XXIV
But indeed Josh Perrott’s luck was worse than he thought. For the gross, pimply man was a High Mobsman — so very high a mobsman that it would have been slander and libel, and a very great expense, to write him down a mobsman at all. He paid a rent of a hundred and twenty pounds a year, and heavy rates, and put half-a-crown into the plate at a very respectable chapel every Sunday. He was, in fact, the King of High Mobsmen, spoken of among them as the Mogul. He did no vulgar thievery: he never screwed a chat, nor claimed a peter, nor worked the mace. He sat easily at home, and financed (sometimes planned) promising speculations: a large swindle requiring much ground-baiting and preliminary outlay; or a robbery of specie from a mail train; or a bank fraud needing organization and funds. When the results of such speculations consisted of money he took the lion’s share. When they were expressed in terms of imprisonment they fell to active and intelligent subordinates. So that for years the Mogul had lived an affluent and a blameless life, far removed from the necessity of injudicious bodily exercise, and characterised by every indulgence consistent with a proper suburban respectability. He had patronised, snubbed, or encouraged High Mobsmen of more temerarious habit, had profited by their exploits, and had read of their convictions and sentences with placid interest in the morning papers. And after all this, to be robbed in his own house and knocked downstairs by a casual buster was an outrage that afflicted the Mogul with wrath infuriate. Because that was a sort of trouble that had never seemed a possibility, to a person of his eminence: and because the angriest victim of dishonesty is a thief.
However, the burglar had got clean away, that was plain; and he had taken the best watch and chain in the house, with the Mogul’s initials on the back. So that respectable sufferer sent for the police, and gave his attention to the the alleviation of bumps and the washing away of blood. In his bodily condition a light blow was enough to let a great deal of blood — no doubt with benefit; and Josh Perrott’s blows were not light in any case.
So it came to pass that not only were the police on the look-out for a man with a large gold watch with the Mogul’s monogram on the back; but also the word was passed as by telegraph through underground channels, till every fence in London was warned that the watch was the Mogul’s; and ere noon next day there was not one but would as lief have put a scorpion in his pocket as that same toy and tackle that Josh Perrott was gloating over in his back room in Old Jago Street.
As for Josh, his ankle was bad in the morning, and swelled. He dabbed at it perseveringly with wet rags, and rubbed it vigorously, so that by one o’clock he was able to lace up his boot and go out. He was anxious to fence his plunder without delay, and he made his way to Hoxton. The watch seemed to be something especially good, and he determined to stand out for a price well above the usual figure. For the swag of common thieves commanded no such prices as did that of the High Mob. All of it was bought and sold on the simple system first called into being seventy years back and more by the prince of fences, Ikey Solomons. A breast-pin brought a fixed sum, good or bad, and a roll of cloth brought the fixed price of a roll of cloth, regardless of quality. Thus a silver watch fetched six shillings, never more and never less; a gold watch was worth twice as much; an uncommonly good one — a rich man’s watch — would bring as much as eighteen shillings, if the thief were judge enough of its quality to venture the demand. And as it commonly took three men to secure a single watch in the open street — one to ‘front,’ one to snatch, and a third to take from the snatcher — the gains of the toy-getting trade were poor, except to the fence. This time Josh resolved to put pressure on the fence, and to do his best to get something as near a sovereign as might be. And as to the chain, so thick and heavy, he would fight his best for the privilege of sale by weight. Thus turning the thing in his mind, he entered the familiar doorway of the old clothes shop.
‘Vot is id?’ asked the fence, holding out his hand with the customary air of contempt for what was coming, by way of discounting it in advance. This particular fence, by-the-bye, never bought anything himself. He inspected whatever was brought on behalf of an occult friend; and the transaction was completed by a shabby third party in an adjoining court. But he had an amazingly keen regard for his friend’s interests.
Josh put the watch into the extended hand. The fence lifted it to his face, turned it over, and started. He looked hard at Josh, and then again at the watch, and handed it hastily back, holding it gingerly by the bow. ‘Don’ vant dot,’ he said; ‘nod me — nod ‘im, I mean. No, no.’ He turned away, shaking his hand as though to throw off contamination. ‘Take id avay.’
‘Wot’s the matter?’ Josh demanded, astonished. ‘Is it ‘cos o’ the letters on the back? You can easy send it to church, can’t ye?’
