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What talk there was ran on the Tramp Major of this spike.He was a devil, everyone agreed, a tartar, a tyrant, a bawling, blasphemous, uncharitable dog.You'd get seven days for going into the spike with eightpence!' So I buried my money in a hole under the hedge, marking the spot with a lump of flint.When we had bathed our own clothes were taken away from us, and we were dressed in the workhouse shirts, grey cotton things like nightshirts, reaching to the middle of the thigh.
LITERATURE: AN EXAMINATION OF GULLIVER’S TRAVELS (1946) RIDING DOWN FROM BANGOR (1946) SOME THOUGHTS ON THE COMMON TOAD (1946) THE PREVENTION OF LITERATURE (1946) WHY I WRITE (1946) LEAR, TOLSTOY AND THE FOOL (1947) SUCH, SUCH WERE THE JOYS (1947) WRITERS AND LEVIATHAN (1948) REFLECTIONS ON GANDHI (1949) It was late-afternoon.
The woman was sent off to the workhouse, and we others into the spike.
It was a gloomy, chilly, limewashed place, consisting only of a bathroom and dining-room and about a hundred narrow stone cells.
Littered on the grass, we seemed dingy, urban riff-raff.
We defiled the scene, like sardine-tins and paper bags on the seashore.
You couldn't call your soul your own when he was about, and many a tramp had he kicked out in the middle of the night for giving a back answer.