Читать книгу I've been a Gipsying. Rambles among our Gipsies and their children in their tents and vans онлайн

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While this gang of gipsies were separating, another row was going on near to a large public-house, to which I hastened, and arrived in time to see one of them “throw up the sponge.” There were no less than half a dozen fights in less than half an hour. It was now half-past eleven, and I began to think that it was quite time that I looked out for my night’s lodging, so I entered into council with the policeman. We visited eating-houses, coffee-houses, lodging-houses, public-houses, and shops in Forest Gate without success. The policeman advised me to walk to Stratford. This I could not do, for I began to feel rather queer and giddy; my only prospect was either to pass the night at the station, on the “Flats,” or return by the last train. No time was to be lost. I hastily took my ticket, and almost rolled and tumbled down the steps and into the train, which took me to Fenchurch Street Station, in a somewhat bewildered state as to my next move forward. For a minute or two I stood still, lost in wonder. The policeman soon appeared on the scene with his “Please move on” and gruff voice. I told him I wanted to “move on,” if he would tell me where to move to. “There are,” answered the policeman, “plenty of shops to move into in London, if that is what you mean. It depends what sort of shop you want. If you have got plenty of money, there is the ‘Three Nuns.’” And he also pointed out one or two other first-class places in Aldgate. I bade the policeman good night, and went across the street to look at the “Three Nuns,” which was being closed for the night. The outside of the place indicated to me that I should have to dip more deeply into my pocket than my financial position would allow, and I turned to look for fresh quarters in Aldgate. It was now past twelve o’clock, and all the places, except one or two, were closed. On the door of an eating-house and coffee-shop I espied a light, and thither I went. Fortunately the servants were about, and the landlady was enjoying her midnight meal. A bed was promised, and after a long chat with the landlady and some supper, I was shown into my room, the appearance of which I did not like; but it was “Hobson’s choice, that or none.” There were two locks upon the door, and I had taken the precaution to have plenty of candles and matches with me. It looked as if a broken-down gentleman had been occupying it for some time, who had suddenly decamped, leaving no traces of his whereabouts. There was but little clothing upon the bed, and the springs were broken and “humpy.” I turned into it to do the best I could till morning. The smell of the room was that of sin. The rattling about the stairs during the whole of the night was not of a nature to produce a soothing sensation. I felt with Charles Wesley, when he wrote