BERKELEY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 CALIFORNIA 
 
TALES OF MEAN STREETS 
 
TALES OF MEAN STREETS 
 
 LIZERUNT 
 
 SQUIRE NAPPER 
 
 WITHOUT VISIBLE MEANS 
 
 THREE ROUNDS 
 
 AND OTHERS 
 
 BY 
 
 ARTHUR MORRISON 
 
 METHUEN & CO. 
 
 36 ESSEX STREET, STRAND 
 
 LONDON 
 
 1894 
 
LOAN STACK 
 
TO 
 WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY 
 
 312 
 
NOTE. The greater number of these stories and 
 studies were first printed in The National Observer; 
 the introduction, in a slightly different form, in 
 Macmillan s Magazine ; That Brute Simmons and 
 1 A Conversion have been published in The Pall 
 Mall Budget ; and The Red Coiv Group is new. 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 A STREET 
 
 HPHIS street is in the East End. There 
 is no need to say in the East End 
 of what. The East End is a vast city, as 
 famous in its way as any the hand of 
 man has made. But who knows the East 
 End? It is down through Cornhill and 
 out beyond Leadenhall Street and Aldgate 
 Pump, one will say : a shocking place, 
 where he once went with a curate ; an 
 evil plexus of slums that hide human 
 creeping things ; where filthy men and 
 
8 INTRODUCTION 
 
 women live on penn orths of gin, where 
 collars and clean shirts are decencies 
 unknown, where every citizen wears a 
 black eye, and none ever combs his 
 hair. The East End is a place, says 
 another, which is given over to the Un 
 employed. And the Unemployed is a 
 race whose token is a clay pipe, and 
 whose enemy is soap : now and again it 
 migrates bodily to Hyde Park with ban 
 ners, and furnishes adjacent police courts 
 with disorderly drunks. Still another 
 knows the East End only as the place 
 whence begging letters come ; there are 
 coal and blanket funds there, all perenni 
 ally insolvent, and everybody always wants 
 a day in the country. Many and misty 
 are people s notions of the East End ; 
 and each is commonly but the distorted 
 shadow of a minor feature. Foul slums 
 
INTRODUCTION 9 
 
 there are in the East End, of course, 
 as there are in the West ; want and 
 misery there are, as wherever a host is 
 gathered together to fight for fcod. But 
 they are not often spectacular in kind. 
 
 Of this street there are about one hun 
 dred and fifty yards on the same pattern 
 all. It is not pretty to look at. A dingy 
 little brick house twenty feet high, with 
 three square holes to carry the windows, 
 and an oblong hole to carry the door, is not 
 a pleasing object ; and each side of this 
 street is formed by two or three score of 
 such houses in a row, with one front wall 
 in common. And the effect is as of 
 stables. 
 
 Round the corner there are a baker s, 
 a chandler s, and a beer-shop. They are 
 not included in the view from any of the 
 rectangular holes ; but they are well known 
 
io INTRODUCTION 
 
 to every denizen, and the chandler goes to 
 church on Sunday and pays for his seat. 
 At the opposite end, turnings lead to 
 streets less rigidly respectable : some 
 where Mangling done here stares from 
 windows, and where doors are left care 
 lessly open ; others where squalid women 
 sit on doorsteps, and girls go to factories 
 in white aprons. Many such turnings, of 
 as many grades of decency, are set be 
 tween this and the nearest slum. 
 
 They are not a very noisy or obtrusive 
 lot in this street. They do not go to 
 Hyde Park with banners, and they seldom 
 fight. It is just possible that one or two 
 among them, at some point in a life of 
 ups and downs, may have been indebted 
 to a coal and blanket fund ; but whoso 
 ever these may be, they would rather die 
 than publish the disgrace, and it is prob- 
 
INTRODUCTION n 
 
 able that they very nearly did so ere 
 submitting to it. 
 
