Tommy Rann should not see it, lest he prevail over its beneficent dedication to the Ropers. Truly, as it was, Dicky’s resolution was hard to abide by. The thing acquired at such a cost of patience, address, hard flight, and deadly fear was surely his by right — as surely, quite, as the clock had been. And such a thing he might never touch again. But he put by the temptation manfully, and came out by Jerry Gullen’s front door. He would look no more on the music box, beautiful as it was: he would convey it to the Ropers before temptation came again.
It was not easy to devise likely means. Their door was shut fast, of course. For a little while he favoured the plan of setting the box against the threshold, knocking, and running off. But an opportunity might arise of doing the thing in a way to give him some glimpse of the Ropers’ delight, an indulgence he felt entitled to. So he waited a little, listened a little, and at last came out into the street, and loafed.
It was near six o’clock, and a smell of bloater hung about Jerry Gullen’s door and window; under the raised sash Jerry Gullen, close-cropped and foxy of face, smoked his pipe, sprawled his elbows, and contemplated the world. Dicky, with the music box stowed out of sight, looked as blank of design and as destitute of possession as he could manage; for there were loafers near Mother Gapp’s, loafers at the Luck Row corner — at every corner — and loafers by the ‘Posties,’ all laggard of limb and alert of eye. He had just seen a child, going with an empty beer can, thrown down, robbed of his coppers and a poor old top, and kicked away in helpless tears; and the incident was commonplace enough, or many would have lacked pocket-money. Whosoever was too young, too old, or too weak to fight for it must keep what he had well hidden, in the Jago.
Down the street came Billy Leary, big, flushed and limping, and hanging to a smaller man by a fistful of his coat on the shoulder. Dicky knew the small man for a good toy-getter — (which = watch stealer) — and judged he had had a good click, the proceeds whereof Billy Leary was battening upon in beershops. For Billy Leary rarely condescended to anything less honourable than bashing, and had not yet fallen so low as to go about stealing for himself. His missis brought many to the cosh, and his chief necessity — another drink — he merely demanded of the nearest person with the money to buy it, on pain of bashing. Or he walked into the nearest public-house, selected the fullest pot, and spat in it: a ceremony that deprived the purchaser of further interest in the beer, and left it at his own disposal. There were others, both Ranns and Learys, who pursued a similar way of life; but Billy Leary was biggest among them — big men not being common in the Jago — and rarely came to a difficulty: as, however, he did once come, having invaded the pot of a stranger, who turned out to be a Mile End pugilist exploring Shoreditch. It was not well for any Jago who had made a click to have Billy Leary know of it; for then the clicker was apt to be sought out, clung to, and sucked dry; possibly bashed as well, when nothing more was left, if Billy Leary were still but sober enough for the work.
Dicky gazed after the man with interest. It was he whom his father was to fight in a week or so — perhaps in a few days: on the first Sunday, indeed, that Leary should be deemed fit enough. How much of the limp was due to yesterday’s disaster and how much to to-day’s beer, Dicky could not judge. But there seemed little reason to look for a long delay before the fight.
As Dicky turned away a man pushed a large truck round the corner from Edge Lane, and on the footpath beside it walked the parson, calm as ever, with black clothes and tall hat, whole and unsoiled. He had made himself known in the Jago in the course of that afternoon. He had traversed it from end to end, street by street and alley by alley. His self-possession, his readiness, his unbending firmness, abashed and perplexed the Jagos, and his appearance just as the police had left could but convince them that he must have some mysterious and potent connection with the force. He had attempted very little in the way of domiciliary visiting, being content for the time to see his parish, and speak here a word and there another with his parishioners. An encounter with Kiddo Cook did as much as anything toward securing him a proper deference. In his second walk through Old Jago Street, as he neared the Feathers, he was aware of a bunch of grinning faces pressed against the bar window, and as he came abreast, forth stepped Kiddo Cook from the door, impudently affable, smirking and ducking with mock obsequiousness, and offering a quart pot.
‘An’ ‘ow jer find jerself, sir?’ he asked, with pantomime cordiality. ‘Hof’ly shockin’ these ‘ere lower classes, ain’t they? Er — yus; disgustin’, weally. Er — might I — er — prepose — er — a little refreshment? Ellow me.’
