"Then go to a coffee-'ouse an' get a mug o' tea."
"But I don't see how that is to feed you," I objected.
The pair smiled knowingly.
"You drink your tea in little sips," he went on, "making it last its
longest. An' you look sharp, an' there's some as leaves a bit be'ind
'em."
"It's s'prisin', the food wot some people leaves," the woman broke in.
"The thing," said the man judicially, as the trick dawned upon me, "is to
get 'old o' the penny."
As we started to leave, Miss Haythorne gathered up a couple of crusts
from the neighbouring tables and thrust them somewhere into her rags.
"Cawn't wyste 'em, you know," said she; to which the docker nodded,
tucking away a couple of crusts himself.
At three in the morning I strolled up the Embankment. It was a gala
night for the homeless, for the police were elsewhere; and each bench was
jammed with sleeping occupants. There were as many women as men, and the
great majority of them, male and female, were old. Occasionally a boy
was to be seen. On one bench I noticed a family, a man sitting upright
with a sleeping babe in his arms, his wife asleep, her head on his
shoulder, and in her lap the head of a sleeping youngster.
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