 Some who inhabit this street are in the 
 docks, some in the gasworks, some in 
 one or other of the few shipbuilding yards 
 that yet survive on the Thames. Two 
 families in a house is the general rule, for 
 there are six rooms behind each set of 
 holes : this, unless young men lodgers 
 are taken in, or there are grown sons 
 paying for bed and board. As for the 
 grown daughters, they marry as soon as 
 may be. Domestic service is a social 
 descent, and little under millinery and 
 dressmaking is compatible with self-respect. 
 The general servant may be caught young 
 among the turnings at the end where 
 mangling is done; and the factory girls 
 live still further off, in places skirting 
 slums. 
 
12 INTRODUCTION 
 
 Every morning at half-past five there 
 is a curious demonstration. The street 
 resounds with thunderous knockings, re 
 peated upon door after door, and ack 
 nowledged ever by a muffled shout from 
 within. These signals are the work of 
 the night-watchman or the early police 
 man, or both, and they summon the 
 sleepers to go forth to the docks, the 
 gasworks, and the ship-yards. To be 
 awakened in this wise costs fourpence a 
 week, and for this fourpence a fierce 
 rivalry rages between night-watchmen and 
 policemen. The night - watchman a sort 
 of by-blow of the ancient Charley, and 
 himself a fast vanishing quantity is the real 
 professional performer ; but he goes to the 
 wall, because, a large connection must be 
 worked if the pursuit is to pay at four- 
 fourpence a knocker. Now, it is not easy 
 
INTRODUCTION 13 
 
 to bang at two knockers three-quarters of 
 a mile apart, and a hundred others lying 
 between, all punctually at half-past five. 
 Wherefore the policeman, to whom the 
 fourpence is but a perquisite, and who is 
 content with a smaller round, is rapidly 
 supplanting the night-watchman, whose 
 cry of Past nine o clock, as he collects 
 orders in the evening, is now seldom heard, 
 The knocking and the shouting pass, 
 and there comes the noise of opening and 
 shutting of doors, and a clattering away to 
 the docks, the gasworks and the ship-yards. 
 Later more door-shutting is heard, and 
 then the trotting of sorrow-laden little feet 
 along the grim street to the grim Board 
 School three grim streets off. Then 
 silence, save for a subdued sound of scrub 
 bing here and there, and the puny squall of 
 croupy infants. After this, a new trotting 
 
i 4 INTRODUCTION 
 
 of little feet to docks, gasworks, and ship 
 yards with father s dinner in a basin and a 
 red handkerchief, and so to the Board 
 School again. More muffled scrubbing 
 and more squalling, and perhaps a feeble 
 attempt or two at decorating the blankness 
 of a square hole here and there by pouring 
 water into a grimy flower-pot full of dirt. 
 Then comes the trot of litde feet toward 
 the oblong holes, heralding the slower tread 
 of sooty artisans ; a smell of bloater up 
 and down ; nightfall ; the fighting of boys 
 in the street, perhaps of men at the corner 
 near the beer - shop ; sleep. And this is 
 the record of a day in this street; and 
 every day is hopelessly the same. 
 
 Every day, that is, but Sunday. On 
 Sunday morning a smell of cooking floats 
 round the corner from the half-shut baker s, 
 and the little feet trot down the street 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 under steaming burdens of beef, 
 and batter pudding the lucky little feet 
 these, with Sunday boots on them, when 
 father is in good work and has brought 
 home all his money; not the poor little 
 feet in worn shoes, carrying little bodies in 
 the thread-bare clothes of all the week, 
 when father is out of work, or IB, or 
 drunk, and the Sunday cooking may vcxf 
 easily be done at home if any there be 
 to do. 
 
 On Sunday morning one or two heads 
 of families appear in wonderful Mack suits, 
 with unnumbered creases and wrinklings at 
 the seams. At their sides and about their 
 beds trot the umcstiug little fed; and 
 from under painful little velvet caps and 
 straw hats stare solemn little faces towelled 
 to a polish. Thus HLcpyaMl and arrayed. 
 they fare gravely through die gran 
 
1 6 INTRODUCTION 
 
 little streets to a grim Little Bethel where 
 are gathered together others in like garb 
 and attendance ; and for two hours they 
 endure the frantic menace of hell-fire. 
 
