by Louis Stone
“’Ello, fancy meetin’ yous,” cried Chook, his eyes dancing with pleasure.
The curious pink flush spread over the girl’s face, and then she found her tongue.
“Look w’ere ye’re goin’. Are yer walkin’ in yer sleep?”
“I am,” said Chook, “an’ don’t wake me; I like it.”
But the twinkle died out of his eyes when he saw Stinky Collins, separated from Pinkey by the crowd, scowling at him over her shoulder. He ignored Chook’s friendly nod, and they stood motionless, wedged in that sea of human bodies until it chose to move.
Chook felt the girl’s frail body pressed against him. His nostrils caught the odour of her hair and flesh, and the perfume mounted to his brain like wine. The wonderful red hair, glittering like bronze, fell in short curls round the nape of her neck, where it had escaped from the comb. A tremor ran through his limbs and his pulse quickened. And he was seized with an insane desire to kiss the white flesh, pale as ivory against her red hair. The crowd moved, and Pinkey wriggled to the other side.
“I’ll cum wid yer, if yer feel lonely,” said Chook as she passed.
“Yous git a move on, or yer’ll miss the bus,” cried Pinkey, as she passed out of sight.
When Chook worked his way back to the corner, little Joe Crutch and Waxy Collins stepped forward.
“W’ere the ’ell ’ave yer bin? We’ve bin waitin’ ’ere this ’arf ’our,” they cried indignantly.
“Wot liars yer do meet,’ said Chook, grinning.
The three entered the new market, an immense red-brick square with a smooth, cemented floor, and a lofty roof on steel girders. It is here the people amuse themselves with the primitive delights of an English fair after the fatigue of shopping.
The larrikins turned to the chipped-potato stall as a hungry dog jumps at a bone, eagerly sniffing the smell of burning fat as the potatoes crisped in the spitting grease.
“It’s up ter yous ter shout,” cried Joe and Waxy.
“Well, a tray bit won’t break me,” said Chook, producing threepence from his pocket.
The dealer, wearing the flat white cap of a French cook, and a clean apron, ladled the potatoes out of the cans into a strainer on the counter. His wife, with a rapid movement, twisted a slip of paper into a spill, and, filling it with chips, shook a castor of salt over the top. Customers crowded about, impatient to be served, and she went through the movements of twisting the paper, filling it with chips, and shaking the castor with the automatic swiftness of a machine.
When they were served, the larrikins stood on one side, crunching the crisp slices of potato between their teeth with immense relish as they watched the cook stirring the potatoes in the cauldron of boiling fat. Then they licked the grease off their fingers, lit cigarettes, and sauntered on. But the chips had whetted their appetites, and the sight of green peas and saveloys made their mouths water.
Men, women, and children sat on the forms round the stall with the stolid air of animals waiting to be fed. When each received a plate containing a squashy mess of peas and a luscious saveloy, they began to eat with slow, animal satisfaction, heedless of the noisy crowd. The larrikins sat down and gave their order, each paying for his own.
“Nothin’ like a feed ter set a man up,” said Chook, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
As he turned, he was surprised to see Stinky Collins and Pinkey in front of the electric battery. These machines had a singular attraction for the people. The mysterious fluid that ran silently and invisibly through the copper wires put them in touch with the mysteries of Nature. And they gripped the brass handles, holding on till the tension became too great, with the conscientious air of people taking medicine.
Stinky, full of jealous fear, had dragged Pinkey to the new market, where he meant to treat her to green peas and ice-cream. But as they passed the battery, a sudden desire swept through him to give an exhibition of his strength and endurance to this girl, to force her admiration with the vanity of a cock strutting before his hens.
He took hold of the brass handles, and watched the dial, like a clock-face, that marked the intensity of the current. The muscles of his face contracted into a rigid stare as the electric current ran through his limbs. He had the face of one visiting the dentist, but he held on until the pointer marked halfway. Then he nodded, and dropped the handles with a sigh of relief as the current was turned off.
But as he looked to Pinkey for the applause that he had earned, Chook stepped up to the machine and, with an impudent grin at Pinkey, grasped the handles. The pointer moved slowly round, and passed Stinky’s mark, but Chook held on, determined to eclipse his rival. His muscles seemed to be cracking with pain, the seconds lengthened into intolerable hours. Suddenly, as the dial marked three-quarters, he dropped the handles with a grin of triumph at Pinkey.
