Poor fools! Not of their sort are revolutions bred.

And when they are dead and dust, which will be shortly, other fools will talk bloody revolution as they gather offal from the spittle- drenched sidewalk along Mile End Road to Poplar Workhouse.
Being a foreigner, and a young man, the Carter and the Carpenter explained things to me and advised me.

Their advice, by the way, was brief, and to the point; it was to get out of the country.

"As fast as God'll let me," I assured them; "I'll hit only the high places, till you won't be able to see my trail for smoke." They felt the force of my figures, rather than understood them, and they nodded their heads approvingly.
"Actually make a man a criminal against 'is will," said the Carpenter.
"'Ere I am, old, younger men takin' my place, my clothes gettin' shabbier an' shabbier, an' makin' it 'arder every day to get a job.

I go to the casual ward for a bed.