I know what is coming, and, though I have seen it many times, it has still a fascination for me, so I stand at my window and watch.

I see two men carrying a dilapidated banner, on which is inscribed two words, "The Unemployed." The man with the tin whistle and the man with the drum follow the banner, and behind them is a company of men marching four abreast.

Two policemen on the pavement keep pace with the head of the procession, and two others perform a similar duty at the end of it.
On the pavement are a number of men with collecting boxes, ready to receive any contribution that charitably inclined people may bestow.
They do not knock at any door, but they stand for a moment and rattle their boxes in front of every window.
The sound of the whistle and the drum, and the rattle of boxes is, in all conscience, depressing enough, but one glimpse at the men is infinitely more so.
Most of them are below the average height and bulk.

Their hands are in their trousers pockets, their shoulders are up, but their heads are bent downwards as if they were half ashamed of their job.

A peculiar slouching gait is characteristic of the whole company, and I look in vain for a firm step, an upright carriage, and for some signs of alert manhood.