A watch is ‘sent to church’ when it is put into another case. But the fence waved away the suggestion. ‘Take id avay I tell you,’ he said. ‘I— ‘e von’t ‘ave nodden to do vid id.’
‘Wot’s the matter with the chain, then?’ asked Josh. But the fence walked away to the back of the shop, wagging his hands desperately, like a wet man seeking a towel, and repeating only:— ‘Nodden to do vid id — take id avay — nodden to do vid id.’
Josh stuffed his prize back into his pocket, and regained the street. He was confounded. What was wrong with Cohen? Did he suspect a police trick to entrap him? Josh snorted with indignation at the thought. He was no nark! But perhaps the police were showing a pressing interest in Cohen’s business concerns just now, and he had suspended fencing for a while. The guess was a lame one, but he could think of none better at the moment, as he pushed his way to the Jago. He would try Mother Gapp.
Mother Gapp would not even take the watch in her hands; her eyes were good enough at that distance. ‘Lor’, Josh Perrott,’ she said, ‘wot ‘a’ ye bin up to now? Want to git me lagged now, do ye? Ain’t satisfied with breakin’ up the ‘ouse an’ ruinin’ a pore widder that way, ain’t ye? You git out, go on. I ‘ad ‘nough o’ you!’
It was very extraordinary. Was there a general reclamation of fences? But there were men at work at the Feathers, putting down boards and restoring partitions; and two of them had been ‘gone over’ ruinously on their way to work, and now they came and went with four policemen. Possibly Mother Gapp feared the observation of carpenters. Be it as it might, there was nothing for it now but Weech’s.
Mr Weech was charmed. ‘Dear me, it’s a wonderful fine watch, Mr Perrott — a wonderful fine watch. An’ a beautiful chain.’ But he was looking narrowly at the big monogram as he said it. ‘It’s reely a wonderful article. ‘Ow they do git ‘em up, to be sure! Cost a lot o’ money too, I’ll be bound. Might you be thinkin’ o’ sellin’ it?’
‘Yus o’ course,’ replied Josh. ‘That’s wot I brought it for.’
‘Ah, it’s a lovely watch, Mr Perrott — a lov-erly watch; an’ the chain matches it. But you mustn’t be too ‘ard on me. Shall we say four pound for the little lot?’
It was more than double Josh’s wildest hopes, but he wanted all he could get. ‘Five,’ he said doggedly.
Weech gazed at him with tender rebuke. ‘Five pound’s a awful lot o’ money, Mr Perrott,’ he said. ‘You’re too ‘ard on me, reely. I ‘ardly know ‘ow I can scrape it up. But it’s a beautiful little lot, an’ I won’t ‘aggle. But I ain’t got all that money in the ‘ouse now. I never keep so much money in the ‘ouse — sich a neighb’r’ood, Mr Perrott! Bring it round to-morrer mornin’ at eleven.’
‘Awright, I’ll come. Five quid, mind.’
‘Ah yus,’ answered Mr Weech, with a reproving smile. ‘It’s reely more than I ought!’
Josh was jubilant, and forgot his sore ankle. He had never handled such a sum as five pounds since his fight with Billy Leary, years ago; when, indeed, he had stooped to folly in the shape of lavish treating, and so had not enjoyed the handling of the full amount.
Mr Weech, also, was pleased. For it was a great stroke of business to oblige so distinguished a person as
the Mogul. There was no telling what advantages it might not lead to in the way of trade.
That night the Perrotts had a hot supper, brought from Walker’s cook-shop in paper. And at eleven the next morning Josh, twenty yards from Mr Weech’s door, with the watch and chain in his pocket, was tapped on the arm by a constable in plain clothes, while another came up on the other side. ‘Mornin’, Perrott,’ said the first constable, cheerily. ‘We’ve got a little business with you at the station.’
‘Me? Wot for?’
‘Oh well, come along; p’raps it ain’t anything — unless there’s a gold watch an’ chain on you, from Highbury. It’s just a turnin’ over.’
‘Awright,’ replied Josh, resignedly. ‘It’s a fair cop. I’ll go quiet.’
