Thank God, my wife never went out to work or took in washing, nor yet plain sewing--hand in hand we faced it. I look back into those years, and see our little home in a colliery district of Shropshire. I see that little home every evening turned into a night-school. I see my gentle wife leaning over big-fisted colliers and teaching them to write: I see myself leaning over one and teaching him cube root, over another and teaching him simple addition. I see those colliers paying their sixpences. I see the rent put ready for Monday, and I remember how little there was left for Saturday night marketing. Those old days come back to me, and not for one moment do I wish them blotted out; nay, nay, I feel some pride in them. But I take another backward look, and we are in Staffordshire again, and my boys are going to the same old school that I went to. But times have altered at that school, for I see my boys winning scholarships and going to a grammar school, and started on an educational course that led one at least to a distinguished University career; but still hard times, hard times, for wife and me. We lived at an institute--library, reading-room, billiard-rooms, refreshment-rooms, skittle alleys, dispensary, club-rooms, gymnasium, all combined, and all to look after and keep clean. Wife and I had no finger-nails in those days; we wore them away scrubbing floors, for there was no one to help in any department. But here, also, was a night-school, which I had to teach; a literary society, that I had to conduct; and a mutual improvement society, also for me to fill up my spare time with. Hard work and poor pay was the rule in those days. But one day a saint of God and king of men came in, as indeed he often did, for it was my privilege and joy to know and love him, my proudest boast to call him friend. Only a country parson, who laid down his life for his flock; but it was an inspiration to know him, with his strength and meekness, brave and fearless as any hero that ever trod this earth, gentle, loving, and sympathetic as any woman. How often have I wished him back with us! ‘Thomas, you are not doing very well here.’ ‘No, Vicar, I am not.’ ‘This place is not good enough for you.’ ‘I don’t know about that, but it is not good enough for my wife.’ ‘I am sure of that; but why don’t you apply for this?’ ‘This’ was an advertisement for a police court missionary at Lambeth Police Court. I laughed, and said I had never been in a police court but once in my life, and that was for thrashing a big lad who had been ill-using a lesser one. He, however, strongly advised me to apply for the post, and to please him I did so. It turned out that the Bishop of Rochester and his Council, not having the guidance of a phrenological professor, selected me out of a dozen candidates. I don’t know why to this day, but I suspect it was owing to my dear old Vicar. And so I became a police court missionary, and came to London. CHAPTER II IN LAMBETH POLICE COURT