Old Jack took the money, and called again at seven. Custom or law or what-not, he would wait for no Monday morning now. The door was open, and a group of listening children stood about it. From within came a noise of knocks and thuds and curses — sometimes a gurgle. Old Jack asked a small boy, whose position in the passage betokened residence, what was going forward. “It’s the man downstairs,” said the boy, “a-givin’ of it to ‘is wife for payin’ awy the lodgers’ rent.”
At this moment Mr. Joe Parsons appeared in the passage. The children, who had once or twice commented in shouts, dispersed. “I’ve come for my rent,” said old Jack.
Mr. Joe Parsons saw no retreat. So he said, “Rent? Ain’t you ‘ad it? I don’t bother about things in the ‘ouse. Come again when my wife’s in.”
“She is in,” rejoined old Jack, “an’ you’ve been a-landin’ of ‘er for payin’ me what little she ‘as. Come, you pay me what you owe me, and take a week’s notice now. I want my house kep’ respectable.”
Mr. Joe Parsons had no other shift. “You be damned,” he said. “Git out.”
“What?” gasped old Jack — for to tell a landlord to get out of his own house!... “What?”
“Why git out? Y’ ought to know better than comin’ ‘ere askin’ for money you ain’t earnt.”
“Ain’t earnt? What d’ye mean?”
“What I say. Y’ ain’t earnt it. It’s you blasted lan’lords as sucks the blood o’ the workers. You go an’ work for your money.”
Old Jack was confounded. “Why — what — how d’ye think I can pay the rates, an’ everythink?”
“I don’t care. You’ll ‘ave to pay ‘em, an’ I wish they was ‘igher. They ought to be the same as the rent, an’ that ‘ud do away with fellers like you. Go on: you do your damdest an’ get your rent best way you can.”
“But what about upstairs? You’re lettin’ it out an’ takin’ the rent there. I—”
“That’s none o’ your business. Git out, will ye?” They had gradually worked over the doorstep, and Randall was on the pavement. “I sha’n’t pay, an’ I sha’n’t go, an’ ye can do what ye like; so it’s no good your stoppin’ — unless you want to fight. Eh — do ye?” And Mr. Parsons put a foot over the threshold.
Old Jack had not fought for many years. It was low. For a landlord outside his own house it was, indeed, disgraceful. But it was quite dark now, and there was scarcely a soul in the street. Perhaps nobody would know, and this man deserved something for himself. He looked up the street again, and then, “Well, I ain’t so young as I was,” he said, “but I won’t disappoint ye. Come on.”
Mr. Joe Parsons stepped within and slammed the door.
VIII.
Old Jack went home less happy than ever. He had no notion what to do. Difficulties of private life were often discussed and argued out in the workshop, but there he had become too unpopular to ask for anything in the nature of sympathy or advice. Not only would he lend no money, but he refused to stand treat on rent days. Also, there was a collection on behalf of men on strike at another factory, to which he gave nothing; and he had expressed the strongest disapproval of an extension of that strike, and his own intention to continue working if it happened. For what would become of all his plans and his savings if his wages ceased? Wherefore there was no other man in the shop so unpopular as old Jack, and in a workshop unpopularity is a bad thing.
He called on a professional rent-receiver and seller-up. This man knew Mr. Joe Parsons very well. He never had furniture upon which a profitable distress might be levied. But if he took lodgers, and they were quiet people, something might be got out of them — if the job were made worth while. But this was not at all what old Jack wanted.
Soon after it occurred to him to ask advice of the secretary of the building society. This was a superficial young man, an auctioneer’s clerk until evening, who had no disposition to trouble himself about matters outside his duties. Still, he went so far as to assure old Jack that turning out a tenant who meant to stay was not a simple job. If you didn’t mind losing the rent it might be done by watching until the house was left ungarrisoned, getting in, putting the furniture into the street, and keeping the tenant out. With this forlorn hope old Jack began to spend his leisure about Mulberry Street: ineffectually, for Mrs. Parsons never came out while he was there. Once he saw the man, and offered to forgive him the rent if he would leave: a proposal which Mr. Parsons received with ostentatious merriment. At this old Jack’s patience gave out, and he punched his tenant on the ear. Whereat the latter, suddenly whitening in the face, said something about the police, and walked away at a good pace.
