But it is not only for their own flesh and blood that these poor outcasts care. ‘Unfortunates’ as they are, a divine pity for those who are more unfortunate still is ever one of their distinguishing traits, though it may be a comparative stranger that calls it into play. They have their own way of doing things; to better people it may not seem a nice way, it may not even be a good way, but nevertheless they do ‘good things.’ I have known very much better people do much worse things than some of these outcasts do. On one of the bitterest winter days I remember a number of women sat in the female prisoners’ waiting-room in one of our police courts. It was a makeshift sort of a place, and only intended for temporary use. There sat two of these women, who were by no means strangers to the place. Fairly well dressed, but coarse and repulsive in appearance, they were equally ready to drink, fight, or steal, while to decent ears their language was not nice. Beside them sat a young woman of very different stamp, but of the same occupation. Her eyes were closed, her head was leaning against the wall, and it was patent to anyone that the hand of Death was upon her. She was nicely dressed and of refined appearance, evidently not a slum girl. Opposite to them sat a fearsome thing that had been a woman, now a piece of humanity--all disease and dirt--whose only joy was to absorb alcohol. She had been found dead-drunk in the streets, and taken on an ambulance to the police station. The other three had been found drunk and disorderly at 1 a.m.
‘Look at that, lassies!’ I said to the strong girls. They looked and shuddered as I pointed to the ‘ghoul.’ ‘Look at this!’ and I pointed to their dying companion. ‘Which will you be?’ They looked uncomfortable, but did not answer. ‘Come!’ said I, ‘let me send you away from London, and you shall begin a new life.’ ‘And what is to become of her?’ I was asked. ‘I will take her to the infirmary.’ ‘No, thank you. We can look after her ourselves.’