er a lamp burned nearly all the day
and added its fumes to the over-loaded air, which was breathed, and
breathed, and breathed again.

In good times, when there was a rush of work, this man told me that he
could earn as high as "thirty bob a week."--Thirty shillings! Seven
dollars and a half!

"But it's only the best of us can do it," he qualified. "An' then we
work twelve, thirteen, and fourteen hours a day, just as fast as we can.
An' you should see us sweat! Just running from us! If you could see us,
it'd dazzle your eyes--tacks flyin' out of mouth like from a machine.
Look at my mouth."

I looked. The teeth were worn down by the constant friction of the
metallic brads, while they were coal-black and rotten.

"I clean my teeth," he added, "else they'd be worse."

After he had told me that the workers had to furnish their own tools,
brads, "grindery," cardboard, rent, light, and what not, it was plain
that his thirty bob was a diminishing quantity.

"But how long does the rush season last, in which you receive this high
wage of thirty bob?" I asked.

"Four months," was the answer; and for the rest of the year, he informed
me, they average from "half a quid" to a "quid" a week, which is
equivalent to from two dollars and a half to five dollars. The present
week was half gone, and he had earned four bob, or one dollar. And yet I
was given to understand that this was one of the better grades of
sweating.

I looked out of the window, which should have commanded the back yards of
the neighbouring buildings. But there were no back yards, or, rather,
they were covered with one-storey hovels, cowsheds, in which people
lived. The roofs of these hovels were covered with deposits of filth, in
some places a couple of feet deep--the contributions from the back
windows of the second and third storeys. I could make out fish and meat
bones, garbage, pestilential rags, old boots, broken earthenware, and all
the general refuse of a human sty.

"This is the last year of this trade; they're getting machines to do away
with us," said the sweated one mournfully, as we stepped over the woman
with the breasts grossly naked and waded anew through the cheap young
life.

We next visited the municipal dwellings erected by the London County
Council on the site of the slums where lived Arthur Morrison's "Child of
the Jago." While the buildings housed more people than before, it was
much healthier. But the dwellings were in