The parson, grimly impassive, heard him through, took the pot, and instantly jerking it upward, shot the beer, a single splash, into Kiddo’s face. ‘There are things I must teach you, I see, my man,’ he said, without moving a muscle, except to return the pot.
Kiddo Cook, coughing, drenched and confounded, took the pot instinctively and backed to Mother Gapp’s door, while the bunch of faces at the bar window tossed and rolled in a joyous ecstasy: the ghost whereof presently struggled painfully among Kiddo’s own dripping features, as he realised the completeness of his defeat, and the expedience of a patient grin. The parson went calmly on.
Before this, indeed when he left the Ropers’ room, and just after Dicky had started out, he had looked in at the Perrotts’ quarters to speak about the clock. But plainly no clock was there, and Mrs Perrott’s flaccid indignation at the suggestion, and her unmistakable ignorance of the affair, decided him to carry the matter no further, at any rate for the present. Moreover, the little hunchback’s tale was inconclusive. He had seen no clock in Dicky’s possession — had but met him on the stairs with a bulging jacket. The thing might be suspicious, but the new parson knew better than to peril his influence by charging where he could not convict. So he duly commiserated Hannah Perrott’s troubles, suggested that the baby seemed unwell and had better be taken to a doctor, and went his way about the Jago.
Now he stopped the truck by Dicky’s front door and mounted to the Ropers’ room. For he had seen that the Jago was no place for them now, and had himself found them a suitable room away by Dove Lane. And so, emboldened by his company, the Ropers came forth, and with the help of the man who had brought the truck, carried down the pieces of their bedstead, a bundle of bedding, the two chairs, the pink vases, and the strip of old carpet, and piled them on the truck with the few more things that were theirs.
Dicky, with his hand on the music box in the lining of his jacket, sauntered up by the tail of the truck, and, waiting his chance, plunged his gift under the bundle of bedding, and left it there. But the little hunchback’s sharp eyes were jealously on him, and ‘Look there!’ he squealed, ‘‘e put ‘is ‘and in the truck an’ took somethink!’
‘Ye lie!’ answered Dicky, indignant and hurt, but cautiously backing off; ‘I ain’t got nothink.’ He spread his hands and opened his jacket in proof. ‘Think I got yer bloomin’ bedstead?’
He had nothing, it was plain. In fact, at the tail of the truck there was nothing he could easily have moved at all, certainly nothing he could have concealed. So the rest of the little removal was hurried, for heads were now at windows, the loafers began to draw about the truck, and trouble might break out at any moment: indeed, the Ropers could never have ventured from their room but for the general uneasy awe of the parson. For nothing was so dangerous in the Jago as to impugn its honesty. To rob another was reasonable and legitimate, and to avoid being robbed, so far as might be, was natural and proper. But to accuse anybody of a theft was unsportsmanlike, a foul outrage, a shameful abuse, a thing unpardonable. You might rob a man, bash a man, even kill a man; but to ‘take away his character’ — even when he had none — was to draw down the execrations of the whole Jago; while to assail the pure fame of the place — to ‘give the street a bad name’ — this was to bring the Jago howling and bashing about your ears.
The truck moved off at last, amid murmurings, mutterings, and grunts from the onloo
kers. The man of the truck pulled, Roper shoved behind, and his wife, with her threadbare decency and her meagre, bruised face, carried the baby, while the hunchbacked boy went by her side. All this under convoy of the Reverend Henry Sturt.
A little distance gave more confidence to a few, and, when the group had reached within a score of yards of Edge Lane, there came a hoot or two, a ‘Yah!’ and other less spellable sounds, expressive of contempt and defiance. Roper glanced back nervously, but the rest held on their way regardless. Then came a brickbat, which missed the woman by very little and struck the truck wheel. At this the parson stopped and turned on his heel, and Cocko Harnwell, the flinger, drove his hands into his breeches pockets and affected an interest in Mother Gapp’s window; till, perceiving the parson’s eyes directed sternly upon him, and the parson’s stick rising to point at him, he ingloriously turned tail and scuttled into Jago Court.