Stinky, smarting with defeat, instantly took up the challenge.
“That’s no test of strength,” he cried angrily. “Women can stand a lot more than men.”
“Orl right; choose yer own game, an’ I’m after yer,” said Chook.
Behind them a hammer fell with a tremendous thud, and a voice cried, “Try yer strength—only a penny, only a penny.”
“’Ow’ll that suit yer?” inquired Stinky, with a malicious grin, for he counted on his superior weight and muscle to overcome his rival.
“Let ’er go!” cried Chook.
Stinky spat on his hands, and seized the wooden mallet. Cripes, he would show Pinkey which was the better man of the two! He tightened his muscles with tremendous effort as he swung the hammer, turning red in the face with the exertion. The mallet fell, and a little manikin flew up the pillar, marking the weight of the blow. It was a good stroke, and he threw down the hammer with the air of a Sandow.
Then Chook seized the mallet, still with his provoking grin at Pinkey, and swung it with the ease of a man using an axe. The manikin flew level with Stinky’s mark. And they disputed angrily which was the heavier blow. But Stinky, whose blood was up, seized the mallet again, and forced every ounce of his strength into the blow. The manikin flew a foot higher than the previous mark. The contest went on, each striving to beat the other’s mark, with blows that threatened to shatter the machine, till both were tired. But Stinky’s second blow held the record. Chook was beaten.
“Is there any other game yer know?” sneered Stinky.
Near them were the shooting-galleries, looking like enormous chimneys that had blown down. A sharp, spitting crack came from each rifle as it was fired.
“A dollar even money yer can’t ring the bell in six shots,” cried Chook.
“Done!” shouted Stinky.
The stakes, in half-crowns, were handed to the proprietor of the gallery, and they took turns with the pea-rifle, resting their elbows on the ledge as they stared down the black tube at a white disc that seemed miles away. Each held the gun awkwardly like a broom-handle, holding their breath to prevent the barrel from wobbling. At the fifth shot, by a lucky fluke, Chook rang the bell. When he put down the rifle, Stinky was already dragging Pinkey away, his face black with anger. But Chook cried out, “’Ere, ’arf a mo’—this is my shout!”
They were near the ice-cream stall, where trade was brisk, for the people’s appetite for this delicacy is independent of the season. Pinkey, who adored ice-cream, looked with longing eyes, but Stinky turned angrily on his heel.
“’Ave a bit o’ common, an’ don’t make a ’oly show of yerself ’cause yer lost a dollar,” she whispered in disgust.
She pulled him to a seat, and the party sat down to wait their turn. Then the dealer scooped the frozen delicacy out of the can, and plastered it into the glasses as if it were mortar. And they swallowed the icy mixture in silence, allowing it to melt on the tongue to extract the flavour before swallowing. All but Stinky, who held his glass as if it belonged to someone else, disdaining to touch it. Chook’s gorge rose at the sight.
“Don’t eat it, if it chokes yer,” he cried.
With an oath Stinky threw the glass on the ground, where it broke with a noisy crash that jerked every head in their direction as if pulled by strings.
“I can pay fer wot I eat,” he cried. “Come on, Liz.”
The others had sprung to their feet, astonished at this prodigal waste of a delicacy fit for kings. Chook stood for a moment, glowering with rage, and then ran at his enemy; but Pinkey jumped between them.
“You do!—you do!” she cried, pushing him away with the desperate valour of a hen defending her chickens.
“Orl right, not till next time,” said Chook, smiling grimly.
She pulled Stinky by the arm, and they disappeared in the crowd.
“It’s all right, missis; I’ll pay fer the glass,” said Chook to the dealer, who began to jabber excitedly in Italian. The woman began to scrape the pieces of broken glass together, and the sight reminded Chook of the insult. His face darkened.
“Cum on, blokes, an’ see a bit o’ fun,” he cried with a mirthless grin that showed he was dangerously excited.
The three larrikins caught up with Stinky and the girl as they were crossing into Belmore Park. Stinky was explaining to some sympathizers the events that had led up to the quarrel.
