Henry Stuart Baker at the Chesterfield Union Workhouse, Derbyshire, 1911.

CHESTERFIELD'S "SPIKE."

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An Acquaintance with "Weary Willie."

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A NIGHT IN THE CASUAL WARD.

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(By AMATEUR CASUAL.)

As one who has visited many casual wards England and Wales, in an endeavour to investigate something of that lower stratum of life in which the tramp moves, a short account of my experiences a casual in Chesterfield Workhouse may be of interest the readers the "Courier."

Coming towards the town from Bakewell, I met a weather-beaten specimen roadster. He was a typical type the "Weary Willie" kind, being attired in very tattered clothing. His hat was brown with age, and bore signs of much buffeting; his boots cut and almost devoid of soles; round his waist he was girded with a piece of sackcloth, on which hung the inevitable tin can of a tramp.

"Goin 'ter Chesterfield?" he inquired, as I came up to him, "'cos if yer are we'll pad it tergether."

I confided in him that my purpose that night was to seek shelter in the casual ward at Chesterfield Workhouse.

"I'm goin' there, myself," he went on. "None yer skipperin' (sleeping out) fer me this sort ef weather. But I tell yer, matey, as it ain't a 'cushey' sort of place, Chesterfield Spike. There's a rare task of wood ter done, an' the bloomin' porter don't let yer out a minute afore e's erbliged."

However, knowing that the reg'lar tramp is the finest "growser" (grumbler) in the universe, I ignored his criticism, and plodded on my way.

Near the town, I met a second roadster, bent on the same errand as myself. The wind was bitterly cold and swept down the road, but had cunningly

Ensconced himself in a corner

of a newly-erected building, where the wind did not trouble him, so I joined him for rest.

Yer aint bin long on the 'Toby' (road)?" was his greeting, and I assured him I had not.

"Well," he continued. "I've bin near 30 years on tramp. I'm 60 now, an' yer know once tramp always a tramp."

I knew the old nomadic adage, and quoted him another. "Give a tramp," I said, "a knife, a piece of string, and a shilling, and he'll go anywhere."

"Aye," said the tramp, "but I ain't got the shilling, I'm goin' inter Chesterfield 'Spike' ter-mght, tho' it ain't place I care fer, an' if I can manage it I give it the ‘go by.'"

Certainly there is one thing about Chesterfield Workhouse Casual Ward, it is

Not loved by the regular tramp.

It is, fortunately for the ratepayers of the town, not "free and easy" enough for "Weary Willie."

But here it may well fer me to explain a few of the slang terms and something of the character of the roadsters who visit Chesterfield.

Chesterfield Casual Ward is known as a "Spike," a "Derrick." or a "Grubber." The food given there is spoken of as "scran," "tommy," or "rooty": the bed is a "lay down," while the Workhouse inmate who assists the porter is spoken of as

A "Tramp Major."

To beg is "to mouch," whilst to tramp is to "pad the oof," or to "go on the Toby."

Several classes of tramps visit Chesterfield "Spike." There is the "Door Thumper," the " moucher" of the vagrant fraternity, and well known to householders of the Crooked Spire. He is a "back door" expert, and generally appears at meal times with a piteous appeal for food, hot water, or tea. Then there is the "Griddler," that obnoxious personage who in a raucous voice sings in the streets some mournful hymn or pathetic ballad. Though he often gathers in a fair share of coppers he is apt to squander them in the nearest public-house, and then resort to the "Spike" for shelter.

The "Gagger" is the "first water" tramp, for he possesses a fine imagination, and assumes a plausible manner. He "pitches yarns" to sympathetic hearers whom "pulls up" on the road. Sometimes he carries a few pairs of laces as a side line to his plausible tongue. He also often reaps a goodly harvest of coppers, but is still often compelled to seek the shelter of the "Spike." There is also the "Navvy Kiddy," who often gets work and nearly as often loses it after about a week. He is to be found nightly in Chesterfield Casual Ward, and lastly

The genuine unemployed workmen,

who is compelled through sheer necessity to burden himself for a night on the rate-payers of Chesterfield.

It this latter class who is deserving of sympathy, and the movement on foot in some counties to obtain for him better food and accommodation in vagrant wards should meet with the approval of every Board of Guardians. So far as the regular tramp is concerned, some movement of the Poor Commissioners must ensue in the forthcoming year, for he is an apparently hopeless subject. As he expresses, himself in rhyme on one of the walls in Chesterfield Spike:—

"The sailor loves the sea.
"The soldier loves his camp.
But give to me this good old Spike
And the free, life of a tramp."

However, I came into Chesterfield town with a little wizened specimen of tramp. As we came into Church Street, he confided in me that he knew of three places each which was

"Good" for a penny.

"I left him to "touch" these places, but when I met him an hour later near the Workhouse, he had certainly captured three pence. I will leave my readers to discover his "good places," but I will tell them that one was a publican's, the second a boot shop, and the third a chemist's.

Six o'clock was striking when I reached Chesterfield Workhouse. Outside the gate leading to that portion of the building devoted to vagrants was a motley assembly of about a score of applicants. Most of them were the regular tramp fraternity but the remainder were evidently from their downcast appearance, new to the "road."

When the gate was opened I joined the little crowd, and went up to the office where the porter was stationed.

Here, in the Register of Casuals, he entered my name, age, occupation, place journeyed from, and destination. Then making up my valuables (pipe, tobacco, matches, etc.) into a bundle. I handed them over to the "Tramp Major" to be kept until my release the next day.

From the office I was passed along to the buildings of the casual. Here came

The Order of the Bath

—a terrible bugbear to the reg'lar tramps.

"This is the sixth I've had since last Monday," growled one, I'll be washed away soon!"

"Let's the cowd inter yer bones," said another, but nevertheless I enjoyed a god hot bath, tied all my clothes into parcel and donning a Workhouse nightshirt shown my bedroom.

This consisted of a small, well warmed cell, and for bedclothes I was furnished with two good thick rugs, with which I managed to make myself snug and comfortable. Supper came shortly afterwards, 8ozs. bread with hot water — not a generous meal, but then it is only the man who can't beg who suffers. The reg'lar tramp takes good care to secure an ample meal before entering Chesterfield Casual Ward.

However. I soon consumed my portion and settled down to sleep. At 6.30 the next morning I was awakened by the door of my cell being thrown open.

"Throw out your nightshirt, fold your rugs, and dress," was the order, and this I quickly accomplished.

Artistic Efforts in the Cell.

In short time breakfast appeared, 6ozs. bread and one pint of gruel being handed to me. Then for an hour I was left to myself, and I read with amusement the inscriptions scrawled on the walls by previous occupants of the cell.

One patriotic "roadster" had made a spirited drawing of a "Dreadnought," whilst several had attempted their hands at illustrative art.

However, at 8 o'clock, I was set to work in company with several others. My task and that of my companion, who wielded with me a cross-cut saw, was to cut into twelve inch blocks five long sleepers. When I tell my readers that to each sleeper were 18 cuts, and each cut took, working our hardest, three minutes, they will understand that at 11 o'clock our task was incomplete.

But having performed a good three hours' work we were allowed to depart, and receiving my possessions, I left Chesterfield Casual Ward as the old church clock showed the half hour before noon.

In concluding this short article, I may say that Chesterfield Casual Ward holds out

No encouragement for the regular tramp.

He has to "work" if he puts up there. The officials, however, show a proper discrimination and distinguish the genuine casual from the regular. The premises are kept admirably clean and there is little of the hectoring and bullying found in some casual wards.