Mr Weech’s head lay aside, his grin widened, his glance was sidelong, his forefinger pointed from his temple over Dicky’s head, and altogether he looked so very knowing that Dicky shuffled in his seat. By what mysterious means was this new-found friend so well informed? The doubt troubled him, for Dicky knew nothing of Mr Aaron Weech’s conversation, an hour before, with Tommy Rann.
‘But it’s awright, bless yer,’ Mr Weech went on presently. ‘Nobody’s none the wuss for me knowin’ about ‘em.... Well, we was a-talkin’ about the watch, wasn’t we? All you got after sich a lot o’ trouble was a woppin’ with a belt. That was too bad.’ Mr Weech’s voice was piteous and sympathetic. ‘After you a-findin’ sich a nice watch — a red ‘un an’ all! — you gits nothink for yerself but a beltin’. Never mind, you’ll do better next time — I’ll take care o’ that. I don’t like to see a clever boy put upon. You go an’ find another, or somethink else — anythink good — an’ then you bring it ‘ere.’
Mr Weech’s friendly sympathy extinguished Dicky’s doubt. ‘I didn’t find it,’ he said, shy but proud. ‘It was a click — I sneaked it.’
‘Eh?’ ejaculated Mr Weech, a sudden picture of blank incomprehension. ‘Eh? What? Click? Wot’s a click? Sneaked? Wot’s that? I dunno nothink about no talk o’ that sort, an’ I don’t want to. It’s my belief it means somethink wrong — but I dunno, an’ I don’t want to. ‘Ear that? Eh? Don’t let me ‘ave no more o’ that, or you’d better not come near me agin. If you find somethink, awright: you come to me an’ I’ll give ye somethink for it, if it’s any good. It ain’t no business of anybody’s where you find it, o’ course, an’ I don’t want to know. But clicks and sneaks — them’s Greek to me, an’ I don’t want to learn ‘em. Unnerstand that? Nice talk to respectable people, with yer clicks an’ sneaks!’
Dicky blushed a little, and felt very guilty without in the least understanding the offence. But Mr Weech’s virtuous indignation subsided as quickly as it had arisen, and he went on as amiably as ever.
‘When you find anythink,’ he said, ‘jist like you found that watch, don’t tell nobody, an’ don’t let nobody see it. Bring it ‘ere quiet, when there ain’t any p’liceman in the street, an’ come right through to the back o’ the shop, an’ say, “I come to clean the knives.” Unnerstand? “I come to clean the knives.” There ain’t no knives to clean — it’s on’y a way o’ tellin’ me you got somethink without other people knowin’. An’ then I’ll give you somethink for it — money p’raps, or p’raps cake or wot not. Don’t forgit. “I come to clean the knives.” See?’
Yes, Dicky understood perfectly; and Dicky saw a new world of dazzling delights. Cake — limitless cake, coffee, and the like whenever he might feel moved thereunto; but more than all, money — actual money. Good broad pennies, perhaps whole shillings — perhaps even more still: money to buy bullock’s liver for dinner, or tripe, or what you fancied: saveloys, baked potatoes from the can on cold nights, a little cart to wheel Looey in, a boat from a toy-shop with sails!
‘There’s no end o’ things to be found all over the place, an’ a sharp boy like you can find ‘em every day. If you don’t find ‘em, someone else will; there’s plenty on ‘em about on the look-out, an’ you got jist as much right as them. On’y mind!’ — Mr Weech was suddenly stern and serious, and his forefinger was raised impressively— ‘you know you can’t do anythink without I know, an’ if you say a word — if you say a word,’ his fist came on the table with a bang, ‘somethink ‘ll happen to you. Somethink bad.’
Mr Weech rose, and was pleasant again, though business-like. ‘Now, you just go an’ find somethink,’ he said. ‘Look sharp about it, an’ don’t go an’ git in trouble. The cawfy’s a penny, an’ the cake’s a penny — ought prop’ly to be twopence, but say a penny this time. That’s twopence you owe me, an’ you better bring somethink an’ pay it off quick. So go along.’
This was an unforeseen tag to the entertainment. For the first time in his life Dicky was in debt. It was a little disappointing to find the coffee and cake no gift after all: though, indeed, it now seemed foolish to have supposed they were; for in Dicky Perrott’s world people did not give things away — that were the act of a fool. Thus Dicky, with his hands in his broken pockets, and thought in his small face, whereon still stood the muddy streaks of yesterday’s tears, trudged out of Mr Aaron Weech’s shop-door, and along Meakin Street.
