I remember seeing an old bull-dog, one Saturday night, lying on the
doorstep of a small shop in the New Cut. He lay there very quiet, and
seemed a bit sleepy; and, as he looked savage, nobody disturbed him.
People stepped in and out over him, and occasionally in doing so, one
would accidentally kick him, and then he would breathe a little harder
and quicker.
At last a passer-by, feeling something wet beneath his feet, looked down,
and found that he was standing in a pool of blood, and, looking to see
where it came from, found that it flowed in a thick, dark stream from the
step on which the dog was lying.
Then he stooped down and examined the dog, and the dog opened its eyes
sleepily and looked at him, gave a grin which may have implied pleasure,
or may have implied irritation at being disturbed, and died.
A crowd collected, and they turned the dead body of the dog over on its
side, and saw a fearful gash in the groin, out of which oozed blood, and
other things. The proprietor of the shop said the animal had been there
for over an hour.
I have known the poor to die in that same grim, silent way--not the poor
that you, my delicately-gloved Lady Bountiful and my very excellent Sir
Simon DoGood, know, or that you would care to know; not the poor who
march in processions with banners and collection-boxes; not the poor that
clamour round your soup kitchens and sing hymns at your tea meetings; but
the poor that you don't know are poor until the tale is told at the
coroner's inquest--the silent, proud poor who wake each morning to
wrestle with Death till night-time, and who, when at last he overcomes
them, and, forcing them down on the rotting floor of the dim attic,
strangles them, still die with their teeth tight shut.
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