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of sixpence. In the East India Dock Road the Salvation Army
were holding a service. They were singing ‘Anybody here
like sneaking Judas?’ to the tune of ‘What’s to be done with
a drunken sailor?’ On Tower Hill two Mormons were trying
to address a meeting. Round their platform struggled a mob
of men, shouting and interrupting. Someone was denounc-
ing them for polygamists. A lame, bearded man, evidently
an atheist, had heard the word God and was heckling an-
grily. There was a confused uproar of voices.
‘My dear friends, if you would only let us finish what we
were saying —!—That’s right, give ‘em a say. Don’t get on the
argue!—No, no, you answer me. Can you SHOW me God?
You SHOW ‘im me, then I’ll believe in ‘im.—Oh, shut up,
don’t keep interrupting of ‘em!—Interrupt yourself! —po-
lygamists!—Well, there’s a lot to be said for polygamy. Take
the— women out of industry, anyway.—My dear friends,
if you would just—No, no, don’t you slip out of it. ‘Ave
you SEEN God? ‘Ave you TOUCHED ‘im? ‘Ave you shook
‘ANDS with ‘im?—Oh, don’t get on the argue, for Christ’s
sake don’t get on the ARGUE!’ etc. etc. I listened for twen-
ty minutes, anxious to learn something about Mormonism,
but the meeting never got beyond shouts. It is the general
fate of street meetings.
In Middlesex Street, among the crowds at the market, a
draggled, down-at-heel woman was hauling a brat of five by
the arm. She brandished a tin trumpet in its face. The brat
was squalling.
‘Enjoy yourself!’ yelled the mother. ‘What yer think I
brought yer out ‘ere for an’ bought y’ a trumpet an’ all? D’ya

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