And so the Ropers left the Jago. Dove Lane was but a stone’s-throw ahead when some of the load shifted, and the truck was stopped to set the matter right. The chest was pushed back, and the bedding was lifted to put against it, and so the musical box came to light. Roper picked it up and held it before the vicar’s eyes. ‘Look at that, sir,’ he said. ‘You’ll witness I know nothing of it, won’t you? It ain’t mine, an’ I never saw it before. It’s bin put in for spite to put a theft on us. When they come for it you’ll bear me out, sir, won’t you? That was the Perrott boy as was put up to do that, I’ll be bound. When he was behind the truck.’
But nobody came for Dicky’s gift, and in the Jago twilight Dicky vainly struggled to whistle the half-remembered tune, and to persuade himself that he was not sorry that the box was gone.
XI
Josh Perrott reached home late for tea but in good humour. He had spent most of the day at the Bag of Nails, dancing attendance on the High Mobsmen. Those of the High Mob were the flourishing practitioners in burglary, the mag, the mace, and the broads, with an outer fringe of such dippers — such pick-pockets — as could dress well, welshers, and snides-men. These, the grandees of rascality, lived in places far from the Jago, and some drove in gigs and pony traps. But they found the Bag of Nails a convenient and secluded exchange and house of call, and there they met, made appointments, designed villainies, and tossed for sovereigns: deeply reverenced by the admiring Jagos, among whom no ambition flourished but this — to become also of these resplendent ones. It was of these that old Beveridge had spoken one day to Dicky, in language the child but half understood. The old man sat on a curb in view of the Bag of Nails, and smoked a blackened bit of clay pipe. He hauled Dicky to his side, and, pointing with his pipe, said:— ‘See that man with the furs?’
‘What?’ Dicky replied. ‘Mean ‘im in the ice-cream coat, smokin’ a cigar? Yus.’
‘And the other with the brimmy tall hat, and the red face, and the umbrella?’
‘Yus.’
‘What are they?’
‘‘Igh mob. ‘Ooks. Toffs.’
‘Right. Now, Dicky Perrott, you Jago whelp, look at them — look hard. Some day, if you’re clever — cleverer than anyone in the Jago now — if you’re only scoundrel enough, and brazen enough, and lucky enough — one of a thousand — maybe you’ll be like them: bursting with high living, drunk when you like, red and pimply. There it is — that’s your aim in life — there’s your pattern. Learn to read and write, learn all you can, learn cunning, spare nobody and stop at nothing, and perhaps—’ he waved his hand toward the Bag of Nails. ‘It’s the best the world has for you, for the Jago’s got you, and that’s the only way out, except gaol and the gallows. So do your devilmost, or God help you, Dicky Perrott — though he wont: for the Jago’s got you!’
Old Beveridge had eccentric talk and manners, and the Jago regarded him as a trifle ‘balmy,’ though anything but a fool. So that Dicky troubled little to sift the meaning of what he said.
Josh Perrott’s mission among the High Mob had been to discover some Mobsman who might be disposed to back him in the fight with Billy Leary. For though a private feud was the first cause of the turn-up, still business must never be neglected, and a feud or anything else that could produce money must be made to produce it, and when a fight of exceptional merit is placed before spectators, it is but fair that they should pay for their diversion.
But few High Mobsmen were at the Bag of Nails that day. Sunday was the day of the chief gatherings of the High Mob: Sunday the market-day, so to speak, of the Jago, when such rent as was due weekly was paid (most of the Jago rents were paid daily and nightly) and other accounts were settled or fought out. Moreover, the High Mob were perhaps a trifle shy of the Jago at the time of a faction fight; and one was but just over, and that cut short at a third of the usual span of days. So that Josh waited long and touted vainly, till a patron arrived who knew him of old; who had employed him, indeed, as ‘minder’ — which means a protector or a bully, as you please to regard it — on a racecourse adventure involving bodily risk. On this occasion Josh had earned his wages with hard knocks given and taken, and his employer had conceived a high and thankful opinion of his capacity. Wherefore he listened now to the tale of the coming fight, and agreed to provide something in the way of stakes, and to put something on for Josh himself: looking for his own profit to the bets he might make at favourable odds with his friends. For Billy Leary was notorious as being near prime ruffian of the Jago, while Josh’s reputation was neither so evil nor so wide. And so it was settled, and Josh came pleased to his tea; for assuredly Billy Leary would have no difficulty in finding another notable of the High Mob to cover the stakes.
