But, there, I suppose I dont understand these sort of things, and like a good many more get talking about what I should hold my tongue on; but somehow or another, whenever I hear the word war , I cant see regiments of gay soldiers, and bands of music, and prancing horses, but trampled, muddy, and blood-stained fields, with shattered bodies lying about; or dim rooms turned into hospitals, with men lying groaning in their great agony hopeless, perhaps, of ever rising from the rough pallet where they lie.
But, there, lets get on to another kind of war war with the knife knife and fork, you know the battle of life for a living; for theres no mistake about it, there is a regular battle going on for the daily bread, and if a man hasnt been well drilled to it in his
apprenticeship, its rather a poor figure hell cut in amongst the rest. Ah, you come across some rum fellow soldiers, too, in the course of your life; heres one chap is asked to do a little extra job, and, as he does it, goes on like our old sexton used down in the country when he put up the Christmas holly in the church. Ah! he says to me Ah! you see, I dont get nothing for doing this only my salary . Men are so precious frightened of making work scarce. Why, I remember soon after I came up to London going into Saint Pauls for a gape round, when they were going to fit up the seats for the Charity Childrens Festival; and do what I would I couldnt help having a hearty laugh to see how the fellows were going it. Perhaps it was a scaffold pole wanted lifting; when about a score of chaps would go crawling up to it, and have a look; then one would touch it with his foot, and then another; then one would stoop down and take hold on it, and give a groan, and then let go again; next another would have his groan over it; then theyd look round, as if they thought being in a grand church a miracle war going to happen, and that the pole would get up of itself and go to its place.
It didnt though: so at last, groaning and grunting, they managed to get it on their shoulders the whole score of em trying to have a hand in it; but puzzled sometimes how to manage it, for the short uns couldnt hitch their shoulders up high enough to reach, and had to be content with walking under it like honest British workmen as had made up their minds to earn every penny of their money; while the tall chaps carried the pole, and it didnt seem to hurt them much as they took it to its place and groaned it down again; when they was all so faint that they had to knock off for some beer.
I have heard an old workman say how many bricks hed lay in a day in his best times, and it was a precious many; and Ive seen old Johnny Mawley lay em too, and hed have been just the chap to suit some of our London men, who look sour at you if you lay into the work tight. Old Johnny used to build little walls and pigsties down in Lincolnshire, and had his boy, young Johnny, with him. There the old chap would be tapping and pottering about over his work, with no necessity for him to stand still till the mortar set at the bottom, for fear of the building giving way or growing top-heavy there hed be, with the work getting well set as he went on; for after getting one brick in its place and the mortar cleared off, hed drawl out very slowly, as he stood looking at his job Johnny, lad, wilt thou bring me another brick? And Johnny used to bring him another brick; and old Johnny would lay it; and work never got scarce through him.
Men are so precious frightened of interfering with one another. I spose its all right; but it seems so queer for the plasterer to knock off because a bit of beading wants nailing on or taking off, and the carpenter has to be fetched to do it, when half a dozen taps of the hammer would have set all right. Bricklayers setting a stove, and he cant turn a screw, but must have the smith; whilst the carpenter knocks off because a bit of brick wants chipping out of the wall; and so they go on; and so I go on grumbling at it, and fault-finding. But the most I grumble at is this the number of public-houses there is about London waiting with their easily-swinging doors to trap men. Theres no occasion to knock; just lean against the door, and open it comes; and theres the grandly fitted-up place, and a smart barman or barmaid to wait on you, and all so nice, and attractive, and sticky, that theres no getting away again; so that it seems like one of those catch-em-alives as the fellows used to sell about the streets and we poor people the flies.
Nice trade that must be, and paying; to see the glitter and gloss they puts on, and the showy places they build in the most miserable spots gilt, and paint, and gas, and all in style. And then the boards and notices! Double brown stout, 3 pence per pot in your own jugs; sparkling champagne ales; Devonshire cider; cordial gin, and compounds; Jamaica rum; while at one place there was a chap had up in his window Cwrw o Cymru, which must be an uncommon nice drink, I should think; but I never had any of it, whatever it is. But how one fellow does tempt another into these places, and how the money does go there money that ought to be taken home; and it isnt like any other kind of business: say you want a coffee-shop, or a bakers, youll have two or three streets, perhaps, to go down to find one; but theres always a public at the corner all ready. And, you see, with some men it is like it was with a mate of mine Fred Brown easy-going, good-hearted chap.