Page 238 - down-and-out-in-paris-and-london

a kick. Paddy and I turned north, for London. Most of the
others were going on to Ide Hill, said to be about the worst
spike in England*.
[* I have been in it since, and it is not so bad]
Once again it was jolly autumn weather, and the road
was quiet, with few cars passing. The air was like sweet-
briar after the spike’s mingled stenches of sweat, soap, and
drains. We two seemed the only tramps on the road. Then
I heard a hurried step behind us, and someone calling. It
was little Scotty, the Glasgow tramp, who had run after us
panting. He produced a rusty tin from his pocket. He wore a
friendly smile, like someone repaying an obligation.
‘Here y’are, mate,’ he said cordially. ‘I owe you some fag
ends. You stood me a smoke yesterday. The Tramp Major
give me back my box of fag ends when we come out this
morning. One good turn deserves another—here y’are.’
And he put four sodden, debauched, loathly cigarette
ends into my hand.