“Wot would yous do if a bloke tried to sneak yer moll?” he inquired in an injured tone.
“Break ’is bleedin’ neck,” said Chook as he stepped up.
“When I want yer advice, I’ll ask fer it,” cried Stinky.
“Yer’ll git it now without askin’,” said Chook. “Don’t open yer mouth so wide, or yer’ll ketch cold.”
“I don’t want ter talk ter anybody as ’awks rotten cabbages through the streets,” cried Stinky.
“The cabbages don’t stink worse than some people I’ve met,” Chook replied.
Stinky, who was very touchy on the score of the vile smell of his trade, boiled over.
“Never mind my trade,” he shouted, “I’m as good a man as yous.”
“Garn, that’s only a rumour! I wouldn’t let it git about,” sneered Chook.
The smouldering hate of months burst suddenly into flame, and the two men rushed at each other. The others tried to separate them.
“Don’t be a fool.”
“Yer’ll only git lumbered.”
“’Ere’s the traps.”
But the two enemies, with a sudden twist, broke away from their advisers, and threw off their hats and coats. And as suddenly, the others formed a ring round the two antagonists, who faced each other with the savage intensity of gamecocks, with no thought but to maim and kill the enemy in front of them. A crowd gathered, and Pinkey was pushed to the outside of the ring, where she could only judge the progress of the fight by the cries of the onlookers.
“Use yer left, Chook.”
“Wot price that?”
“Time!”
“Wait fer ’is rush, an’ use yer right.”
“Foller ’im up, Chook.”
“Oh, dry up! I tell yer ’e slipped.”
“Not in the same class, I tell yer.”
“Mix it, Chook—mix it. Yer’ve got ’im beat.”
The last remark was true, for Stinky, in spite of his superior weight and height, was no match for Chook, the cock of Cardigan Street. It was the fifth round, and Chook was waiting for an opening to finish his man before the police came up, when a surprising thing happened. As Stinky retreated in exhaustion before the fists that rattled on his face like drumsticks, his hand struck his enemy’s lower jaw by chance, and the next minute he was amazed to see Chook drop to the ground as if shot. And he stared with open mouth at his opponent, wondering why he didn’t move.
“Gawd, ’e’s stiffened ’im!”
“I ’eard ’is neck crack!”
Stinky stood motionless, his wits scattered by this sudden change—the stillness of his enemy, who a moment ago was beating him down with murderous fists.
“’Ere’s the johns,” cried someone.
“Come on, Liz,” cried Stinky, and turned to run.
“Cum with yous, yer great ’ulkin’, stinkin’ coward,” cried Pinkey, her face crimson with passion, “yer’ll be lucky if y’ain’t hung fer murder.”
Stinky listened in amazement. Here was another change that he was too dazed to understand, and, hastily grabbing his coat, he ran.
Pinkey ran to Chook’s prostrate body, and listened.
“I can ’ear ’im breathin’,” she cried.
The others listened, and the breathing grew louder, a curious, snoring sound.
“Gorblimey! A knockout!”
“’E’ll be right in a few minutes.”
It was true. Stinky, with a haphazard blow, had given Chook the dreaded knockout, a jolt beside the chin that, in the expressive phrase, “sent him to sleep”.
But now the police came up, glad of this chance to show their authority and order the people about. The crowd melted.
Chook’s mates had pulled him into a sitting position, when, to Pinkey’s delight, he opened his eyes and spat out a mouthful of blood.
“W’ere the ’ell am I?” he muttered, like a man awaking from a dream.
“What’s this? You’ve been fighting,” said the policeman.
“Me? No fear,” growled Chook. “I was walkin’ along, quiet as a lamb, when a bloke come up an’ landed me on the jaw.”
“Well, who was he?” asked the policeman.
“I dunno. I never set eyes on ’im before,” said Chook, lying without hesitation to their common enemy, the police.
The policeman looked hard at him, and then cried roughly, “Get out of this, or I’ll lock you up.”
Chook’s mates helped him to his feet, and he staggered away like a drunken man. Suddenly he became aware that someone was crying softly near him, and, turning his head, found that it was Pinkey, who was holding his arm and guiding his steps. He wrenched his arm free with an oath, remembering that she was the cause of his fight and defeat.
