Night with “Down-and-Outs”

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 376, 9 June 1928, Page 10

Night with “Down-and-Outs”

GOLD, WET, AND WITHOUT BEDS

Sleeping on Seats and Under Bridges

“fYOWN-AND-OUT! You don’t know what that means, If until you’ve been homeless yourself. You can’t understand the down-and-out’s view of life until you’ve walked with him and talked with him and learned the source of his bitterness.

“You’ve got to stand beside him and look at. the world with his eyes, before you can forgive the sneer of the man in the ragged coat and the broken boots, as he watches the audience coming out of the theatre.”

Last night, writes a representative of the Melbourne "Herald,” I set out to be one of those vague shadows that slouch about gloomy streets and hang around dark corners. 1 don't know whether I succeeded or whether they knew me for a masquerader. But I don't think so, because some of them took me Into their confidence. They told me their stories —some of them pathetic, others merely sordid. They showed me their rude sleeping-places—on park seats, under the bridges that span the Yarra, in shrub-curtained nooks of the Domain. And after talking to these outcasts. you must realise how necessary is some scheme for providing them with adequate shelter. They don’t ask much; four walls and a roof would satisfy them. A suggestion that military drill halls and equipment should be made available to the unemployed seems to meet the need admirably. Indeed, some of the men spoke of drill halls as though it had been mooted that the finest hotel in Australia should be thrown open to them. A man didn’t mind sleeping in the open when it was warm, but it was the rain and the frost and the wind of winter that made it so hard. If only other people would understand. That was the general opinion. Deserter’s Lot

I met Tom on the corner of Flinders Street. He asked me for a match, and that started the conversation. Then we walked away together.

Tom was an American sailor. He said he deserted his ship in Melbourne because he was sick of the sea. He thought he could make ago of things here; thought he could get a good job. But that was three months ago, and be is still walking the streets. Occasionally, he gets casual jobs for a day or so, and makes a few bob. But things aren't getting any brighter as ■winter goes on. . . Our objectless peregrinations carried us to a theatre, where they were singing grand opera. It stretched along the pavement before us—fifty yards of plate glass and electric light. Intermittently, the sounds of music fame to us. We drifted away. In our walk, we met other men, who were down-and-out. Tom knew some of them and spoke to them. They accepted me because they seemed too tired to do anything else. He asked them how the luck was. Bnt the reply was always .the same; there was nothing doing anywhere. Employment was something that wasn't to be had. Eventually, we decided that we must sleep. Tom said there were two or three places where beds could be had if you possessed sixpence or a shilling. He named the Salvation Army Elevator and Gordon House. Seeking Riverside Bed But he was penniless, and I was supposed to be destitute, too, so we walked through the darkening streets and crossed Prince's Bridge. We passed along in front of the boatsheds on the Yarra bank, but Tom said you couldn't sleep on any of the verandahs. There had been so many thefts from these places that the police kept a careful watch for prowlers. We passed into an intricate system of paths at the back of the sheds. Every seat except one was full in the light of the lamps. That one seat was occupied by a man who was just settling down for the night.

We talked to him for a while, and he told us a queer story. He had come to Australia with a theatrical company. But he had been only one of the minor figures, and he soon found himself without a job. He was beginning to stop worrying .about work.

We ranged the gardens and found about twenty sleepers. Most of them seemed to be old hands. They had wrapped their legs and bodies in

newspapers, and they slept with their hats on.

There were some queer characters among them. Evidently, a few were irreclaimable derelicts, but most of them were decent men, genuinely down on their luck. Their complaint was usually the same. If they had somewhere to sleep, and a decent meal every day, they’d get through somehow. But it was useless for a tramp to look for work. And a man couldn’t help lookink like a tramp when he had to sleep out in all weather. "My Blue Heaven” We walked back to the river bank. It was a superb night, the clear darkness of the sky dappled with stars. The river was smooth. There was a dance on at the Palms, in the Henley Reserve. Bright lights shone from the place and the hum of an orchestra was in the air. Ironcically, it was playing “My Blue Heaven.” We found a happy little nest at the south end of the Anderson Street bridge. Two men lay on the path, and three others were ensconced on a concrete parapet, a few feet above One of them was covered with a couple of blankets, but the others were not wrapped even in newspaper. They slept soundly. There were three more men sleeping under the end of the old wooden bridge a few hundred yards lower down. They made no move as we passed. We wandered back toward the city. Suddenly, rain began to patter down growing heavier and heavier. Tom said the only place left for him was a railway compartment. It was a warm night, but we didn’t fancy sleeping out in the rain. He said there was a possibility of getting a doss on a ship, if you were lucky. You had to go down to the wharf and get on the right side of a watchman. Some of them shut their eyes while you slipped past. But he didn’t feel like taking the chance tonight. He left me, and the last I saw of him he was jumping across the silver rails on the south side of the Flinders Street railway yards. Down-and-outs wake early. This morning, they were standing about the newspaper offices, scanning the advertisements of situations vacant. When they'd finished they went away, many of them to the labour bureaus. And they stood outside the bureaus discussing the everlasting problem of how to live on nothing. And always in those little groups there was one man who kept the others laughing. He seemed to be trying to make them forget the hungry days and the hungry nights surely ahead —unless somebody takes an interest in their relief.