There was no especial reason as far as I know for closing that last chapter, and commencing a new one, except that it was getting too long in my opinion. For the story I was telling was incomplete, I having gone off at an unexpected angle on the question of food supplies. However, I will now resume and say that the influx of work I mentioned lasted for a fortnight, during the whole of which time I can aver that, except on Sundays, I was never in bed after 3 a.m. or before 11 p.m., and that I was often so weary on coming home from the city with a load of moulding, that I would sit down on a chair in the shop and be unable to rise for half an hour. But as I would not allow myself to think about the future, or ask myself what was the good of it all, I was not unhappy, and I was able to take a good deal of pride in my work. And by the time the pressure slackened, I had settled that wretched summons, had paid my rates, and a few other immediate liabilities, besides being able to buy a few sorely needed articles of clothing for the family.

There was however no lightening of the old burden of debt, and in fact I realised that nothing short of a miracle would enable me to do that. For if I got all the work I craved for I should surely break down, while the utmost that I could earn would not do much more than pay the heavy current expenses of the shop. Had I been able to employ some help, it might have been better, but I don't know about that. I had to do my own errands—I could not delegate my buying in the city to anybody else, although it did entail such a heavy burden upon me physically. Meanwhile I paid cash for everything I had, though I did not pay anything of the bills already incurred.

In this connection I have an amusing recollection. The moulding merchant with whom I dealt was an elderly German in a large way of business, and I had always heard of him as a kindly old soul, but had never come into personal contact with him. Now, however, I owed him nearly £30, for which I had given a bill, and was constantly renewing it; and, consequently, although I dealt with the firm for all my mouldings, and paid cash, I dreaded meeting one of the principals, and indeed slank in and out of the premises like a thief. One day, however, I ran right into the old gentleman, who looked at me keenly and said, "Ach, Meesder Boollen, aindt id?" I humbly answered, "Yes, sir." "Yes, sir," he rather mockingly replied, "now I haf peen in pizness here in London for more as tirty year, andt I nefer ad a gustomer dot righdt me sooch nice ledders as you. But you tondt send me no money, hein? I likes to read dose ledders, dey vas very goot, but vy tondt you pay some money too, hein?"

I endeavoured to give him such reasons as I had, and he listened carefully, saying when I had done, "Ach so! Vell, you pay ven you can, undt tondt you go puying your mouldings someveres ellas mit your ready money. Ve all haf droubles, undt ve get over 'em. You get over yours somedime I hope, and den you pay your bill. Goodt efening." And he turned and went into his office, while I went on into the moulding shop with a warm feeling of gratitude to the kind old man, and a firm determination that he should not suffer loss through me if I could possibly help it.

Thenceforward I struggled on, sometimes feeling as if the waters which were always about my chin would suddenly submerge me, but compelled to go on. I often compared myself at this time to a man running in front of a train, between two high walls, allowing of no escape to either side, having no choice but to run or be run over. Still I found solace in my books and newspapers, and relieved my mind of some of its cares by taking an intense interest in political matters as well as the open air propaganda of religion.

What I suppose will strike some people with amazement is the fact that starting as an extreme radical, never a Home Ruler, I gradually became utterly disgusted with the radical position. Full of admiration for the socialism of Christ, I grew to detest the socialism that I saw being practised by the noisy party in the vestry, and the doctrines I heard preached by the socialists in the open air simply filled me with dismay. For it was nothing else but the survival of the unfit and incurably idle, the morally degenerate, at the expense of the fit, the hard-working and ever-striving classes, an effort in short not to level up, but to level down, a complete subversion of the golden rule of do to all men as ye would they should do unto you. Get all you can for yourself, and the devil take anybody else. Eat and drink all you can at somebody else's expense, no matter who. Beget as many children as you like, and let somebody else care for them. And so on. Oh! it used to make me very sick and sorry, but I am glad to say that in my preaching of what I felt to be right, I always had a most sympathetic and respectful hearing; and I really do believe that the detestable doctrines of loaferdom and savagery which masquerade as socialism have very little hold upon the ordinary people of our streets.

