During the afternoon of my watching the casuals one poor woman  said, "If only the rich guardians, and the heavy ratepayers, knew how their money was spent, and how us poor things had to live, they wouldn't allow it."

They feel bitterly the irony of so many officials being paid to order them about, and get the maximum of work out of them while they are practically starved. The conclusion of the whole matter is, the more rigidly the system is enforced in its entirety, the more hardly it presses on the destitute poor, while it makes no provision for their need. It is not even preventive, and it is costly.

As morning dawned, I went back to the ward to check up on my friends of the day before. They were being roused. "You women all get up, be quick now; be quick and hurry up, Grannie." Short, sharp, decisive marching orders.

Sick and shivering, with aching head and body sore from head to foot, Phyllis did her best to hide any sign of illness that might come between her and liberty. Pollie's face was drawn and tired. No one complained much. I heard only one grumble at having to wash an already smarting face with soft soap. One produced a precious bit of white soap and lent it - a kindly deed. Grannie got under way with many a groan, very slowly. "Hurry up, women; three of you have not put your boards up. Now then, Granny, don't be all day." I was annoyed by Fanny's sharpness, but I had to remember that she had been on duty all night, and was also tired; but surely the woman who said, "Come, now, you needn't be so knotty with us," spoke true.

Gruel and bread for the fourth time. No one going out did more than pretend to eat it, some pocketed the bread. I certainly had all the evidence I needed that our porridge was not to the liking of the casuals.

Grannie must swathe her poor old legs and go; she had to get the proper documents to get into the inner sanctum of the workhouse proper.

I shall never forget the last few moments of watching those women leave. A raging passion for freedom took possession of one of them. She shouted, 'Oh, to be free! Oh, to lie down anywhere under God's free sky, to suffer cold and hunger at His hand. It is better to fall into the hand of God than the hand of man.'

At length she escaped with Pollie, leaving Grannie with the newcomers.

I had a lot of thinking to do about this establishment of ours. For this is what it amounts to. An obsolete system adapted to the times when population was stationary, is now supposed to meet the needs of a population necessarily increasingly fluid.

Labour shifts from place to place where it is needed. Individuals drop out or are thrust out. The homeless are a great multitude who day by day they make a moving procession. The decent man or woman who is stranded joins them, at first with the honest intention of gaining a livelihood. If it cannot be obtained, what is he to do?

The common lodging-house can never be a sufficient provision for this need. It would never pay the private owner to provide the maximum number of beds required. Our friend Pollie grumbled that in many lodging-houses the price of a decent bed was 6d., and "then you could not be sure it was clean."

What is needed is nothing less than the entire sweeping away of the tramp ward, and the substitution of municipal lodging-houses, coupled with strict supervision of all private ones. Shelters, sanitary and humane, not charitable institutions, but simply well-managed working people's hotels, must be run privately and supplemented publicly, providing accommodation for everyone. To meet destitution, these should be supplemented by relief stations on the German plan, where supper, bed, and breakfast can be earned. Freedom need not be interfered with beyond demanding work sufficient to pay. Payment should be on the graduated ticket system.

If once a national system sufficient for destitution was inaugurated, the man who will not work could be penalised. And there could be an honourable relief of destitution, neither degrading nor charitable.

Another sad situation I can relate. I was out shopping and on the way home found a sad old woman outside.
"What is the matter?" I said.

"I'm knocked, that's wot's the matter; ill, 'ungry, and knocked." The words came in despairing groans.

The poor old woman was indeed a woeful spectacle, huddled up on the slimy stones, as she turned her poor, sorrow-lined face to mine.  The few thin, straggling locks of hair escaping from the rain-soaked bonnet were white. She was wet and cold, and shiveringly drew her ragged shawl more tightly round her weary old body.

"Why are you sitting here? Have you no friends, no home?" I asked.

"'Ome! I ain't got no 'ome," she said.

"Then why do you not go into the workhouse?" I questioned.

"I'm afraid I'll 'ave to. I've kep' out as long as I can," she groaned; "but, my Gawd, I'll 'ave to."

There was no mistaking the evident horror this miserable, almost dying old woman had for the workhouse. It surprised me. " Why?" I asked myself. "Surely no place nor condition this side of the grave could be worse than she now finds herself in?"

Ratepayers, Boards of Guardians, and the Local Government Board provide and organise homes and refuges for helpless and poverty-stricken creatures, such as the poor woman who lay moaning and shivering here at my feet, yet she, like many others of her class, dreaded to accept this charity.

This was not the first time I had observed a terror of entering the workhouse exhibited by a starving and destitute person.

At the nearby stall I procured for her hot drink, bread and butter, and an egg, which she devoured like a famished animal. After her meal she felt better, then I began to question her with reference to her hatred of the workhouse.

"My dear," she said, "it is worse than the prison."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Why; the casual ward," she said, surprised at my question.

"Surely it is better to be there than out all night in such weather as this. Why do you fear it so much?" I asked.

"Oh, I don't know that it ain't; but I hate it, they bully you so. It's just awful."

"Now you and I will go straight to the casual ward and I will arrange for them to take you in."

"All right, me dear, so we will. I can't do another night on the stones, it will kill me; but we mustn't go to the nearest place," she said. "I was there a couple of weeks ago, and if they caught me there again in less than a month, they'd put me in a cell, give me oakum to pick, and keep me in for five nights."

This was our workhouse she was talking about. I wonder who it was who made such threats to her.

"I will see you right. I am the Matron of that workhouse."

"Yes, my gal,” clearly not believing me, “if you get them to do that  you're a-breakin' the lor." Then she continued, "I'll go across the water, then I'll tell them that I've come from 'Arrow, and that we're a-goin' to Croydon, then I'll be all right." And off she set in the cold wind and I never saw her again.