IX.
The strike extended, as it was expected and designed to do. The men at old Jack’s factory were ordered out, and came, excepting only old Jack himself. He was desperate. Since he had ventured on that cursed investment everything had gone wrong: but he would not lose his savings if mere personal risk would preserve them. Moreover, a man of fifty is not readily re-employed, once out; and as the firm was quite ready to keep one hand on to oil and see that things were in order, old Jack stayed: making his comings and goings late to dodge the pickets, and approaching subtly by a railway-arch stable and a lane thereunto. It was not as yet a very great strike, and with care these things could be done. Still, he was sighted and chased twice, and he knew that, if the strike lasted, and feeling grew hotter, he would be attacked in his own house. If only he could hold on through the strike, and by hook or crook keep the outgoings paid, he would attend to Mr. Parsons afterward.
X.
One Saturday afternoon, as Mrs. Randall was buying greens and potatoes, old Jack, waiting without, strolled toward a crowd standing about a speaker. A near approach discovered the speaker to be Mr. Joe Parsons, who was saying: —
“ —— strike pay is little enough at the time, of course, but don’t forget what it will lead to! An’ strike pay does very well, my frien’s, when the party knows ‘ow to lay it out, an’ don’t go passin’ it on to the lan’lord. Don’t give it away. When the lan’lord comes o’ Monday mornin’, tell ‘im (polite as you like) that there’s nothink for ‘im till there’s more for you. Let the lan’lord earn ‘is money, like me an’ you. Let the lan’lords pay a bit towards this ‘ere strike as well as the other blaggards, the imployers. Lan’lords gits quite enough out o’ you, my feller workers, when—”
“They don’t git much out o’ you!” shouted old Jack in his wrath; and then felt sorry he had spoken. For everybody looked at him, and he knew some of the faces.
“Ho!” rejoined the speaker, mincingly. “There’s a gent there as seems to want to address this ‘ere meetin’. P’r’aps you’ll ‘ave the kindness to step up ‘ere, my friend, an’ say wot you got to say plain.” And he looked full at old Jack, pointing with his finger.
Old Jack fidgeted, wishing himself out of it. “You pay me what you owe me,” he growled sulkily.
“As this ‘ere individual, after intruding ‘isself on this peaceful meetin’, ain’t got anythink to say for ‘isself,” pursued Mr. Joe Parsons, “I’ll explain things for ‘im. That’s my lan’lord, that is: look at ‘im! ‘E comes ‘angin’ round my door waitin’ for a chance to turn my pore wife an’ children out o’ ‘ouse and ‘ome. ‘E follers me in the street an’ tries to intimidate me. ‘E comes ‘ere, my feller workers, as a spy, an’ to try an’ poison your minds agin me as devotes my ‘ole life to your int’rests. That’s the sort o’ man, that’s the sort o’ lan’lord ‘e is. But ‘e’s somethink more than a greedy, thievin’, overfed lan’lord, my frien’s, an’ I’ll tell you wot. ‘E’s a dirty, crawlin’ blackleg; that’s wot else ‘e is. ‘E’s the on’y man as wouldn’t come out o’ Maidment’s; an’ ‘e’s workin’ there now, skulkin’ in an’ out in the dark — a dirty rat! Now you all know very well I won’t ‘ave nothink to do with any violence or intimidation. It’s agin my principles, although I know there’s very often great temptation, an’ it’s impossible to identify in a crowd
, an’ safe to be very little evidence. But this I will say, that when a dirty low rat, not content with fattenin’ on starvin’ tenants, goes an’ takes the bread out o’ ‘is feller men’s mouths, like that bleedin’ blackleg — blackleg! — blackleg!—”
Old Jack was down. A dozen heavy boots were at work about his head and belly. In from the edge of the crowd a woman tore her way, shedding potatoes as she ran, and screaming; threw herself upon the man on the ground; and shared the kicks. Over the shoulders of the kickers whirled the buckle-end of a belt. “One for the old cow,” said a voice.
XI.
When a man is lying helpless on his back, with nothing in hand, he pays nothing off a building society mortgage, because, as his wife pawns the goods of the house, the resulting money goes for necessaries. To such a man the society shows no useless grace: especially when the secretary has a friend always ready to take over a forfeited house at forced sale price. So the lease of Twenty-seven vanished, and old Jack’s savings with it.
