b16294051_0017_246

“SLAVE” MARKETS
IN LONDON.
WHERE MEN STAND FOR HIRE.
By T. W. WILKINSON

THERE is a Sunday slave market in Whitechapel.” So said a picturesque French writer ho wished to paint us as black as possible. If—and this is a very big” if “—a man who stands
hire, and whose necessities are such that lie is willing to accept almost any terms that are offered, be a slave, then such a statement may pass: But in that case our Gallic critic might as well have said that there are slave markets all over London. That would have been more startling and equally true, for there are a number of recognised stands for various sections of the unemployed.
The “Sunday slave market” is a part of the greatest open-air market in the world, that vast assemblage of stalls and harrows, noisy sellers and chaffering buyers, Jews and Gentiles, which make up “Petticoat Lane.” Pass down Goulston Street, and you see that it consists of a group of aliens, most of them of the familiar Ghetto type—thin, pallid, careworn, habited in shabby, ill-fitting suits of the ready-made order. Included in the gathering, however, are half-a-dozen indubitable “ greeners,” new arrivals in this country, who have yet to make their first acquaintance with a sweating den. They are all wearing top boots, which have probably never once left their feet during the whole of their journey to London from Roumania or Russia.
Of a sudden a movement runs through the group, and an eager, expectant look comes into some of the men’s eyes. Here is an employer, 1)00k in hand. After a glance at the day’s supply of labour, he announces his wants in Yiddish, whereupon the particular kind of workers he needs hold up their hands. Then there is a little bargaining, and he enters the names of some of the men in his hook.
Very simple is the whole operation.  
This employer hires journeymen only, the next takes a few “ greeners “
are forthwith conducted to his Workshop by one of their compatriots, who know Whitechapel like a native.
Another market of the same kind is situated in Cursitor Street, but this is for a very different class of men—”Wallers or law-writers. “ Wallers “ are copyists who, unlike the more regular pen Workers have not served an apprenticeship to the calling, but have drifted into it, and derive their trade name from the Circumstance that when idle— which is their normal state— they may be found leaning against a wall or close to a certain lamp-post in Cursitor Street facetiously known as the “iron office.”
A more pitiable class does not exist on the fringe of the law, strewn as that territory is with wrecked humanity. Every waller “ has a past—a past of the kind that is looked back to with vain longings. In one some people used to recognise a man who ten years previously was drawing a salary of £1,200 per annum. And much the same
history have other “ wallers,” the whole of whom are men who have fallen upon evil days.
The work of these casual writers, too, is ill-paid and done under trying conditions. It is carried on in offices rented by middlemen, who provide them with benches and desks to write on, as well as ink, fire, and light, for twopence out of every shilling that they earn. And they seldom begin work much before other people are on their way home. Not until the business of the 1a’ is nearly over do solicitors send out their papers, and the result is that, as they want the copies ready on the following morning, the poor writers have to bend over them until far into the night. Many a man has fallen asleep over his task, and been rudely awakened by running the end of his pen into his eye or against his glasses, or by hanging his nose against the desk in front of him. It must be a delightful 1holiday for some ‘ wallers “ when, as is their custom, they betake themselves to the Kent hop gardens during the Long Vacation.
More obvious a hiring market is that which takes place every Monday at
Poverty Junction,” or, as most Londoners know it, the corner of York Road, Lambeth. This point has long been a rendezvous of disengaged music-hall artistes, many sections of whom are represented here. “Sisters,” serio-comics, male impersonators, lady “ stars “ of various ‘magnitudes, line the pavement, dressed in the approved “professional” style, and their cheeks not innocent of make-up. Still more comprehensive are the males.
Exquisites in silk hats, frock coats, and tan shoes ; stout, clean-shaven men in tweeds visible at a mile; blue-chinned individuals with a semi-nautical air— suit to match the lower part of the face, yachting cap, white shoes; nondescripts in every stage of shabby gentility—all mingle together and brag and complain and exchange greetings. The air is full of babble.
•“ Hallo, Gus! Haven’t seen you since we were in Manchester.”“ Beautifully, my boy! Knocked ‘em stone dead!” “Told me to write in six weeks. I asked him what he took me for.” “I’ll give you my word, it’s been rough.” “Cracked seven bottles . slept under the table.”