Another great solace of mine was an occasional chat with my fellow shopkeepers, most of whom, like myself, had a severe struggle to live. It makes me positively ill to hear the blatant cant that is talked about the working man, meaning journeymen and labourers only. The small London suburban shopkeeper toils far harder than any of them, is preyed upon by them to an extent which must be incredible to those who don't know, is taxed almost out of existence to support them in the schemes continually being propounded for their benefit by their representatives on the Borough Councils, and is quoted in radical newspapers as the bitter enemy of the working classes.

I found them a kindly, genial, well-informed class of men, shrewd and keen, as indeed they need be in order to live, and particularly free from the petty vices of public-house loafing, betting, and bad language, which are so peculiarly the characteristics of the "working man." But the hardest hit of them all I think were the small grocers. I knew two or three of them intimately, men whose lives were one long grey grind of labour. Who could not live unless they opened very early in the morning, before the big capitalist shops, such as the Home and Colonial, Lipton's, etc., and kept open late at night for the same reason. Even then they would not have been able to live but for giving credit, which the big combinations do not allow their employees to do. Many hundreds of families would come to the workhouse long before they do, especially in hard winters, but for these small tradesmen giving them credit for the bare necessities of life, and thus tiding them over the pinching time. This system of first aid can hardly be called philanthropy, since those who extend it do it for a living, and yet in the multitudinous life of poor London it is a huge and most important factor. Even the poor itinerant coal merchant, who goes to the wharf and buys his coal by the ton, and then retails it through the streets in small quantities from dawn to dark, may be seen on Saturdays, the hardest day of all, when his selling of coal is done, painfully dragging his weary way from door to door, collecting the payment for the coal he has been vending on credit all the week.

The costermonger, who has a regular pitch and regular customers, competing with the tradesmen to whom he stands opposite in the most unfair way, in that he has no rent, rates, or taxes to pay, will give credit, and generously too, although he may often through a bad week have to pay usurious interest in order to borrow the money to go to market with. In fact all the small traders give credit, for the reasons I have already stated. Of course, in this way much very inferior stuff is got rid of, because it is certain that he who buys on credit retail with either tradesman will have to pay higher prices than for cash, or will have to put up with inferior goods, since it is impossible to scrutinise too closely what you are receiving on credit unless indeed you are of sufficient rank to make a tradesman glad to serve you on any terms.

One great exception to the universal rule of credit is the publican. Because his wares are a luxury, and the indulgence in them in many cases prevents the payment of legitimate claims, money can always be found for him much, to the other shopkeepers' disgust. So far is this system of credit carried out that I have known men get their ha'penny morning and evening paper on credit, and even take their workman's ticket, which their news vendor kept a supply of for the convenience of customers, with the casual remark, "Stony broke this mornin', old man, pay you on Saturday." More fools they to allow it, I hear some folks say, but such poor traders allow a good many things to be done to them rather than get the name of being close-fisted with their customers.

To return for a moment to the work of the small shopkeeper, take for instance the butcher. He must needs go to market, no matter what the weather may be, as early as three or four in the morning; he is hard at work all day fully exposed to the weather, and on Saturday must keep open until one o'clock on Sunday morning. In addition to this in many neighbourhoods it is imperative for him to open again on Sunday for a few hours in order to satisfy the demands of those curious folk who will not do their marketing on Saturday while the "houses" (public understood) are open, and when they close at twelve o'clock are unfit for anything but quarrelling or reeling home to bed. Hence Sunday trading with all its attendant evils and its cruel strain upon the small tradesman.

I must confess, however, that although I sympathised so deeply with all my shopkeeping associates, personally, I did not suffer as they did. For my business being of a non-essential character it did not greatly matter how late I opened my shop or how early I closed it. That I had to carry my materials home from the city was due to the facts of my position being so bad that I could not lay in a stock, and partly because I found it cheaper and more convenient, if more laborious, to buy my moulding as I got orders for frames. Another thing I must say in justice to my customers, and in spite of the reputation of the neighbourhood as impressed upon me when I started in business there—I made practically no bad debts. Perhaps that was partly due to the fact that people do not, in humble walks of life that is, have pictures framed until they have the money ready to pay for the work; and another thing, when I took work home, I always waited for the money, for I always wanted it urgently.