And one day, some months later, old Jack, supported by the missis and a stick, took his way across the workhouse forecourt. There was a door some twenty yards from that directly before them, and two men came out of it, carrying a laden coffin of plain deal.
“Look there, Jack,” the missis said, as she checked her step; “what a common caufin!” And indeed there was a distinct bulge in the bottom.
THE END
ZIG-ZAGS AT THE ZOO
CONTENTS
ZIG-ZAG PRELUSORY
ZIG-ZAG URSINE
ZIG-ZAG CAMELINE
ZIG-ZAG MISCELLAVIAN
ZIG-ZAG LEONINE
ZIG-ZAG ELEPHANTINE
ZIG-ZAG CURSOREAN
ZIG-ZAG PHOCINE
ZIG-ZAG CONKAVIAN
ZIG-ZAG OPHIDIAN
ZIG-ZAG MARSUPIAL
ZIG-ZAG ACCIPITRAL
ZIG-ZAG CANINE
ZIG-ZAG CORVINE
ZIG-ZAG ENTOMIC
ZIG-ZAG PACHYDERMATOUS
ZIG-ZAG MUSTELINE
ZIG-ZAG PISCINE
ZIG-ZAG BATRACHIAN
ZIG-ZAG DASYPIDIAN
ZIG-ZAG SCANSORIAL
ZIG-ZAG SAURIAN
ZIG-ZAG SIMIAN
ZIG-ZAG RODOPORCINE
ZIG-ZAG BOVINE
ZIG-ZAG FINAL
ZIG-ZAG PRELUSORY
“ZIG-ZAGS AT THE ZOO” is a title which must not be misunderstood. The Zigzag — though possibly suggestive of a beast with stripes — is not a newly-captured wild animal lately added to the great London collection; it is merely the ordinary commonplace, charming, and delightful Zig-zag of everyday existence. For variety is the spice of life, and every man taking ease and joy of his life shall go through it in zig-zags. The direct road is the path of the toiler. Observe a man at a picture exhibition — a man who begins at number one on the catalogue and goes right through with solemn persistence until he arrives at the longest number at the last page, and the uttermost corner of the last gallery. That man is either “doing the show” for a newspaper, or prefers to make the pictures an affliction unto himself. A picture show, like everything else, should be taken on the zig-zag. The man who plans and cogitates the nearest way between two streets — that man is too busy poor fellow, to know the sweets of the zig-zag. To go upon the zig-zag is to see more, and with greater entertainment. Who sees more stars, more lamp-posts, front-doors, and keyholes than other men — yea, even unto tenfold? He who goes home on the zig-zag.
The zig-zag is the token, the mystic sign, of contentful ease and good fellowship the world over; the very word is passed to us, like a loving-cup, by the French, who have taken it in all good amity from the Germans, as Littré himself testifieth, and what greater sign of universal brotherhood shall you want than that? The zig-zag, too, is necessary; for the soberest citizen may not walk home through many streets in a straight line, lest he break his nose. “Zig-zag: something with short sharp turns,” says the respectable Webster. Let us, therefore, take here a sharp turn, lest we run our noses against the wall of brown speculation.
Many good friends have I in the gardens of the Zoological Society of London. These good friends devote their entire lives to the furtherance of a popular taste for zoology, and are, or should be at once elected, most distinguished active members of the society. To pay certain gold guineas a year is a good thing; but what human member of the society would live amiably behind bars for the cause, to be stared at and made the subject of personal impudences? Now, all these fine fellows have their individual characters, their little personal habits and crotchets, just as have those distinguished zoologists who walk upright and wear tail-coats.
For instance, you may have come upon a row of three lions, or monkeys, or seals, as the case may be, and to you, a casual visitor, they shall be but three very similar seals or monkeys or lions. So also in the official guide-book, for a guide-book which is sober and official can say no other. But scrape close acquaintance with those creatures and talk to their keepers, and you shall find them Bill, Polly, and Sam: Bill, perhaps, being an easy-going lion (or seal or monkey), with a weakness for a lump of sugar, and a disregard of the state of his coat; Polly a coquette, with a vast pride in her tail; and Sam a touchy old fellow who objects to all but one particular keeper; and each with a history. Among these distinguished personages shall we zig-zag, and improve acquaintance. Meantime, let us sit upon this seat on the terrace with a good view of the gardens before us, while the big good-humoured Jung Perchad stalks along below with a howdahful of children and an eye to the casual bun; and let us meditate.
