CHAPTER II
IN BLUE GATE
While his mother's relations walked out of Stephen's tale, and left hisgrandfather in it, the tales of all the world went on, each man hero inhis own.
Viney and Marr were owners of the brig _Juno_, away in tropic seas, withStephen's father chief mate; and at this time the tale of Viney and Marrhad just divided into two, inasmuch as the partners were separated andthe firm was at a crisis--the crisis responsible for the withholding ofMrs. Kemp's half-pay. No legal form had dissolved the firm, indeed, andscarce half a mile of streets lay between the two men; but in truth Marrhad left his partner with uncommon secrecy and expedition, carrying withhim all the loose cash he could get together; and a man need travel avery little way to hide in London. So it was that Mr. Viney, left aloneto bear the firm's burdens, was loafing, sometimes about his house inCommercial Road, Stepney, sometimes in the back streets and smallpublic-houses hard by; pondering, no doubt, the matter contained in apaper that had that afternoon stricken the colour from the face of oneCrooks, ship-chandler, of Shadwell, and had hardly less disquietedothers in related trades. While Marr, for the few days since his flightno more dressed like the business partner in a shipowning concern, noreven like a clerk, but in serge and anklejacks, like a foremast hand,was playing up to his borrowed character by being drunk in Blue Gate.
The Blue Gate is gone now--it went with many places of a history onlyless black when Ratcliff Highway was put to rout. As you left HighStreet, Shadwell, for the Highway--they made one thoroughfare--the BlueGate was on your right, almost opposite an evil lane that led downhillto the New Dock. Blue Gate Fields, it was more fully called, thoughthere was as little of a field as of a gate, blue or other, about theplace, which was a street, narrow, foul and forbidding, leading up toBack Lane. It was a bad and a dangerous place, the worst in all thatneighbourhood: worse than Frederick Street--worse than Tiger Bay. Thesailor once brought to anchor in Blue Gate was lucky to get out withclothes to cover him--lucky if he saved no more than his life. Yetsailors were there in plenty, hilarious, shouting, drunk and drugged.Horrible draggled women pawed them over for whatever their pockets mightyield, and murderous ruffians were ready at hand whenever a knock on thehead could solve a difficulty.
Front doors stood ever open in the Blue Gate, and some houses had nofront doors at all. At the top of one of the grimy flights of stairsthus made accessible from the street, was a noisy and ill-smelling room;noisy because of the company it held; ill-smelling partly because oftheir tobacco, but chiefly because of the tobacco and the liquor of manythat had been there before, and because of the aged foulness of thewhole building. There were five in the room, four men and a woman. Oneof the men was Marr, though for the present he was not using that name.He was noticeable amid the group, being cleaner than the rest,fair-haired, and dressed like a sailor ashore, though he lacked thesunburn that was proper to the character. But sailor or none, there hesat where many had sat before him, a piece of the familiar prey of BlueGate, babbling drunk and reasonless. The others were watchfully soberenough, albeit with a great pretence of jollity; they had drunk levelwith the babbler, but had been careful to water his drink with gin. Asfor him, he swayed and lolled, sometimes on the table before him,sometimes on the shoulder of the woman at his side. She was no beauty,with her coarse features, dull eyes, and tousled hair, her thick voiceand her rusty finery; but indeed she was the least repulsive of thatfoul company.
On the victim's opposite side sat a large-framed bony fellow, with athin, unhealthy face that seemed to belong to some other body, and dressthat proclaimed him long-shore ruffian. The woman called him Dan, andnods and winks passed between the two, over the drooping head betweenthem. Next Dan was an ugly rascal with a broken nose; singular in thatplace, as bearing in his dress none of the marks of waterside habits,crimpery and the Highway, but seeming rather the commonplace town rat ofShoreditch or Whitechapel. And, last, a blind fiddler sat in a corner,fiddling a flourish from time to time, roaring with foul jest, androiling his single white eye upward.
"No, I won'av another," the fair-haired man said, staring about him withuncertain eyes. "Got bishness 'tend to. I say, wha' pubsh this? 'Tain'Brown Bear, ish't? Ish't Brown Bear?"
"No, you silly," the woman answered playfully. "'Tain't the Brown Bear;you've come 'ome along of us."
"O! Come home--come home.... I shay--this won' do! Mus'n' go 'omeyet--get collared y'know!" This with an owlish wink at the bottle beforehim.
Dan and the woman exchanged a quick look; plainly something had gonebefore that gave the words significance. "No," Marr went on, "mus'n' go'ome. I'm sailor man jus' 'shore from brig _Juno_ in from Barbadoes....No, not _Juno_, course not. Dunno _Juno_. 'Tain' _Juno_. D'year? 'Tain'_Juno_, ye know, my ship. Never heard o' _Juno_. Mine's 'nother ship....I say, wha'sh name my ship?"
"You're a rum sailor-man," said Dan, "not to know the name of your ownship ten minutes together. Why, you've told us about four differentnames a'ready."
The sham seaman chuckled feebly.
"Why, I don't believe you're a sailor at all, mate," the woman remarked,still playfully. "You've just bin a-kiddin' of us fine!"
The chuckle persisted, and turned to a stupid grin. "Ha, ha! Ha, ha!Have it y'r own way." This with a clumsily stealthy grope at the breastpocket--a movement that the others had seen before, and remembered."Have it y'r own way. But I say; I say, y'know"--suddenlyserious--"you're all right, ain't you? Eh? All right, you know, eh? Is-say--I hope you're--orright?"
"Awright, mate? Course we are!" And Dan clapped him cordially on theshoulder.