 Most of the men, however, lie in shirt 
 and trousers on their beds and read the 
 Sunday paper ; while some are driven forth 
 for they hinder the housework to loaf, 1 
 and await the opening of the beer-shop 
 round the corner. Thus goes Sunday in 
 this street, and every Sunday is the same 
 as every other Sunday, so that one mono 
 tony is broken with another. For the 
 women, however, Sunday is much as other 
 days, except that there is rather more work 
 for them. The break in their round of the 
 week is washing day. 
 
 No event in the outer world makes any 
 impression in this street. Nations may 
 rise, or may totter in ruin ; but here the 
 
INTRODUCTION 1 7 
 
 colourless day will work through its twenty- 
 four hours just as it did yesterday, and just 
 as it will to-morrow. Without there may 
 be party strife, wars and rumours of wars, 
 public rejoicings ; but the trotting of the 
 little feet will be neither quickened nor 
 stayed. Those quaint little women, the girl- 
 children of this street, who use a motherly 
 management toward all girl-things younger 
 than themselves, and toward all boys as old 
 or older, with Bless the child ! or Drat 
 the children ! - those" quaint little women 
 will still go marketing with big baskets, 
 and will regard the price of bacon as chief 
 among human considerations. Nothing dis 
 turbs this street nothing but a strike. 
 
 Nobody laughs here life is too serious 
 a thing ; nobody sings. There was once 
 a woman who sang a young wife from 
 the country. But she bore children, and 
 
1 8 INTRODUCTION 
 
 her voice cracked. Then her man died, 
 and she sang no more. They took away 
 her home, and with her children about 
 her skirts she left this street for ever. 
 The other women did not think much 
 of her. She was helpless. 
 
 One of the square holes in this street- 
 one of the single, ground-floor holes is 
 found, on individual examination, to differ 
 from the others. There has been an at 
 tempt to make it into a shop-window. Half 
 a dozen candles, a few sickly sugarsticks, 
 certain shrivelled bloaters, some bootlaces, 
 and a bundle or two of firewood compose a 
 stock which at night is sometimes lighted by 
 a little paraffin lamp in a tin sconce, and 
 sometimes by a candle. A widow lives 
 here a gaunt, bony widow, with sunken, 
 red eyes. She has other sources of income 
 than the candles and the bootlaces : she 
 
INTRODUCTION 19 
 
 washes and chars all day, and she sews 
 cheap shirts at night. Two * young men 
 lodgers, moreover, sleep upstairs, and the 
 children sleep in the back room ; she herself 
 is supposed not to sleep at all. The police 
 man does not knock here in the morn 
 ing the widow wakes the lodgers herself; 
 and nobody in the street behind ever 
 looks out of window before going to bed, 
 no matter how late, without seeing a light 
 in the widow s room where she plies her 
 needle. She is a quiet woman, who speaks 
 little with her neighbours, having other 
 things to do : a woman of pronounced 
 character, to whom it would be unadvis- 
 able even dangerous to offer coals or 
 blankets. Hers was the strongest contempt 
 for the helpless woman who sang: a con 
 tempt whose added bitterness might be 
 traced to its source. For when the sing- 
 
20 INTRODUCTION 
 
 ing woman was marketing, from which door 
 of the pawnshop had she twice met the 
 widow coming forth ? 
 
 This is not a dirty street, taken as a 
 whole. The widow s house is one of the 
 cleanest, and the widow s children match 
 the house. The one house cleaner than 
 the widow s is ruled by a despotic Scotch 
 woman, who drives every hawker off her 
 whitened step, and rubs her door handle 
 if a hand have rested on it. The Scotch 
 woman has made several attempts to 
 accommodate young men lodgers, but 
 they have ended in shrill rows. 
 