Through the crowd a little figure in a faded cape gently insinuates herself. Her fiftieth birthday has gone, but there is a touch of rouge on her cheeks. She comes to a halt against the side of a comfortable- looking man in sedate black.
Nice day, isn’t it ? “ she says quickly, in a low voice. “Give me a glass of beer.”
“A drink!” He forces out a laugh:
“Why, I haven’t had one myself for a month.”
From time to time managers of clubs and small halls move among the throng, filling up their programmes for the week. A word or two suffices, and then these distinguished persons add a name to their list and pass on. Now and again, too, an agent whose office is in the neighbourhood threads his way through the out-of-work entertainers on a like errand. By some he is ostentatiously ignored ; but others check him momentarily, present a card with a deferential air, and follow him up, urging their claims orally. He shakes his head, however, and they fall back dejectedly. One by one they “ give it up,” and, boarding a passing ‘bus, journey homeward.
A break in the tedium of waiting is also afforded by the driving-u1) in a- light trap of some prominent “ star “ in- the music- hall firmament, who receives the homage of the crowd very graciously. Five, three, two years ago, perhaps, he stood at “Out-at-Elbows Corner,”- waiting for what the gods• might send. Meteoric is the rise of some men on the variety stage. One week they are unknown; the next all London is, flocking to hear them; A “fortune maker “—a song that “hits on,” that is hummed- and whistled everywhere—causes them -to - -“ arrive” at a bound. - - - - -
Truly, “Poverty Junction” is surpassingly rich in human interest. It is. not the great resort of artistes that it was, because York Road. once the centre for agents, has been deserted by a number of such gentlemen, who have transferred their offices to the other side of the river. But a policeman is still required to prevent the pavement from being blocked, and tragedy and comedy still stand hand in hand at the Junction.
A hiring market of yet another kind is held daily at Ham Yard, the chief resort of “ boardmen.” By nine o’clock ever’ morning a crowd of “ dossers” are gathered there on the chance of earning fifteenpence as walking advertising stations Human wrecks of all kinds are among them, as well as unemployed shop assistants, clerks, artisans, etc.
A man who-used to turn up in the yard regularly, except for brief spells four times a year, was positive1’ wealthy in comparison with the rest of his congeners inasmuch as he had a private income of los. per week. This-amount was allowed him by a relation, who injudiciously paid it by quarterly instalments. The consequence of so foolish a course was appalling. Immediately the man received his money he went- on the drink, and in less than a week he was penniless again, with the result that he once more went back to the “boards.”
The so-called “regulars,” numbers of whom- have done very little else but, carry sandwich boards for years, can easily be picked out at Ham Yard. Their boots are usually blacked –a concession to respectability which in some cases costs a penny out of the fifteenpence per day. Also, you may see in their hands or protruding from their pockets a piece of cloth for putting on the shoulders, so that they shall not be rubbed by the irons of the “high flyer.” Strictly, however, there are no regulars, those who are called such merely getting the first chance. When there is a job lasting several days, for instance, the men who get it the first morning will very probably be sent out on the next and succeeding days.
Against the well-known soup-kitchen the men cluster in a mass, and as the contractor wants a hatch he comes forward and selects the requisite number. Each the” puts the “ high-flyer “ on his shoulders and takes upon himself the ‘boards which hang in front and behind respectively. The squad line up, and are reviewed by the contractor or his foreman. At a given signal, they wheel round and wind out of the yard.  
As a rule, the first lot departs about nine o’clock and the last an hour or so later. Then the unsuccessful “dossers “— sometimes forty or fifty in number—their last chance of employment gone for the day, move off in disgust to the parks, that they may sleep away a few hours. Formerly a good many remained in and about Ham Yard in the hope that they might be wanted, after all. But now the police no sooner know that all the men required have been selected than they clear the yard. Not one is allowed to stop in it.
Besides these markets where men may he hired, there are several others of minor importance in London. The metropolis, indeed, has scores of• stands: for .“ out-of- works,” to which employers may repair with the certainty of finding-assistance; Such places answer the purposes of
houses of call” and club rooms, and no doubt some of them are survivals from the days when those institutions, were unknown, and when men were always sought in the open street.