"Awright, mate?" shouted the blind man, his white eye rolling andblinking horribly at the ceiling. "Right as ninepence! An' a 'a'pennyover, damme!"
"_We're_ awright," growled the broken-nosed man, thickly.
"_We_ don't tell no secrets," said the woman.
"Thash all very well, but I was talkin' about the _Juno_, y'know. Was'nI talkin' about _Juno_?" A look of sleepy alarm was on the fair man'sface as he turned his eyes from one to another.
"Ay, that's so," answered the fellow at his side. "Brig _Juno_ in fromBarbadoes."
"Ah! Thash where you're wrong; she _ain't_ in--see?" Marr wagged hishead, and leered the profoundest sagacity. "She _ain't_ in. What's more,'ow d'you know she ever will come in, eh? 'Ow d'ye know that? Thash onefor ye, ole f'ler! Whar'll ye bet me she ever gets as far as--but I say,I say; I say, y'know, you're all right, ain't you? Qui' sure you'reorrigh'?"
There was a new and a longer chorus of reassurance, which Dan at lastended with: "Go on; the _Juno_ ain't ever to come back; is that it?"
Marr turned and stared fishily at him for some seconds. "Wha'rr youmean?" he demanded, at length, with a drivelling assumption of dignity."Wha'rr you mean? N-never come back? Nishe remark make 'spectableshipowner! Whassor' firm you take us for, eh?"
The blind fiddler stopped midway in a flourish and pursed his lipssilently. Dan looked quickly at the fiddler, and as quickly back at thedrunken man. Marr's attitude and the turn of his head being favourable,the woman quietly detached his watch.
"Whassor' firm you take us for?" he repeated. "D'ye think 'causewe're--'cause I come here--'cause I come 'ere an'----" he stoppedfoolishly, and tailed off into nothing, smiling uneasily at one andanother.
The woman held up the watch behind him--a silver hunter, engraved withMarr's chief initial--a noticeably large letter M. Dan saw it, shook hishead and frowned, pointed and tapped his own breast pocket, all in amoment. And presently the woman slipped the watch back into the pocketit came from.
"'Ere, 'ave another drink," said Dan hospitably. "'Ave another all roundfor the last, 'fore the fiddler goes. 'Ere y'are, George, reach out."
"Eh?" ejaculated the fiddler. "Eh? I ain't goin'! Didn't the genelmanask me to come along? Come, I'll give y' a toon. I'll give y' a chant as'll make yer 'air curl!"
"Take your drink, George," Dan insisted, "we don't want our 'aircurled."
The fiddler groped for and took the dr
ink, swallowed it, and twangledthe fiddle-strings. "Will y'ave _Black Jack_?" he asked.
"No," Dan answered with a rising voice. "We won't 'ave Black Jack, an'what's more we won't 'ave Blind George, see? You cut your lucky, soon asye like!"
"Awright, awright, cap'en," the fiddler remonstrated, risingreluctantly. "You're 'ard on a pore blind bloke, damme. Ain't I to getnothin' out o' this 'ere? I ask ye fair, didn't the genelman tell me tocome along?"
Marr, ducking and lolling over the table, here looked up and said,"Whassup? Fiddler won' go? Gi'm twopence an' kick'm downstairs. 'Erey'are!" and he pulled out some small change between his fingers, andspilt it on the table.
Dan and the broken-nosed man gathered it up and thrust it into the blindman's hand. "This ain't the straight game," he protested, in a hoarsewhisper, as they pushed him through the doorway. "I want my reg'lars outo' that lot. D'ye 'ear? I want my reg'lars!"
But they shut the door on him, whereupon he broke into a torrent ofcurses on the landing; and presently, having descended several of thestairs, reached back to let drive a thump at the door with his stick;and so went off swearing into the street.
Marr sniggered feebly. "Chucked out fiddler," he said. "Whash we do now?I won'ave any more drink. I 'ad 'nough.... Think I'll be gett'n'along.... Here, what you after, eh?"
He clapped his hand again to his breast pocket, and turned suspiciouslyon the woman. "You keep y'r hands off," he said. "Wha' wan' my pocket?"
"Awright, mate," the woman answered placidly. "I ain't a touchin' yerpockets. Why, look there--yer watchguard's 'angin'; you'll drop thatpresently an' say it's me, I s'pose!"
"You'd better get away from the genelman if you can't behave yourselfcivil," interposed Dan, pushing the woman aside and getting betweenthem. "'Ere, mate, you got to 'ave another drink along o' me. I'll turnher out arter the fiddler, if she ain't civil."
"I won'ave another drink," said Marr, thickly, struggling unsteadily tohis feet and dropping back instantly to his chair. "I won'avanother."
"We'll see about that," replied Dan. "'Ere, you get out," he went on,addressing the woman as he hauled her up by the shoulders. "You get out;we're goin' to be comf'table together, us two an' 'im. Out ye go!" Hethrust her toward the door and opened it. "I'm sick o' foolin' about,"he added in an angry undertone; "quick's the word."
"O no, Dan--don't," the woman pleaded, whispering on the landing. "Notthat way! Not again! I'll get it from him easy in a minute! Don't do it,Dan!"
"Shut yer mouth! I ain't askin' you. You shove off a bit."
"Don't, Dan!"
But the door was shut.
"I tell ye I won'avanother!" came Marr's voice from within.
The woman went down the stairs, her gross face drawn as though she wept,though her eyes were dry. At the door she looked back with somethinglike a shudder, and then turned her steps down the street.
* * * * *
The two partners in Viney and Marr were separated indeed; but now it wasby something more than half a mile of streets.
The Hole in the Wall Page 2