other day, as I drove from Jerusalem to Bethlehem, I noticed along the road great iron pipes being ruined by rust, and learned from my dragoman that years before the Baroness had bestowed a very large sum of money for bringing the pure water of Solomon's Wells to Jerusalem, which has always depended for its supply on the rains, gathered into filthy tanks. The bulk of the money had been stolen by Turkish officials, and these broken, rusty pipes were the useless result of a most beneficent plan. So you understand my difficulty; I am quite willing to give, if assured the donations would accomplish any useful purpose."
"Don't you think," replied the young woman, "that these failures are due to the indolence and ignorance of the giver? The man with money, unless he has made it himself, is indolent, and therefore, to gain information, does not take the trouble a business person would expend before making an investment."
"Doubtless, madam, that is very true in my own case, for I am both indolent and ignorant. Money seems as dangerous to meddle with as dynamite. I read in the bankruptcy proceedings, the other day, of a young and industrious mechanic earning good wages, whose uncle in Australia left him sixteen thousand pounds. That sum lasted him a year, or nearly so, and when it was spent he got amazingly into debt, and now is adjudged a bankrupt, with no chance of his creditors receiving a penny. A year ago he was a useful and estimable citizen; to-day he is a vicious loafer, a human derelict."
"That may be an exceptional case," said the confident one.
"Perhaps. Have you any suggestion to make?"
"It seems to me, in the instances you cited, that neither the Baroness nor Sir Walter took the trouble to find out what the poor really wanted or needed. They bestowed upon them, therefore, something they did not require. Now, I think a man with time at his disposal should examine the matter, as I may say, from the ground up. He might take an individual, study him, discover what was really needed, and supply the deficiency."
"Madam, you describe exactly what I did in the case of Mr. Bannerdale, alias Garner, yet see how narrowly I missed a vote of censure from you for that very action."
"My lord, have you ever seen the play, written by one of us, entitled 'Diana of Dobson's'?"
"I have not enjoyed that advantage."
"It deals very cleverly with the subject we are discussing."
Very well; I shall secure a box at once."
Before the banner girl could say anything further, the lady with grey hair rose.
"I think," she said, smiling, "that the Earl of Stranleigh has earned the formal vote of thanks you suggested, and so, taking it as proposed and seconded, I beg to tender it, and bid him farewell."
Saying this, she marshalled her following, and departed.
When Lord Stranleigh left Kingsway Theatre he was thinking less of the employment problem in the play than about its acting. The American actress, Miss Lena Ashwell, had been superb, and Norman McKinnel, whom he considered Britain's greatest tragedian, caused him to wonder why McKinnel, having the production of the piece in his own hands, had chosen for himself the humble rôle of policeman, appearing only for five minutes or thereabouts in the darkened picture of the last act, which represented the outcasts dozing on the benches of the Thames Embankment.
Stranleigh walked down Kingsway to the Strand, entered the Gaiety Restaurant, and treated himself to a well-chosen supper. When he emerged, remembering the last scene of the play, he strolled down Arundel Street to the Thames Embankment, intended to be London's chief boulevard, although this thoroughfare, bordered by great luxurious hotels, becomes after nightfall an out-door bedroom for the penniless; millionaire and pauper sleeping within a stone's throw of one another. However well the Thames Embankment may compare with a Parisian boulevard during the day, all the brightness of the latter is absent at night, for here no cafés and restaurants face the river.
Stranleigh's first impression was how well the actual benches of the Embankment imitated their counterfeit on the stage. Even the slow policeman that passed him walked with McKinnel's measured step. The young nobleman aroused the first sleeper, asked a few questions, and receiving replies that he didn't in the least believe, presented the derelict with a sovereign, telling him to get something to eat, and a more comfortable bed. This was repeated again and again, and monotonous iteration indicated that no denizen of the Embankment was there through any fault of his own.
Stranleigh knew that many a man who later became famous spent his first night in London on the Embankment, and he hoped that by chance he might succour some genius, yet he fancied in such case his benefaction would not have been so greedily accepted as it was by these outcasts. He yearned for someone to tell him to go to the devil and leave the slumberer to his rest, but he met no such cheering indication of independence combined with dire necessity.
The slow policeman, marching by the parapet, paused and watched him with some suspicion in his attitude. Finally the officer spoke.
"Rather a dangerous business, sir."
"I know it is," said Stranleigh, coming alongside. "I don't believe in indiscriminate charity, but these poor wretches are so far down in the social scale that perhaps a little unexpected money will do them no harm."
"That wasn't quite what I meant, sir," said the policeman, who seemed disappointed to find Stranleigh was not intoxicated, as he had evidently surmised. "Some one you've given money to has already passed on the word, and if you're not careful you may find yourself waylaid and robbed. Better let me whistle a cab for you, sir."
Stranleigh laughed.
"I'm not afraid, officer, but I daresay you know the crowd a great deal better than I do. I gave a sovereign to each of those who have since vanished. I hoped I might learn something, but I find I haven't, so if you don't mind, I'll make you my proxy charity commissioner."
The young man gave the astonished constable a handful of gold, and said:
"You take your percentage out of that, and distribute the rest among those who need it most."
"With your permission, sir," said the policeman, "I'll change all this into silver to-morrow, and divide it to-morrow night. I suppose you don't know that these people would have some difficulty in getting honest change for a gold piece. None of them could convince anybody they came fairly by it."
"I hadn't thought of that. I'm rather a bungler, you see."
"Well, sir, begging your pardon, you don't seem very wise."
"You've hit the nail on the head, officer. Good-night to you."
"Better have a cab, sir. You may get your own head hit before you leave the Embankment."
"My skull is too thick to be injured by any of these weaklings. Good-night."
"Good-night, sir."
The policeman stood watching as Stranleigh walked rapidly toward Westminster, then he poured the gold into his pocket.
All those whom Stranleigh had aroused that night showed the cringing disposition of the very poor. They seemed anxious about one thing only, which was to say whatever might please the man who accosted them, in the hope of obtaining a sixpence or a few coppers at the end of the discourse. They represented merely human débris, and even the optimistic Stranleigh realised that they were of no use either to humanity or themselves. The money he gave them would be spent, and afterwards they would sink into the