Occasionally, it is true, I had a little difficulty with people who talked grandiloquently of calling round in a day or two, and paying a bill of a few shillings, or of sending a cheque, say, of seven and sixpence, but they were exceedingly seldom. But I had many heart burnings through the vagaries of a certain type of person who would come in and waste hours of my time (and I noticed that these visits usually occurred when I was urgently busy) examining mouldings and getting estimates up to several pounds in value. After which they vanished, and I never saw them again.

Once I was fairly victimised, though fortunately for only a small amount, but I must plead that it took a long time. And as the story is, in my opinion at any rate, exceedingly romantic, I may be pardoned for telling it at length. In the course of business we had made the acquaintance of a French lady, said to be a countess, and through her we became intimate with her son and a lady from Sweden reputed to be his wife. He was a pupil of Schubert, and an exquisite violinist, and as I was always a great lover of music, and he was exceedingly hospitable, we often went to his house, which was close at hand in Melbourne Grove. There we met a truculent individual, black-avised, as the old description runs, speaking a most hideous travesty of English, and withal behaving as if he owned the establishment. His name I never rightly knew, but it was nearly all consonants I remember, and he was introduced to me as a Russian prince who had taken a prominent part in the tragedy of Plevna, and held the rank of Captain in the Preobrajensky Guards. Only a day or two elapsed after my first meeting with this warrior when he appeared in my shop, and endeavoured to tell me a wonderful tale of a diamond necklace worth some thousands of pounds, the property of a French lady of high rank. This splendid article had been pawned for a large sum, and the ticket had nearly run out, but if it were redeemed it could be repledged for a greatly increased sum, and the kindly person who would advance the cash for this transaction would make something like 200 per cent. for his amiability. How I understood all this I do not know but I did, and smiled sardonically at the idea of me being selected for the operation, me! who never had any money except what I was in immediate and pressing need of.

His highness seemed genuinely and pathetically surprised, also somewhat incredulous, when I managed to convey to him the true state of affairs concerning myself. I did not, however, trouble to tell him that I felt absolutely bristling with caution towards him, regarding him as the worst type of the Chevalier d'industrie I had ever heard of. So he went away, but did not cease his visits to me, sometimes flashing a pocketful of gold, sometimes without a sou. At last he made his grand coup. He advertised in the French papers for a valet to attend upon a Russian nobleman, who, as he had much valuable jewellery, would require a deposit of £70 as security against dishonesty. Then he took a house in East Dulwich Grove on a twenty-one year lease, and entered into negotiations with a furnishing company to fit it up. Of course he got his valet and his security, with part of which he paid the first instalment of the purchase of his furniture. Within a week he had sold every item of that furniture, and leaving his hapless valet to starve in the empty house, had departed to the wilds of Soho to lead a gay life as long as the money lasted. For this was his peculiarity, stamping him indubitably as one of the boys so graphically depicted by Mr Ernest Binstead; he would lie, swindle, steal, do anything to obtain money, sell the bed from under his dying mother, let us say, or worse than that if it were possible, and when the money was in his possession he would fling it broadcast with both hands as if he were lord of millions.

He had hardly disappeared before a man came to me who gave me his card, which described him as a diamond merchant. He told me a pitiful story of how the vanished nobleman had victimised him in the matter of a diamond necklace, at which I felt the corners of my mouth relax as I thought "same old song and dance." In consequence of the evil wrought in his accounts by this most untoward transaction, he was under the painful necessity of raising a loan on a bill of sale. His house was fairly well furnished, but—he had no pictures. Now I knew what pictures were to a house and—by the way—what a beautiful lot of engravings I had framed to be sure. (I almost purred.) If I would only lend him a few just to hang on his walls while the money-lender looked around, he would be glad to pay me a pound for the accommodation, and I could have the pictures back the next morning. Of course I wanted a pound very badly, and I didn't see much risk, and the pictures had been in stock so long that I didn't reckon them at more than £2. 10s. anyhow, so I said, "All right, I'll bring them round in an hour's time." He thanked me and left. He had not been gone more than five minutes, when a neighbour who was a baker came in and asked me if that wasn't the tenant of No. — East Dulwich Grove, who had just gone out. I said it was, and gave an outline of the transaction just completed. My neighbour quietly said that they owed him fifty bob for bread, and he meant to have it, and left.