‘That’s right, Perrott; it ain’t no good playin’ the fool, you know.’ They were moving along; and as they came by Weech’s shop, a whiskered face, with a patch of shining scalp over it, peeped from behind a curtain that hung at the rear of the bloaters and plumcake in the window. As he saw it, Josh ducked suddenly, wrenching his arm free, and dashed over the threshold. Mr Weech, whiskers and apron flying, galloped through the door at the back, and the constables sprang upon Josh instantly and dragged him into the street. ‘Wotcher mean?’ cried the one who knew him, indignantly, and with a significant glance at the other. ‘Call that goin’ quiet?’
Josh’s face was white and staring with rage. ‘Awright,’ he grunted through his shut teeth, after a pause. ‘I’ll go quiet now. I ain’t got nothin’ agin you.’
XXV
Dicky’s morning theft that day had been but a small one — he had run off with a new two-foot rule that a cabinet-maker had carelessly left on an unfinished office table at his shop door in Curtain Road. It was not much, but it might fetch some sort of a dinner at Weech’s, which would be better than going home, and, perhaps, finding nothing. So about noon, all ignorant of his father’s misfortune, he came by way of Holywell Lane and Bethnal Green Road to Meakin Street.
Mr Weech looked at him rather oddly, Dicky fancied, when he came in, but he took the two-foot rule with alacrity, and brought Dicky a rasher of bacon, and a slice of cake afterward. This seemed very generous. More: Mr Weech’s manner was uncommonly amiable, and when the meal was over, of his own motion, he handed over a supplementary penny. Dicky was surprised; but he had no objection, and he thought little more about it.
As soon as he appeared in Luck Row he was told that his father had been ‘smugged.’ Indeed the tidings had filled the Jago within ten minutes. Josh Perrott was walking quietly along Meakin Street, — so went the news, — when up comes Snuffy and another split, and smugs him. Josh had a go for Weech’s door, to cut his lucky out at the back, but was caught. That was a smart notion of Josh’s, the Jago opinion ran, to get through Weech’s and out into the courts behind. But it was no go.
Hannah Perrott sat in her room, inert and lamenting. Dicky could not rouse her, and at last he went off by himself to reconnoitre about Commercial Street Police Station, and pick up what information he might; while a gossip or two came and took Mrs Perrott for consolation to Mother Gapp’s. Little Em, unwashed, tangled and weeping, could well take care of herself and the room, being more than two years old.
Josh Perrott would be brought up to-morrow, Dicky ascertained, at the North London Police Court. So the next morning found Dicky trudging moodily along the two miles of flags to Stoke Newington Road; while his mother and three sympathising friends, who foresaw an opportunity for numerous tiny drops with interesting circumstances to flavour them, took a penny cast on the way in a tramcar.
Dicky, with some doubt as to the disposition of the door-keeping policeman toward ragged boys, waited for the four women, and contrived to pass in unobserved among them. Several Jagos were in the court, interested not only in Josh’s adventure, but in one of Cocko Harnwell’s, who had indulged, the night before, in an animated little scramble with three policemen in Dalston; and they waited with sympathetic interest while the luck was settled of a long string of drunk-and-disorderlies.
At last Josh was brought in, and lurched composedly into the dock, in the manner of one who knew the routine. The police gave evidence of arrest, in consequence of information received, and of finding the watch and chain in Josh’s trousers pocket. The prosecutor, with his head conspicuously bedight with sticking-plaster, puffed and grunted up into the witness-box, kissed the book, and was a ‘retired commission agent.’ He positively identified the watch and chain, and he not less positively identified Josh Perrott, whom he had picked out from a score of men in the police-yard. This would have been a feat indeed for a man who had never seen Josh, and had only once encountered his fist in the dark, had it not been for the dutiful though private aid of Mr Weech: who, in giving his information had described Josh and his one suit of clothes with great fidelity, especially indicating a scar on the right cheek-bone which would mark him among a thousand. The retired commission agent was quite sure of the prisoner. He had met him on the stairs, where there was plenty of light from a lamp, and the prisoner had attacked him savagely, beating him about the head and flinging him downstairs. The policeman called by the prosecutor’s servant deposed to finding the prosecutor bruised and bleeding. There was a ladder against the back of the house; a bedroom window had been opened; there were muddy marks on the sill; and he had found the stick — produced — lying in the bedroom.