Dicky was at home, sitting by Looey on the bed; and when he called his father it seemed pretty plain to Josh that the baby was out of sorts. ‘She’s rum about the eyes,’ he said to his wife. ‘Blimy if she don’t look as though she was goin’ to squint.’
Josh was never particularly solicitous as to the children, but he saw that they were fed and clothed — perhaps by mere force of the habit of his more reputable days of plastering. He had brought home tripe, rolled in paper, and stuffed into his coat pocket, to make a supper on the strength of the day’s stroke of business. When this tripe was boiled, he and Dicky essayed to drive morsels into Looey’s mouth, and to wash them down with beer; but to no end but choking rejection. Whereat Josh decided that she must go to the dispensary in the morning. And in the morning he took her, with Dicky at his heels; for not only did his wife still nurse her neck, but in truth she feared to venture abroad.
The dispensary was no charitable institution, but a shop so labelled in Meakin Street, one of half a dozen such kept by a medical man who lived away from them, and bothered himself as little about them as was consistent with banking the takings and signing the death-certificates. A needy young student, whose sole qualification was cheapness, was set to do the business of each place, and the uniform price for advice and medicine was sixpence. But there was a deal of professional character in the blackened and gilt lettered front windows, and the sixpences came by hundreds. For hospital letters but rarely came Meakin Street way. Such as did were mostly in the hands of tradesmen, who subscribed for the purpose of getting them, and gave them to their best customers, as was proper and business-like. And so the dispensary flourished, and the needy young student grew shifty and callous, and no doubt there were occasional faith-cures. Indeed, cures of simple science were not at all impossible. For there was always a good supply of two drugs in the place — Turkey rhubarb and sulphuric acid: both very useful, both very cheap, and both going very far in varied preparation, properly handled. An ounce or two of sulphuric acid, for instance, costing something fractional, dilutes with water into many gallons of physic. Excellent medicines they made too, and balanced each other very well by reason of their opposite effects. But indeed they were not all, for sometimes there were two or three other drugs in hand, interfering, perhaps troublesomely, with the simple division of therapeutics into the two provinces of rhubarb and sulphuric acid.
; Business was brisk at the dispensary: several were waiting, and medicine and advice were going at the rate of two minutes for sixpence. Looey’s case was not so clear as most of the others: she could not describe its symptoms succinctly, as ‘a pain here,’ or ‘a tight feeling there.’ She did but lie heavily, staring blankly upward (she did not mind the light now), with the little cast in her eyes, and repeat her odd little wail; and Dicky and his father could tell very little. The young student had a passing thought that he might have known a trifle more of the matter if he had had time to turn up Ross on nerve and brain troubles — were such a proceeding consistent with the dignity of the dispensary; but straightway assigning the case to the rhubarb province, made up a powder, ordered Josh to keep the baby quiet, and pitched his sixpence among the others, well within the two minutes.
And faith in the dispensary was strengthened, for indeed Looey seemed a little better after the powder; and she was fed with spoonfuls of a fluid bought at a chandler’s shop, and called milk.
XII
‘Dicky Perrott, come ‘ere,’ said Mr Aaron Weech in a voice of sad rebuke, a few days later. ‘Come ‘ere, Dicky Perrott.’
He shook his head solemnly as he stooped. Dicky slouched up.
‘What was that you found the other day an’ didn’t bring to me?’
‘Nuffin’.’ Dicky withdrew a step.
‘It’s no good you a-tellin’ me that, Dicky Perrott, when I know better. You know very well you can’t pervent me knowin’.’ His little eyes searched Dicky’s face, and Dicky sulkily shifted his own gaze. ‘You’re a wicked, ungrateful young ‘ound, an’ I’ve a good mind to tell a p’liceman to find out where you got that clock. Come ‘ere now — don’t you try runnin’ away. Wot! after me a-takin’ you in when you was ‘ungry, an’ givin’ you cawfy an’ cake, an’ good advice like a father, an’ a bloater an’ all, an’ you owin’ me thrippence a’peny besides, then you goes an’ — an’ takes yer findin’s somewhere else!’
Delphi Complete Works of Arthur Morrison Page 79