Now he was beginning the world seriously, and must face the fact. Truly the world had been serious enough for him hitherto, but that he knew not. Now he was of an age when most boys were thieving for themselves, and he owed money like a man. True it was, as Mr Weech had said, that everybody — the whole Jago — was on the look-out for himself. Plainly he must take his share, lest it fall to others. As to the old gentleman’s watch, he had but been beforehand. Through foolish ingenuousness he had lost it, and his father had got it, who could so much more easily steal one for himself; for he was a strong man, and had but to knock over another man at any night-time. Nobody should hear of future clicks but Mr Weech. Each for himself? Come, he must open his eyes.
VII
There was no chance all along Meakin Street. The chandlers and the keepers of cook-shops knew their neighbourhood too well to leave articles unguarded. Soon Dicky reached Shoreditch High Street. There things were a little more favourable. There were shops, as he well remembered, where goods were sometimes exhibited at the doors and outside the windows; but to-day there seemed to be no chance of the sort. As for the people, he was too short to try pockets, and indeed the High Street rarely gave passage to a more unpromising lot. Moreover, from robbery from the person he knew he must abstain, except for such uncommon opportunities as that of the Bishop’s watch, for some years yet.
He hung about the doors and windows of shop after shop, hoping for a temporary absence of the shop-keeper, which might leave something snatchable. But he hoped in vain. From most shops he was driven away, for the Shoreditch trader is not slow to judge the purpose of a loitering boy. So he passed nearly two hours: when at last he saw his chance. It came in an advantageous part of High Street, not far from the ‘Posties,’ though on the opposite side of the way. A nurse-girl had left a perambulator at a shop door, while she bought inside, and on the perambulator lay loose a little skin rug, from under which a little fat leg stuck and waved aloft. Dicky set his back to the shop, and sidled to within reach of the perambulator. But it chanced that at this moment the nurse-girl stepped to the door, and she made a snatch at his arm as he lifted the rug. This he dropped at once, and was swinging leisurely away (for he despised the chase of any nurse-girl) when a man took him suddenly by the shoulder. Quick as a weasel, Dicky ducked under the man’s arm, pulled his shoulder clear, dropped forward and rested an instant on the tips of his fingers to avoid the catch of the other hand, and shot out into the road. The man tried to follow, but Dicky ran under the belly of a standing horse, under the head of another that trotted, across the fore-platform of a tramcar — behind the driver’s back — and so over to the ‘Posties.’
He slouched into the Jago, disappointed. As he crossed Edge Lane, he was surprised to perceive a stranger — a toff, indeed — who walked slowly along, looking up right and left at the grimy habitations about him. He wore a tall hat, and his clothes were black, and of a pattern that Dicky remembered to have seen at the Elevation Mission. They were, in fact, the clothes of a clergyman. For himself, he was tall and soundly built, with a certain square muscularity of face, and of age about thirty-five. He had ventured into the Jago because the police were in possession, Dicky thought; and wondered in what plight he would leave, had he come at another time. But losing view of the stranger, and making his way along Old Jago Street, Dicky perceived that indeed the police were gone, and that the Jago was free.
He climbed the broken stairs and pushed into the first-floor back, hopeful, though more doubtful, of dinner. There was none. His mother, tied about the neck with rags, lay across the bed nursing the
damage of yesterday, and commiserating herself. A yard from her lay Looey, sick and ailing in a new way, but disregarded. Dicky moved to lift her, but at that she cried the more, and he was fain to let her lie. She rolled her head from side to side, and raised her thin little hand vaguely toward it, with feverishly working fingers. Dicky felt her head and she screamed again. There was a lump at the side, a hard, sharp lump; got from the stones of the roadway yesterday. And there was a curious quality, a rather fearful quality, in the little wails: uneasily suggestive of the screams of Sally Green’s victims.
Father was out, prowling. There was nothing eatable in the cupboard, and there seemed nothing at home worth staying for. He took another look at Looey, but refrained from touching her, and went out.
The opposite door on the landing was wide open, and he could hear nobody in the room. He had never seen this door open before, and now he ventured on a peep: for the tenants of the front room were strangers, late arrivals, and interlopers. Their name was Roper. Roper was a pale cabinet-maker, fallen on evil times and out of work. He had a pale wife, disliked because of her neatly-kept clothes, her exceeding use of soap and water, her aloofness from gossip. She had a deadly pale baby; also there was a pale hunchbacked boy of near Dicky’s age. Collectively the Ropers were disliked as strangers: because they furnished their own room, and in an obnoxiously complete style; because Roper did not drink, nor brawl, nor beat his wife, nor do anything all day but look for work; because all these things were a matter of scandalous arrogance, impudently subversive of Jago custom and precedent. Mrs Perrott was bad enough, but such people as these!...