I took the pictures up and hung them. They looked very well, and the family was loud in expressions of admiration. After many assurances that I should have them back the next day, I left, meeting on my way back my baker neighbour. He called on me about two hours later, saying that he'd got his money, but only after kicking up such a row that the respectable Grove was quite scandalised, and even the paupers at the workhouse infirmary opposite were interested. I only smiled, for I thought I understood. When, however, I found an my arrival home next day that my pictures had not been returned, and on calling round at the house found it empty, I realised that in spite of all my confidence in my own astuteness I had been done. Two days later, I saw my pictures exposed for sale in a local pawnshop at a far higher price than I had ever dared to ask for them. I had a chat with the pawnbroker on the subject, and he seemed very much amused. I found it difficult to understand why then, although it is clearer to me now.

I also had a visit once from a certain notorious adventuress, whose alias was, I believe, Mrs Gordon. She made quite a lot of interesting copy for the newspapers about that time, and her picture was published in various journals. But her plan for getting something out of me was not very ingenious, at any rate I easily evaded it, and took considerable credit to myself for my cleverness in doing so.

Taking things all round, however, I was very fortunate in not being victimised to any extent, for there is a large number of ingenious folk going about London whose business it is to entrap unwary tradesmen who deal in goods which may be easily disposed of for a trifle of ready money. Dealers in perishable commodities, such as butchers, bakers, grocers, or green-grocers, are tolerably safe from the attentions of these gentry, but jewellers, furniture dealers, picture dealers, etc., are particularly liable to be preyed upon, as I found, and indeed my poverty was several times my only protection. I could not fall into their traps, because I wanted money on account, which they never had.

Now, strange as it may seem, I really did build up a fairly good reputation in the neighbourhood as a picture-framer of taste and punctuality, but owing to the fact that I could not wait upon customers at all hours, could not, that is, attend to both businesses at once, I was unable to do well. And then there is for suburban picture-framers a distinctly slack season which extends from June until November. Then when people are saving for their holidays, enjoying them or recovering from them, the poor maker of frames may as well close his shop unless he has other strings to his bow. The expenses still go on, rent must be paid, gas bills met, etc., but my takings averaged five shillings a week.

At one of these periods, having received an invitation from a distant relative in the wilds of Wiltshire to spend a fortnight down there at an inclusive cost which was less than I must have spent had I remained at home, I decided to go away. On leaving I pasted a notice on the shutters: "Gone for a much needed holiday, return on the 25th of August.—F. T. Bullen." When I did return, I was greeted by all my shopkeeping neighbours with sardonic surprise, not unmixed with scorn. They all said they never thought to see me again, having fully expected that I had "done a guy," as they inelegantly put it, and several hinted rather plainly that they considered me a fool for ever coming back; which went to show very clearly that they knew as well as I did myself that I was in difficulties. Indeed in a small community such as ours was, it was not possible to conceal one's straits any more than it would be in a little country town. I have no doubt that every one of my neighbours knew how few were the customers that came into my shop as well as they knew what the expenses of the shop were, in fact, as they put it frequently to one another, I kept the shop, the shop didn't keep me.

Yes, everything seemed to trend downwards towards a place of the depth of which I had no conception. Every fresh run of orders at the rare intervals when they did arrive, only seemed to stave off the evil day which would surely come, and it is not putting the matter one whit too strongly to say that I had lost all hope of ever doing any good for myself and family. Neither did I see how I was going to get rid of what had come to be a perfectly diabolical burden, the shop. Despite all my efforts I got deeper and deeper into debt, and among other things the crushing load of the rates, then going up by leaps and bounds, owing to the socialistic tendency of the local authorities, made me feel peculiarly bitter; especially when I saw the troops of able-bodied men slouching about the workhouse recreation grounds.