 There is no house without children in 
 this street, and the number of them grows 
 ever and ever greater. Nine-tenths of 
 the doctor s visits are on this account 
 alone, and his appearances are the chief 
 matter of such conversation as the women 
 
INTRODUCTION 21 
 
 make across the fences. One after an 
 other the little strangers come, to live 
 through lives as flat and colourless as 
 the day s life in this street. Existence 
 dawns, and the doctor-watchman s door 
 knock resounds along the row of rect 
 angular holes. Then a muffled cry an 
 nounces that a small new being has come 
 to trudge and sweat its way in the ap 
 pointed groove. Later, the trotting of little 
 feet and the school ; the mid-day play hour, 
 when love peeps even into this street ; 
 after that more trotting of little feet 
 strange little feet, new little feet and the 
 scrubbing, and the squalling, and the barren 
 flower-pot ; the end of the sooty day s work ; 
 the last home-coming ; nightfall ; sleep. 
 
 When love s light falls into some corner 
 of the street, it falls at an early hour of 
 this mean life, and is itself but a dusty 
 
22 INTRODUCTION 
 
 ray. It falls early, because it is the sole 
 bright thing which the street sees, and is 
 watched for and counted on. Lads and 
 lasses, awkwardly arm-in-arm, go pacing 
 up and down this street, before the 
 natural interest in marbles and doll s houses 
 would have left them in a brighter place. 
 They are keeping company ; the manner 
 of which proceeding is indigenous is 
 a custom native to the place. The 
 young people first walk out in pairs. 
 There is no exchange of promises, no 
 troth-plight, no engagement, no love-talk. 
 They patrol the streets side by side, 
 usually in silence, sometimes with fatuous 
 chatter. There are no dances, no tennis, 
 no water-parties, no picnics to bring them 
 together : so they must walk out, or be 
 unacquainted. If two of them grow dis 
 satisfied with each other s company, nothing 
 
INTRODUCTION 23 
 
 is easier than to separate and walk out 
 with somebody else. When by these means 
 each has found a fit mate (or thinks so), 
 a ring is bought, and the odd association 
 becomes a regular engagement ; but this is 
 not until the walking out has endured for 
 many months. The two stages of courtship 
 are spoken of indiscriminately as keep 
 ing company, but a very careful distinc 
 tion is drawn between them by the parties 
 concerned. Nevertheless, in the walking 
 out period it would be almost as great a 
 breach of faith for either to walk out with 
 more than one, as it would be if the full 
 engagement had been made. And love- 
 making in this street is a dreary thing, 
 when one thinks of love-making in other 
 places. It begins and it ends too soon. 
 Nobody from this street goes to the 
 theatre. That would mean a Ion 
 
24 INTRODUCTION 
 
 journey, and it would cost money which 
 might buy bread and beer and boots. For 
 those, too, who wear black Sunday suits 
 it would be sinful. Nobody reads poetry 
 or romance. The very words are foreign. 
 A Sunday paper in some few houses pro 
 vides such reading as this street is dis 
 posed to achieve. Now and again a 
 penny novel has been found among the 
 private treasures of a growing daughter, 
 and has been wrathfully confiscated. For 
 the air of this street is unfavourable to 
 the ideal. 
 
 Yet there are aspirations. There has 
 lately come into the street a young man 
 lodger who belongs to a Mutual Improve 
 ment Society. Membership in this society 
 is regarded as a sort of learned degree, 
 and at its meetings debates are held and 
 papers smugly read by lamentably self- 
 
INTRODUCTION 25 
 
 satisfied young men lodgers, whose only 
 preparation for debating and writing is a 
 fathomless ignorance. For ignorance is 
 the inevitable portion of dwellers here : 
 seeing nothing, reading nothing, and con 
 sidering nothing. 
 
