A man cannot be a very long time on the road before he understands the meaning of the word "narks." Beggars may forgive dirty beds, vermin, broken crockery and bad fires, but to tell them that a lodging-house is full of "narks" is the worst information that can be conveyed to them. When I enquired of a beggar as to the comfort of the lodging-house in the town to which I was going, he said: "Well, mate, the bed is good, and a good fire is kept, but to tell you the truth the house is spoilt by 'narks.'" As I was not an old traveller in England, I did not understand him, but thought I would find out for myself what a "nark" really was.

After I had reached the town, and paid the lodging-house keeper for my bed, I entered the lodgers' kitchen, and there saw three men seated before a good fire. Of my cheerful "Good afternoon," they took not the least notice, neither did they offer to make room for a stranger coming in out of the cold. I could see at once by this that they were not true beggars and travellers, who are always eager to make room for their fellows. I may as well say at once that these three men were "narks." In other words, they were town beggars; men that had lost their homes and had to take refuge in a common lodging-house; or, if they did not belong to the town, they had been there long enough to be known.

The "nark" is either a cattle-drover, a small hawker, a mechanic that only has a couple of days' work a week, or a man that earns a few pennies by doing odd jobs for people that know him. Sometimes he is a man with a very small pension or income, and does nothing. Although the lodging-house keeper often abuses him, and threatens to cast him adrift, for all that he is allowed privileges which the casual wandering tramp cannot like. All true wanderers hate him; even the drunken, domineering grinder is treated with civility in a house where beggars see a "nark."

That the "nark," with his mean tricks, is a nuisance to wandering beggars is seen in a very short time. For instance, he takes the utensils, which are meant for the common use of the kitchen, and after using them will hide them away for his own future use; so that strangers have often to make tea in a pot without a spout, and look in vain for a saucer or a small saucepan. He also monopolizes the fire with newly-washed clothes, and hungry strangers find great difficulty in cooking their food. He will not oblige by removing these things until the evening, when there would be less demand for the fire. Again, he wants a certain place at the table to sit and eat his food, and he often frowns at innocent strangers who are enjoying their meal in his accustomed seat. He is often mean enough to allow his things to remain on the table after he has done, in readiness for the next meal—instead of clearing them away and making room for hungry new-comers.

The worst charge to make against a "nark" is that he is a spy and a tell-tale, and that he lets the lodging-house keeper know all the transactions of the kitchen. When lodgers are told the next morning that they cannot have a bed at that house for another night, and cannot get to know the reason why, they come to the conclusion that they have been reported by a "nark" for complaining about a bad fire, insufficiency of bed-clothes, teapots, saucers, or cups.

Most deputies in lodging-houses were in the first place "narks." Sometimes a "nark" fails, in spite of being well known in the town, to earn the price of his bed, or to borrow it, and returns to the lodging-house for trust. After that he shows his gratitude by sweeping the kitchen, or washing plates and tea-things, which the lodging-house keeper had to do himself. The latter, seeing this, asks him to do other things, and of course gives him bed and board, and a shilling at the end of the week. He no longer goes out as a drover, or seeking odd jobs, but sweeps, washes, scrubs, makes beds, etc. Taking everything into consideration the work is not so unremunerative as it appears, for every man in the house solicits his friendship. From morning till night he is offered saucers-full of tea from the many lodgers. In fact, he is often at his wits' end to know how to spend his very small wages, for the lodgers supply him with tobacco, beer, and even clothes and boots. He gets so many presents every week that he makes money by selling them.

As may be expected, it is from the "narks" that he reaps the most profit; for they never fail to share with him their titbits and give him the price of beer, which makes him favour that class, and prejudiced against casual lodgers.

Unfortunately the deputy has great power, against which there is no appeal. He will allow a "nark" to cook on the fire until it is nearly out; but when he sees a stranger cooking he will interfere, saying that the fire must be attended to. After which he will put on so much coke that the poor stranger is delayed an hour or more in doing what he has perhaps half done. He has to put on one side a herring half cooked, or a singing kettle, until the fire burns.

It is a good policy for strangers, as soon as they enter a lodging-house kitchen, to not only speak pleasantly to the deputy, but to slip a penny into his hand, so that they may be installed on an equal footing with "narks." Men that do not think of doing this must not be surprised if he "accidentally" overturns their teapots, or shovels coke into their frying-pans. These little accidents always add to the gaiety of "narks," and they the more generously reward the deputy for affording them this extra entertainment.

I was in one lodging-house in the provinces that only had accommodation for twelve lodgers, and in that house were six "narks" and the deputy. The night I was there, there were only three strangers, myself and two others, and we were almost afraid to move. One "nark" was a rag-and-bone man, who worked the country for miles around. While I was eating my frugal supper, he spread on the table his dirty rags and bones—so near that one bone was found on my plate, which I returned to him—with many thanks. Seeing that the deputy appeared quite satisfied, I dared not say much, for if I got into trouble and had my money returned, there was not another lodging-house within six miles.

Another "nark" was a drunken drover, who left a saucepan on the fire while he went out for a drink. When he returned he said that there were only four potatoes and a half in the saucepan, whereas he had put in five. It never occurred to his suspicious mind that one potato had become small in the extra boiling, and we three strangers had to tolerate his savage looks.

Another "nark" was a blacksmith, who was out of work. This man was lying drunk at full length on a bench, so that the two strangers had to wait until I had finished my meal before they could get a seat at the table, for, with the exception of the drover, all the other "narks" had had their supper.

The blacksmith had not paid his rent for two or three nights, and the landlady—a very old woman—had ordered the deputy not to allow him to go to bed. While I was asleep that night, I was suddenly awaked by a slap on the face, and a croaking voice, which said—"Out of my house, blacksmith." When I opened my eyes, I saw an old withered face bending over mine—there must have been a hundred years in that face. "I am not the blacksmith," I said feebly. "Liar," she shrieked, holding the candle near my face. However, she saw her mistake, and went away muttering, without making any apology for her mistake. No stranger would ever think of staying two nights in a house like that.

Of course, in a house where there is only one "nark," he tries to ingratiate himself with casual men, for the sake of social company, but they do not encourage his advances, knowing how careful they must be of what they say. They are suspicious of him, in spite of his good-natured offers to oblige them with a shake of pepper. By the way, the sight of a pepper-box in a lodging-house kitchen is always a sure sign that the man behind it is a "nark." Wanderers, however much trouble they take to carry tea, salt, soap, thread, needle, comb, and many other little things which must not interfere with space for food—would never think of carrying a pepper-box, though they may carry a little pepper in paper.

No, a "nark" is not a desirable companion, and to inform a tramp that he is going to a house that is full of them, is to daunt him more than to say that the teapots are spoutless and cracked, the saucers have no rims, the beds are dirty, and that the fire is small and often out.

XXVI