Josh leaned easily on the rail before him while evidence was being given, and said ‘No, yer worship,’ whenever he was asked if he desired to question a witness. He knew better than to run the risk of incriminating himself by challenging the prosecutor’s well-coloured evidence; and, as it was a certain case of committal for trial, it would have been useless in any event. He made the same reply when he was asked if he had anything to say before being committed: and straightway was ‘fullied.’ He lurched serenely out of the dock, waving his cap at his friends in the court, and that was all. The Jagos waited till Cocko Harnwell got his three months and then retired to neighbouring public-houses; but Dicky remembered his little sister, and hurried home.
The month’s session at the Old Bailey had just begun, so that Josh had no long stay at Holloway. Among the Jagos it was held to be a most creditable circumstance that Josh was to take his trial with full honours at the Old Bailey, and not at mere County Sessions at Clerkenwell, like a simple lob-crawler or peter-claimer. For Josh’s was a case of burglary with serious violence, such as was fitting for the Old Bailey, and not even a High Mobsman could come to trial with greater glory. ‘As like as not it’s laggin’ dues, after ‘is other convictions,’ said Bill Rann. And Jerry Gullen thought so too.
Dicky went, with his mother and Em, to see Josh at Newgate. They stood with other visitors, very noisy, before a double iron railing covered with wire-netting, at the farther side whereof stood Josh and other prisoners, while a screaming hubbub of question and answer filled the air. Josh had little to say. He lounged against the farther railing with his hands in his pockets, asked what Cocko Harnwell had got, and sent a message to Bill Rann. While his wife did little more than look dolefully through the wires, and pipe:— ‘Oh, Josh, wotever shall I do?’ at intervals, with no particular emotion; while Em pressed her smudgy little face against the wires, and stared mightily; and while Dicky felt that if he had been younger he would have cried. When time was up, Josh waved his hand and slouched off, and his family turned out with the rest: little Em carrying into later years a memory of father as a man who lived in a cage.
In such a case as this, the Jago would have been for ever disgraced if Josh Perrott’s pals had neglected to get up a ‘break’ or subscription to pay for his defence. Things were never very flourishing in the Jago. But this was the sort of break a Jago could not shirk, lest it were remembered against him when his own turn came. So enough was collected to brief an exceedingly junior counsel, who did his useless best. But the facts were too strong even for the most inexperienced advocate; the evidence of the pros
ecutor was nowhere to be shaken, and the jury found a verdict of guilty without leaving the box — indeed, with scarce the formality of collecting their heads together over the rails. Then Josh’s past was most unpleasantly raked up before him. He had been convicted of larceny, of assaulting the police, and of robbery with violence. There were two sentences of six months’ imprisonment recorded against him, one of three months, and two of a month. Besides fines. The Recorder considered it a very serious offence. Not deterred by the punishments he had already received, the prisoner had proceeded to a worse crime — burglary; and with violence. It was plain that lenience was wasted in such a case, and simple imprisonment was not enough. There must be an exemplary sentence. The prisoner must be kept in penal servitude for five years.
Lagging dues it was, as Bill Rann had anticipated. That Josh Perrott agreed with him was suggested by the fact that from the very beginning he described himself as a painter; because a painter in prison is apt to be employed at times in painting — a lighter and a more desirable task than falls to the lot of his fellows in other trades.
In a room by the court Josh saw his wife, Dicky, and Bill Rann (Josh’s brother-in-law for the occasion) before his ride to Holloway, his one stopping place on the way to Chelmsford Gaol. Little Em had been left sprawling in the Jago gutters. This time Hannah Perrott wept in good earnest, and Dicky, notwithstanding his thirteen years, blinked very hard at the wall before him. The arrangement of Josh’s affairs was neither a long nor a difficult labour. ‘S’pose you’ll ‘ave to do wot you can with rush bags, an’ sacks, and match-boxes, an’ wot not,’ he said to his wife, and she assented. Josh nodded:— ‘An’ if you ‘ave to go in the ‘ouse,’ — he meant the workhouse,— ‘well, it can’t be ‘elped. You won’t be no wuss auf ‘n me.’
‘Oh, she’ll be awright,’ said Bill Rann, jerking his thumb cheerfully toward the missis. ‘Wot about you? Think they’ll make it Parkhurst?’
Delphi Complete Works of Arthur Morrison Page 86