I like to conduct my brown studies in an atmosphere of mingled evolution and metempsychosis. It is a pity that the theory of our evolution from the primordial protoplasm in an inclusive line through every living species should now be considered old-fashioned. I like to imagine that among my remote ancestors every living thing is represented — it gives them a family interest. And if, further, I can persuade myself that I have been everything, at one time or another, from a bluebottle to a giraffe — why, then I can brown-study forever. The imaginative mind can compass all things. Well may I remember the comfort of a mouth six feet by measurement along the lips, in a crocodile. You take in your enemy in one large generous smile, and he is seen no more. And a tail for others — the cow, the dog, the horse, the lion, the tiger — is a convenience, both as a fly-whisk and as a help to working up a tantrum. In evolution from a bluebottle to a giraffe one learns the value of these things.
As a bluebottle, I think I should have enjoyed life — as a young one certainly; an elderly bluebottle gets bloated, slow, and gouty, losing his sense of humour. He grows infirm of purpose, too, and forgets to return to the same spot on a bald head after the eighteenth time of chasing off — the eighteenth time being really just when the fun begins. Sometimes he passes over a red nose altogether, probably from a fear of aggravating the gout in his feet. I am a little more doubtful about the giraffe. I should certainly have had a better opportunity of holding my head high in the world than I ever have now; and the giraffe has the advantage of the bluebottle in the matter of gouty feet. But what a neck for mumps!
I think I must have been a raven or a jackdaw at some time — reasoning by induction — and I must have had a rare good time. The great object of a raven’s life is the collection of valuables, wherein he resembles a large half of the human race. He steals rings, silver thimbles, and money, hoarding them in a safe and quiet place. Now, there is nothing so impartial as good Dame Nature. For everything she gives its compensation; every poison has its antidote, every excess its counteracting scarcity; nothing dies. Everything is a cause, and the effects of all causes work on for eternity. So that I conclude that my life as a raven must have been peculiarly successful from a business point of view, and that for that flood of good fortune I am now suffering the ebb. Obviously I must have been bursting with this world’s wealth in some life or another, else why things as they so painfully are? Or perhaps — stunning thought! —
I am saving up all this penury against a flood of millions to come. But, come when it will, it shall never overwhelm me, for I shall take a holiday in a Scotch hotel. I quite believe I skipped the crocodiles; at any rate, I find little hereditary affinity between us. When a crocodile objects to its surroundings, it refuses its food; as a boy at school, I objected very much to my surroundings, but without any effect of that sort.
My late friend — God rest him! — Mr. Jamrach, used to have rare tussles with his crocodiles. They were valuable as property, and when, out of spite, they took to attempting suicide by starvation, he had them tied up firmly and fed forcibly with a long pole à la ramrod. I never remember being so obstinate about my dinner as that; and if I had, from what I recollect of him, I don’t believe my worthy preceptor would have done as Mr. Jamrach did. I never heard of his using any stick in that way. Beyond all this too, it should be observed that the crocodile has three distinct lids to each eye, whereby he is equipped for the performance of six separate and entirely distinct winks of the single variety, and an incalculable number of the more complicated sort by combination. Now the wink is the infallible sign of a frivolous and larky nature, and in disclaiming all relationship with the crocodile I need say no more than this.
I often wonder what all these animals think of the band which plays here in the summer. The coming of the warm season is a time of joy, at any rate to the more tropical varieties, and it seems a pity to make it sad with a band. Perhaps it is done on the great principle of universal compensation already spoken of. Not that the band isn’t a good one, you should understand, but a band of any sort before dinner is an infliction. Music is rather a nuisance to a hungry man, and its proper occasion arrives after a good dinner. Lions and tigers have ten times the capacity for hunger granted to man, and should be considered accordingly. Herein do I speak with feeling; for on several days of the week a German band plays near the corner of my street in the hungriest hour of the twenty-four, and on all the other afternoons the young lady next door, who is learning to sing (and taking a very long time over it) practises her scales.
Delphi Complete Works of Arthur Morrison Page 170