee Shorty sarcastically remark—

“Dutchy would rather buy than beg.”

To which Windy, in a voice of despair, answered—“He will never make a beggar and, if I did not keep a sharp eye on him, or anything occurred to part us, he would live in orchards and turnip fields until he saw a chance to …

… as clean as a new born babe, with all its feathers and down stuck hard in the mud—this meat to me was far more tasty than that one at home, that was plucked and gutted with care, and roasted or baked to a supposed nicety.

This food of civilisation certainly seemed to suffer from a lack of good wholesome dirt, and I should like to have had my own wood fire at the end of the backyard, were it not for shame.

For several weeks I walked the streets, renewing old acquaintance, accosted here and there by my old schoolmates. Most of them were married, but married or single, they all seemed to be poor and unsuccessful.

still sending her forth on this vain quest, I fell asleep.

It was a dreamless sleep; no sound broke its stillness, and no face looked into its depths;

and, when I awoke the next morning, this voice seemed to be already in possession of my thoughts.

Having failed to find this man, people at last began to think I was under a ghostly impression.

Probably that was the other man’s impression, for who ever saw Pity make the same speed as Fear?

Another man, after this, approached, who was a workman on the line, and at the sound of my voice he seemed to understand at once what had occurred.

For this reason, anyone that enters a common lodging house can at once see what efforts are being made to this end.

It seems strange to say, but the dirtiest looking tramp is often the most honest and respectable, for he has not the courage to beg either food or clothes, nor will he enter the doors of a workhouse.

I have seen this so often the case that I would much prefer to believe a dirty ragged tramp who might tell me that he had a good home six months previous, than to believe his cleaner namesake, who seems so eager to impart this …

It was very interesting to hear, morning after morning, “Fishy Fat” and John—the latter being in the last stages of consumption, and poor fellow peevish withal—sit down to breakfast and to abolish the House of Lords.

It was often a surprise to me to see this noble edifice still standing, after hearing it abolished in such fierce language, and in terms of such scathing reproach.

Strangely, these men had very little to say during the day;

three small men with a large capacity for taking ale. All these men were quiet or at least not objectionable, and none of them could disturb me in my room. The sleep of the house was disturbed more from without than from any cause within.

Cats⁠—by day the most docile of God’s creatures, every one of them in the night enlisting under the devil’s banner⁠—took the place by storm after the human voice had ceased.

But perhaps the one who accounted for more than two-thirds of my sleepless nights, was a woman, an outsider living in an adjacent block. It was her custom to come home drunk early in the morning, singing and swearing.

This unsettled feeling is often made worse by an empty stomach. In fact a full stomach is his one safeguard against the cold, and he cares not then if the rain and the wind penetrate his clothes.

No seaman ever searched the heavens for a dark speck, or astronomer for a new light, as does this homeless man for a sign of rain.

To escape from the coming deluge he seeks shelter in the public library, which is the only free shelter available; and there he sits for hours staring at one page, not a word of which he has read or, for that matter, intends to read.

I stood up in full, but had scarcely done so, when my appearance was greeted by several long shouts of derisive laughter.

Now, a homeless man has no time to be superstitious, he fears the living and not the dead.

If he is sleepy he is not particular about feeling in the darkness of cellars or vaults;

However, when evening came Macquire, though seemingly possessed of business faculties, was not in a bodily condition to keep his lawyer’s appointment.

As he himself confessed⁠—“he was drunk in the legs, but sober in the brain.”

What an evening we had!

“You don’t mind giving me a saucerful of your tea?” said Macquire to me, for I was then at breakfast. “With pleasure,” said I, and, filling the saucer pushed it towards him.

“Thank you,” said he, after drinking it⁠—“that saucer of tea has cost me a sovereign!”

“Nonsense,” said I, inwardly pleased, “it is of no value whatever.” “Have you any tobacco?” he asked. At this question one of the stonemasons, in fear that Macquire would promise me more money, sprang forward with tobacco.

These two men are the gridler and the downrighter. The former sings hymns in the streets, and he makes his living by the sound of his voice.

Professional singers are paid according to the richness, sweetness, and compass of their voices, but the gridler’s profit increases as his vocal powers decline.

The more shaky and harsh his voice becomes, the greater his reward. With a tongue like a rasp he smoothes the roughness off hard hearts. With a voice like an old hen he ushers in the golden egg.

Professional singers are paid according to the richness, sweetness, and compass of their voices, but the gridler’s profit increases as his vocal powers decline. The more shaky and harsh his voice becomes, the greater his reward.

With a tongue like a rasp he smoothes the roughness off hard hearts. With a voice like an old hen he ushers in the golden egg.

With a base mixture of treble, contralto and bass, he produces good metal which falls from top story windows, or is thrown from front doors, to drop at his feet with the true ring.

There was a rather long pause, and the Charity Organisation rose slowly to their feet, and said—“Mr. Davies, do you really expect this gentleman, who has written to us, to maintain you? Is there anything the matter with you?”

What was the matter with me did not seem to escape many people, and it was most certainly noted by the smallest toddler that played in the street, but the Charity Organisation did not think proper to recognise any other than an able man, strong in the use of all his limbs.

“No,” said these people, “you must do the same as you did last summer;” which, in other words was—go on tramp, starve, and be shelterless as you were before.

Private recognition was certainly not long forthcoming, which was soon followed by a notice in a leading daily paper, and in a literary paper of the same week. These led to others, to interviews and a kindness that more than made amends for past indifference.

It was all like a dream.

In my most conceited moments I had not expected such an amount of praise, and they gathered in favour as they came, until one wave came stronger than the others and threw me breathless of all conceit, for I felt myself unworthy of it, and …

Davies, how are you?”—I at once understood the meaning of this unusual civility, and we both fell a-laughing, but nothing more was said.

What a lot of decent, honest fellows these were:

“You must not be surprised,” said a gentleman to me, at that time, “to meet less sincere men than these in other walks of life.” I shall consider myself fortunate in not doing so.