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Forty-nine of us, forty-eight men and one woman, lay on the green waiting for the spike to open. We just sprawled about exhaustedly, with home-made cigarettes sticking out of our scrubby faces.
But is an unwritten law that even the sternest Tramp Majors do not search below the knee, and in the end only one man was caught.Each of us had three minutes in which to bathe himself.Six greasy, slippery roller towels had to serve for the lot of us.This was Scotty, a little hairy tramp with a bastard accent sired by cockney out of Glasgow.His tin of cigarette ends fell out of his sock at the wrong moment, and was impounded. An official at the gate entered our names and other particulars in the register and took our bundles away from us.