 Where in the East End lies this street? 
 Everywhere. The hundred-and-fifty yards is 
 only a link in a long and a mightily 
 tangled chain is only a turn in a tortuous 
 maze. This street of the square holes is 
 hundreds of miles long. That it is planned 
 in short lengths is true, but there is no 
 other way in the world that can more 
 properly be called a single street, because 
 of its dismal lack of accent, its sordid uni 
 formity, its utter remoteness from delight. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 LfZERUNT 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I. LIZER S WOOING . . . . 31 
 
 II. LIZER S FIRST .... 42 
 
 III. A CHANGE OF CIRCUMSTANCES , . 52 
 
 WITHOUT VISIBLE MEANS ... 65 
 
 TO BOW BRIDGE ...... 85 
 
 THAT BRUTE SIMMONS .... 97 
 
 BEHIND THE SHADE , . .- . . . 11$ 
 
 THREE ROUNDS . . v ". . . I3 1 
 
 IN BUSINESS . . " . 155 
 
 THE RED COW GROUP . 173 
 
 ON THE STAIRS .... 199 
 
 SQUIRE NAPPER ... 211 
 
 A POOR STICK . . 2 43 
 
 A CONVERSION . 255 
 
 ALL THAT MESSUAGE ..... 273 
 
LIZERUNT 
 
LIZERUNT 
 
 i 
 
 LIZER S WOOING 
 
 QOMEWHERE in the register was written 
 the name Elizabeth Hunt ; but seventeen 
 years after the entry the spoken name was 
 Lizerunt. Lizerunt worked at a pickle factory, 
 and appeared abroad in an elaborate and shabby 
 costume, usually supplemented by a white apron. 
 Withal she was something of a beauty. That 
 is to say, her cheeks were very red, her teeth 
 were very large and \vhite, her nose was small 
 and snub, and her fringe was long and shiny ; 
 while her face, new-washed, was susceptible of a 
 
 31 
 
32 LIZERUNT 
 
 high polish. Many such girls are married at 
 sixteen, but Lizerunt was belated, and had 
 never a bloke at all. 
 
 Billy Chope was a year older than Lizerunt. 
 He wore a billycock with a thin brim and a 
 permanent dent in the crown ; he had a bob 
 tail coat, with the collar turned up at one side 
 and down at the other, as an expression of 
 independence ; between his meals he carried his 
 hands in his breeches pockets ; and he lived with 
 his mother, who mangled. His conversation with 
 Lizerunt consisted long of perfunctory nods ; 
 but great things happened this especial Thursday 
 evening, as Lizerunt, making for home, followed 
 the fading red beyond the furthermost end of 
 Commercial Road. For Billy Chope, slouching 
 in the opposite direction, lurched across the 
 pavement as they met, and taking the nearer 
 hand from his pocket, caught and twisted her 
 arm, bumping her against the wall. 
 
 ( Garn/ said Lizerunt, greatly pleased : le 
 go ! For she knew that this was love. 
 
LIZERUNT 33 
 
 Where yer auf to, Lizer ? a 
 
 Ome, o course, cheeky. Le go; and she 
 snatched in vain at Billy s hat. 
 
 Billy let go, and capered in front of her. She 
 feigned to dodge by him, careful not to be too 
 quick, because affairs were developing. 
 
 I say, Lizer, said Billy, stopping his dance 
 and becoming business - like, * goin anywhere 
 Monday ? 
 
 6 Not along o you, cheeky ; you go long o 
 Beller Dawson, like wot you did Easter. 
 
 BlowBeller Dawson; she ain t no good. I m 
 goin on the Flats. Come ? 
 
 Lizerunt, delighted but derisive, ended with a 
 promise to see. The bloke had come at last, 
 and she walked home with the feeling of having 
 taken her degree. She had half assured herself 
 of it two days before, when Sam Cardew threw 
 an orange peel at her, but went away after a little 
 prancing on the pavement. Sam was a smarter 
 fellow than Billy, and earned his own living ; 
 
 probably his attentions were serious ; but one 
 
 C 
 
34 LIZERUNT 
 
 must prefer the bird in hand. As for Billy 
 Chope, he went his way, resolved himself to 
 take home what mangling he should find his 
 mother had finished, and stick to the money ; 
 also, to get all he could from her by blandishing 
 and bullying : that the jaunt to Wanstead Flats 
 might be adequately done. 
 
