It is a great pleasure to have a sharp eye and a clear memory for people we have met years ago, if only for a few minutes, and try to remember the condition under which they were met. For this reason I always enjoy a day in London, for I am sure to meet some strange characters that surprised or amused me in days gone by. These people do not know me. Perhaps their eyesight is not so good as mine, or their memories are not so clear. Moreover, they do not study character, and one man to them is much the same as another, with only the difference of outward appearance.

When I met a man the other day in Fleet Street, I touched him lightly on the shoulder and said, "Have a drink?" "Certainly," he answered, looking at me very hard; "but I don't remember meeting you before." After we had drunk part of our beer, I asked him if he had read anything of the scandal in high life, which the papers were then making much of. Now I had only met this man once, and that had been years before, in a common lodging-house in Blackfriars Road. On that occasion he had laid claim in fierce tones to the very purest French blood, and had laughed to scorn the blood of our English aristocracy. As soon as I mentioned this scandal in English high life, the man immediately began in his old manner to compare the blood of England to that of France, and proved to me at once that he had the same subject for his delight.

After I left him I wandered into the Embankment Gardens, and there I saw a very ragged man sleeping on a seat. I recognized him at once, in spite of a great change in appearance. He was the man whom I met at a superior lodging-house, who hid himself when a celebrated Duchess was brought there to see the place. He told me, after she had gone, that he had been valet to the Duke, but that the lady had never liked him, and had at last succeeded in getting him dismissed. At that time he looked healthy, clean, and was well dressed, but he did not want the Duchess to see him in a lodging-house. Suppose she saw him now, ragged, dirty, and without a house of any kind.

In the same house I knew many other queer characters, whom I often meet now. There was the man that starved on a small allowance made by his brother, and knew so much about finance and yet could make no money. Occasionally he received a few shillings for an article on finance, but he had hard work to keep body and soul together.

Another strange character was Darky. This man had read verses to every one of the four hundred regular lodgers at the house, and hardly one stranger that came there for a single night escaped without hearing him. Seeing that every lodger in the house knew him for a poet, I had the good sense to confide in no one; for I knew that the dignity of a poet had suffered for all time, as far as this house was concerned. Darky had written an ode to the man who founded this class of lodging-house, and had received personal thanks. The Boer War kept him busy day and night, as it also did many another poet, but poor Darky could not make sixpence for one night's lodging. He had also written lines on his sister's death, which I am sorry to say he read to every stranger that would listen. He always ended by cursing his brother-in-law, that he would not—although a successful undertaker, that could have got the job done cheap—have the lines engraved on the tombstone.

I have also lately met the old-time actor, who used to borrow pennies of me, and always paid them back. One night, when I was playing a game of draughts, this old actor came and sat beside me to whisper. "I am in great difficulty," he said hurriedly; "lend me a shilling till to-morrow noon." Now a shilling was a large sum to me, and even a penny was more than I could afford to lose; for a man, however honest his intentions may be, can never be sure of paying his debts. Seeing my thoughtful expression, he said, "You shall have my watch and chain for security; I would rather let you have it than the pawnshop." A watch, thought I, is worth redeeming for a shilling, even if it is out of repair and only common metal—without a question of the chain. I did not like anyone to see our transaction, for I felt a shame in taking a security. In fact he was more careful than I was. So I slipped the shilling into his hand and received in mine something smooth, large, and round, twice the size of an ordinary watch. This manoeuvring was done with our hands under the table, but I took a swift glance downward to inspect the watch before putting it into my pocket. That it had a white face I saw at once, but what surprised me was its extraordinary lightness. However, it was not worth while to examine it more closely, for the old actor had now gone with the shilling, and I would not see him again till the morrow. When I went to bed that night I examined the watch and found it to be a most extraordinary one. It was not only common metal, but it was all in one piece, and not one part to move; and, to account for its very light weight, there was nothing inside it. I have been told since that it was a property watch, which some actors use on the stage, and was not worth twopence. This old actor was a gambler and, fortunately for me, he had a winner the next day. Knowing that honesty was the best policy—for he would soon want to borrow again—he no sooner saw me than he stepped forward with great dignity, and with a very solemn face thanked me for my kindness, paid the shilling, and received his property.

I often meet the man who has for a number of years relied on Providence for his food and lodging. On more occasions than one I have been an instrument in the hands of Providence in assisting this artful hypocrite to a meal or his bed. When in the lodging-house he is always to be seen reading the Bible, committing passages to memory, but he enters into conversation with anyone that comes near. Then he explains that although he has had no dinner, he has faith in Providence to supply his supper; and though he has no money to pay for his bed, Providence will not let him walk the streets all night. In a large house where there are more than six hundred beds, and strangers are coming and going every day, this man often finds a sympathetic ear. And in the parks and gardens, and at street corners, where he enters into conversation with strangers, he can generally get enough to keep him independent of work.

The other day I met a very small, old-fashioned looking figure dressed in black, and with a tall silk hat which looked the worse for wear. I was really startled when I saw this quaint, little, old man, for I had known him in a lodging-house five years before, and he then gave his age as ninety years. He used to sleep so sound in the chairs that lodgers believed him to be dead, and would call the manager. And when they had succeeded, after great difficulty, in rousing him, he would accuse them of trying to rob him. One day he slept so long that the porters thought that his end had come at last, and they fetched the manager. The latter did many things to rouse the old man, pinching, slapping, and shaking him, but all in vain. Giving one porter orders to send for the doctor, he told the others to carry the old man downstairs, so that the many lodgers passing to and fro would not have their attention drawn to the dead man. Taking the little figure in their strong arms, they carried it downstairs, and there it remained till the doctor came. But no sooner was that gentleman on the spot than the old man opened his eyes and, seeing to his amaze five or six men around him, scrambled to his feet and shouted, "Thieves!" The manager could not forgive this trick of the dead coming to life, and sternly bade the old man to go to his relatives, as he—the manager—had been deceived more than once.

XXXIV