Dicky had never before seen quite such a room as this. Everything was so clean: the floor, the windows, the bed-clothes. Also there was a strip of old carpet on the floor. There were two perfectly sound chairs; and two pink glass vases on the mantel-piece; and a clock. Nobody was in the room, and Dicky took a step farther. The clock attracted him again. It was a small, cheap, nickel-plated, cylindrical thing, of American make, and it reminded him at once of the Bishop’s watch. It was not gold, certainly, but it was a good deal bigger, and it could go — it was going. Dicky stepped back and glanced at the landing. Then he darted into the room, whipped the clock under the breast of the big jacket, and went for the stairs.
Half way down he met the pale hunchback ascending. Left at home alone, he had been standing in the front doorway. He saw Dicky’s haste, saw also the suspicious bulge under his jacket, and straightway seized Dicky’s arm. ‘Where ‘a’ you bin?’ he asked sharply. ‘Bin in our room? What you got there?’
‘Nothin’ o’ yours, ‘ump. Git out o’ that!’ Dicky pushed him aside. ‘If you don’t le’ go I’ll corpse ye!’
But one arm and hand was occupied with the bulge, and the other was for the moment unequal to the work of driving off the assailant. The two children wrangled and struggled downstairs, through the doorway and into the street: the hunchback weak, but infuriate, buffeting, biting and whimpering; Dicky infuriate too, but alert for a chance to break away and run. So they scrambled together across the street, Dicky dragging away from the house at every step; and just at the corner of Luck Row, getting his fore-arm across the other’s face, he back-heeled him, and the little hunchback fell heavily, and lay breathless and sobbing, while Dicky scampered through Luck Row and round the corner into Meakin Street.
Mr Weech was busier now, for there were customers. But Dicky and his bulge he saw ere they were well over the threshold.
‘Ah yus, Dicky,’ he said, coming to meet him. ‘I was expectin’ you. Come in —
In the swe-e-et by an’ by, We shall meet on that beautiful shaw-er!
Come in ‘ere.’ And still humming his hymn, he led Dicky into the shop parlour.
Here Dicky produced the clock, which Mr Weech surveyed with no great approval. ‘You’ll ‘ave to try an’ do better than this, you know,’ he said. ‘But any’ow ‘ere it is, sich as it is. It about clears auf wot you owe, I reckon. Want some dinner?’
This was a fact, and Dicky admitted it.
‘Awright —
In the swe-e-e-t by an’ by, —
come out an’ set down. I’ll bring you somethink ‘ot.’
This proved to be a very salt bloater, a cup of the usual muddy coffee, tasting of burnt toast, and a bit of bread: afterwards supplemented by a slice of cake. This to Dicky was a banquet. Moreover, there was the adult dignity of taking your dinner in a coffee-shop, which Dicky supported indomitably now that he began to feel at ease in Mr Weech’s: leaning back in his seat, swinging his feet, and looking about at the walls with the grocers’ almanacks hanging thereto, and the Sunday School Anniversary bills of past date, gathered from afar to signalise the elevated morals of the establishment.
‘Done?’ queried Mr Weech in his ear. ‘Awright, don’t ‘ang about ‘ere then. Bloater’s a penny, bread a ‘a’peny, cawfy a penny, cake a penny. You’ll owe thrippence a’peny now.’
VIII
When Dicky Perrott and the small hunchback were hauling and struggling across the street, Old Fisher came down from the top-floor back, wherein he dwelt with his son Bob, Bob’s wife and two sisters, and five children: an apartment in no way so clean as the united efforts of ten people might be expected to have made it. Old Fisher, on whose grimy face the wrinkles were deposits of mud, stopped at the open door on the first floor, and, as Dicky had done, he took a peep. Perplexed at the monstrous absence of dirt, and encouraged by the stillness, Old Fisher also ventured within. Nobody was in charge, and Old Fisher, mentally pricing the pink glass vases at threepence, made for a small chest in the corner of the room, and lifted the lid. Within lay many of Roper’s tools, from among which he had that morning taken such as he might want on an emergent call to work, to carry as he tramped Curtain Road. Clearly these were the most valuable things in the place; and, slipping a few small articles into his pockets, Old Fisher took a good double handful of the larger, and tramped upstairs with them. Presently he returned with Bob’s missis, and together they started with more. As they emerged, however, there on the landing stood the little hunchback, sobbing and smearing his face with his sleeve. At sight of this new pillage he burst into sharp wails, standing impotent on the landing, his streaming eyes following the man and woman ascending before him. Old Fisher, behind, stumped the stairs with a clumsy affectation of absent-mindedness; the woman, in front, looked down, merely indifferent. Scarce were they vanished above, however, when the little hunchback heard his father and mother on the lower stairs.
