Everywhere the pavements and the
open space where a memorial tower stood were crowded with loiterers.
Men in long lines stood upon the kerbstones, their hands in their
pockets, watching, waiting--God knows for what. There were all sorts,
of course, the professional idlers and the drunkard were there, but the
others--there was no lack of them. There was no lack of men,
white-faced, dull-eyed, dejected, some of them actually with the brand of
starvation to be seen in their sunken cheeks and wasted limbs. No
wonder that the swing-doors of the public-houses, where there was light
and warmth inside, opened and shut continually.
"Look," Brooks repeated, with a tremor in his tone. "There are
thousands and thousands of them--and all of them must have some sort of
a home to go to. Fancy it--one's womankind, perhaps children--and
nothing to take home to them. It's such an old story, that it sounds
hackneyed and commonplace. But God knows there's no other tragedy on
His earth like it."
Mr. Bullsom was uncomfortable.
"I've given a hundred pounds to the Unemployed Fund," he said.
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