In the second place, I made the mistake of tardiness.

Seven o'clock in the evening is too late in the day for a pauper to get a pauper's bed.
For the benefit of gently nurtured and innocent folk, let me explain what a ward is.

It is a building where the homeless, bedless, penniless man, if he be lucky, may _casually_ rest his weary bones, and then work like a navvy next day to pay for it.
My second attempt to break into the casual ward began more auspiciously.
I started in the middle of the afternoon, accompanied by the burning young socialist and another friend, and all I had in my pocket was thru'pence.

They piloted me to the Whitechapel Workhouse, at which I peered from around a friendly corner.

It was a few minutes past five in the afternoon but already a long and melancholy line was formed, which strung out around the corner of the building and out of sight.
It was a most woeful picture, men and women waiting in the cold grey end of the day for a pauper's shelter from the night, and I confess it almost unnerved me.