He had saved his money, grown too prosperous, and
returned to the mother-country. Now he was standing in line at the
spike.
For the past two years, he told me, he had been working as a cook. His
hours had been from 7 a.m. to 10.30 p.m., and on Saturday to 12.30
p.m.--ninety-five hours per week, for which he had received twenty
shillings, or five dollars.
"But the work and the long hours was killing me," he said, "and I had to
chuck the job. I had a little money saved, but I spent it living and
looking for another place."
This was his first night in the spike, and he had come in only to get
rested. As soon as he emerged, he intended to start for Bristol, a one-
hundred-and-ten-mile walk, where he thought he would eventually get a
ship for the States.
But the men in the line were not all of this calibre. Some were poor,
wretched beasts, inarticulate and callous, but for all of that, in many
ways very human. I remember a carter, evidently returning home after the
day's work, stopping his cart before us so that his young hopeful, who
had run to meet him, could climb in. But the cart was big, the young
hopeful little, and he failed in his several attempts to swarm up.
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