IX
Dicky came moodily back from his dinner at Mr Weech’s, plunged in mystified computation: starting with a debt of twopence, he had paid Mr Weech an excellent clock — a luxurious article in Dicky’s eyes — had eaten a bloater, and had emerged from the transaction owing threepence halfpenny. Of what such a clock cost he had no notion, though he felt it must be some inconceivable sum. As Mr Weech put it, the adjustment of accounts would seem to be quite correct; but the broad fact that all had ended in increasing his debt by three half-pence, remained and perplexed him. He remembered having seen such clocks in a shop in Norton Folgate. To ask the price, in person, were but to be chased out of the shop; but they were probably ticketed, and perhaps he might ask some bystander to read the ticket. This brought the reflection that, after all, reading was a useful accomplishment on occasion: though a matter of too much time and trouble to be worth while. Dicky had never been to school; for the Elementary Education Act ran in the Jago no more than any other Act of Parliament. There was a Board School, truly, away out of the Jago bounds, by the corner of Honey Lane, where children might go free, and where some few Jago children did go now and again, when boots were to be given away, or when tickets were to be had, for tea, or soup, or the like. But most parents were of Josh Perrott’s opinion: that school-going was a practice best never begun; for then the child was never heard of, and there was no chance of inquiries or such trouble. Not that any such inquiries were common in the Jago, or led to anything.<
br />
Meantime Dicky, minded to know if his adventure had made any stir in the house, carried his way deviously toward home. Working through the parts beyond Jago Row, he fetched round into Honey Lane, so coming at New Jago Street from the farther side. Choosing one of the houses whose backs gave on Jago Court, he slipped through the passage, and so, by the back yard, crawled through the broken fence into the court. Left and right were the fronts of houses, four a side. Before him, to the right of the narrow archway leading to Old Jago Street, was the window of his own home. He gained the back yard quietly, and at the kitchen door met Tommy Rann.
‘Come on,’ called Tommy. ‘‘Ere’s a barney! They’re a-pitchin’ into them noo ‘uns — Roperses. Roperses sez Fisherses is sneaked their things. They are a-gittin’ of it!’
From the stairs, indeed, came shouts and curses, bumps and sobs and cries. The first landing and half the stairs were full of people, men and women, Ranns and Learys together. When Ranns joined Learys it was an ill time for them they marched against; and never were they so ready and so anxious to combine as after a fight between themselves, were but some common object of attack available. Here it was. Here were these pestilent outsiders, the Ropers, assailing the reputation of the neighbourhood by complaining of being robbed. As though their mere presence in the Jago, with their furniture and their superiority, were not obnoxious enough: they must turn about and call their neighbours thieves! They had been tolerated too long already. They should now be given something for themselves, and have some of their exasperating respectability knocked off; and if, in the confusion, their portable articles of furniture and bed-clothing found their way into more deserving hands — why, serve them right.
The requisite volleys of preliminary abuse having been discharged, more active operations began under cover of fresh volleys. Dicky, with Tommy Rann behind him, struggled up the stairs among legs and skirts, and saw that the Ropers, the man flushed, but the woman paler than ever, were striving to shut their door. Within, the hunchback and the baby cried, and without, those on the landing, skidding the door with their feet, pushed inward, and now began to strike and maul. Somebody seized the man’s wrist, and Norah Walsh got the woman by the hair and dragged her head down. In a peep through the scuffle Dicky saw her face, ashen and sweat-beaded, in the jamb of the door, and saw Norah Walsh’s red fist beat into it twice. Then somebody came striding up the stairs, and Dicky was pushed farther back. Over the shoulders of those about him, Dicky saw a tall hat, and then the head beneath it. It was the stranger he had seen in Edge Lane — the parson: active and resolute. Norah Walsh he took by the shoulder, and flung back among the others, and as he turned on him, the man who held Roper’s wrist released it and backed off.
Delphi Complete Works of Arthur Morrison Page 77