So I determined to try and get to sea. But owing to my puny size I
found it very difficult. I was told that the easiest way to begin was
to hang about a certain public-house in Thames Street, whither coasting
skippers used to resort for their crews. It was just opposite the
Custom-House steps, and was called the King's Head (or Arms). A certain
individual, popularly known as Sam, who was, I suppose, a species of
crimp, was always in evidence and acted as go-between. To him came all
sorts of rough coasting skippers, masters of barges, of "billy-boys,"
ketches and schooners, in quest of men and boys, and the latter looked
to him as their earthly providence.
How he got paid I do not know, a certain commission from both sides
was paid him, I expect. The candidates were allowed to haunt a grim
den, a tap-room at the back of the public-house, where a good fire was
always blazing, and though dark and gloomy in the extreme, it afforded
a shelter from the bitter blasts which swept down that grimiest of
London's business thoroughfares.
I am afraid that it is impossible for me to attempt any adequate
description of the time I spent looking for a ship in this terrible
place. I had to live, and did, but how I hardly know, for so small
an urchin as I stood but little chance in the incessant struggle for
employment that went on down there. But I had learned to live upon
very little, and it is an incontrovertible fact that the stomach of
a young human being that has never known pampering can assimilate
food that should, theoretically, derange the digestion of an ostrich.
For instance, Fresh Wharf, Thames Street, was the rendezvous of many
steamers from Spain, laden with dried fruits, nuts, oranges, etc. In
the handling of cases, sacks, and other packages, there was a good
deal of breakage, and I could often snatch a few handfuls of currants,
nuts, raisins, etc. I always ate of them ravenously, in spite of their
copious admixture of dust and dirt, but even after devouring a couple
of pounds of currants I never remember feeling the slightest ill
effects.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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