“Wot the ’ell are yous doin’ ’ere? Go an’ tell yer bloke I nearly got lumbered.’
“I ain’t got no bloke,” sobbed Pinkey.
“Wotcher mean?” cried Chook.
“I don’t run after people I don’t want,” said Pinkey, smiling through her tears.
“Fair dinkum?” cried Chook.
Pinkey nodded her head, with its crown of hair that glittered like bronze.
Chook stopped to think.
“I’m orl right,” he said to Waxy and Joe; “I’ll ketch up with yer in a minit.” They understood and walked on.
He stood and stared at Pinkey with a scowl that softened imperceptibly into a smile, and then a passionate flame leapt into his eyes.
“Cum ’ere,” he said; and Pinkey obeyed him like a child.
He looked at her with a gloating fondness in his eyes, and then caught her in his arms and kissed her with his bleeding lips.
“Ugh, I’m all over blood!” cried the girl with a shuddering laugh, as she wiped her lips with her handkerchief.
10
JONAH DECLARES WAR
As it promised to be a slack week, Paasch had decided to dress the window himself, as he felt that the goods were not displayed to their proper advantage. This was a perquisite of Jonah’s, for which he was paid eighteenpence extra once a fortnight; but Jonah had deserted him—a fact which he discovered by finding that Jonah’s tools, his only property, were missing.
So he had spent a busy morning in renovating his entire stock with double coats of Peerless Gloss, the stock that the whole neighbourhood knew by sight—the watertight bluchers with soles an inch thick that a woolwasher from Botany had ordered and left on his hands; the pair of kangaroo tops that Pat Riley had ordered the week he was pinched for manslaughter; the pair of flash kid lace-ups, high in the leg, that Katey Brown had thrown at his head because they wouldn’t meet round her thick calves; and half a dozen pairs of misfits into which half the neighbourhood had tried to coax their feet because they were dirt cheap.
But the pride of the collection was a monstrous abortion of a boot, made for a clubfoot, with a sole and heel six inches deep, that had cost Paasch weeks of endless contrivance, and had only one fault—it was as heavy as lead and unwearable. But Paasch clung to it with the affection of a mother for her deformed offspring, and gave it the pride of place in the window. And daily the urchins flattened their noses against the panes, fascinated by this monster of a boot, to see it again in dreams on the feet of horrid giants. This melancholy collection was flanked by odd bottles of polish and blacking, and cards of bootlaces of such unusual strength that elephants were shown vainly trying to break them.
The old man paused in his labours to admire the effect of his new arrangement, and suddenly noticed a group of children gathered about a man painting a sign on the window opposite. Paasch stared; but the words were a blur to his short sight, and he went inside to look for his spectacles, which he had pushed up on his forehead in order to dress the window. By the time he had looked everywhere without finding them, the painter had finished the lettering, and was outlining the figure of something on the window with rapid strokes.
Paasch itched with impatience. He would have crossed the street to look, but he made it a rule never to leave the shop, even for a minute, lest someone should steal the contents in his absence. As he fidgeted with impatience, it occurred to him to ask a small boy, who was passing, what was being painted on the window.
“Why, a boot of course,” replied the child.
Paasch’s amazement was so great that, forgetting the caution of a lifetime, he walked across until the words came into range. What he saw brought him to a standstill in the middle of Botany Road, heedless of the traffic, for the blur of words had resolved themselves into:
JOSEPH JONES,
BOOTMAKER.
Repairs neatly executed.
And, underneath, the pattern of a shoe, which the painter was finishing with rapid strokes.
So, thought Paasch, another had come to share the trade and take the bread out of his mouth, and he choked with the egotistical dread of the shopkeeper at another rival in the struggle for existence. Who could this be? he thought, with the uneasy fear of a man threatened with danger. For the moment he had forgotten Jonah’s real name, and he looked into the shop to size up his adversary with the angry curiosity of a soldier facing the enemy. Then, through the open door, he spied the familiar figure of the hunchback moving about the shop and placing things in order. He swallowed hastily, with the choking sensation of a parent whose child has at last revolted, for his rival was the misshapen boy that he had taken off the streets, and clothed and fed for years. Jonah came to the door for a moment, and, catching sight of the old man, stared at him fixedly without a sign of recognition.