 There is no other fair like Whit Monday s 
 on Wanstead Flats. Here is a square mile and 
 more of open land where you may howl at 
 large ; here is no danger of losing yourself as 
 in Epping Forest ; the public-houses are always 
 with you ; shows, shies, swings, merry-go-rounds, 
 fried fish stalls, donkeys are packed closer than 
 on Hampstead Heath; the ladies tormentors 
 are larger, and their contents smell worse than 
 at any other fair. Also, you may be drunk 
 and disorderly without being locked up, for the 
 stations won t hold everybody, and when all 
 else has palled, you may set fire to the turf. 
 Hereinto Billy and Lizerunt projected them- 
 
LIZERUNT 35 
 
 selves from the doors of the Holly Tree on 
 Whit Monday morning. But through hours on 
 hours of fried fish and half-pints both were con 
 scious of a deficiency. For the hat of Lizerunt 
 was brown and old ; plush it was not, and its 
 feather was a mere foot long and of a very 
 rusty black. Now, it is not decent for a factory 
 girl from Limehouse to go bank-holidaying under 
 any but a hat of plush, very high in the crown, 
 of a wild blue or a wilder green, and carrying 
 withal an ostrich feather, pink or scarlet or what 
 not ; a feather that springs from the fore-part, 
 climbs the crown, and drops as far down the 
 shoulders as may be. Lizerunt knew this, and, had 
 she had no bloke, would have stayed at home. 
 But a chance is a chance. As it was, only another 
 such hapless girl could measure her bitter envy 
 of the feathers about her, or would so joyfully 
 have given an ear for the proper splendour. Billy, 
 too, had a vague impression, muddled by but 
 not drowned in half-pints, that some degree of 
 plush was condign to the occasion and to his 
 
36 LIZERUNT 
 
 own expenditure. Still, there was no quarrel ; 
 and the pair walked and ran with arms about 
 each other s necks ; and Lizerunt thumped her 
 bloke on the back at proper intervals ; so that 
 the affair went regularly on the whole : although, 
 in view of Lizerunt s shortcomings, Billy did not 
 insist on the customary exchange of hats. 
 
 Everything, I say, went well and well enough 
 until Billy bought a ladies tormentor and began 
 to squirt it at Lizerunt. For then Lizerunt went 
 scampering madly, with piercing shrieks, until 
 her bloke was left some little way behind, and 
 Sam Cardew, turning up at that moment and 
 seeing her running alone in the crowd, threw his 
 arms about her waist and swung her round him 
 again and again, as he floundered gallantly 
 this way and that, among the shies and the 
 hokey-pokey barrows. 
 
 * Ullo, Lizer ! Where are y a-comin to ? If I 
 adn t laid old o ye ! But here Billy Chope 
 arrived to demand what the ell Sam Cardew 
 was doing with his gal. Now Sam was ever 
 
LIZERUNT 37 
 
 readier for a fight than Billy was; but the sum 
 of Billy s half-pints was large : wherefore the 
 fight began. On the skirt of an hilarious ring 
 Lizerunt, after some small outcry, triumphed 
 aloud. Four days before, she had no bloke ; 
 and here she stood with two, and those two 
 fighting for her ! Here in the public gaze, on 
 the Flats ! For almost five minutes she was 
 Helen of Troy. 
 
 And in much less time Billy tasted repentance, 
 The haze of half-pints was dispelled, and some 
 teeth went with it. Presently, whimpering and 
 with a bloody muzzle, he rose and made a run 
 ning kick at the other. Then, being thwarted in a 
 bolt, he flung himself down ; and it was like to go 
 hard with him at the hands of the crowd. Punch 
 you may on Wanstead Flats, but execration and 
 worse is your portion if you kick anybody except 
 your wife. But, as the ring closed, the helmets 
 of two policemen were seen to be working in 
 over the surrounding heads, and Sam Cardew, 
 quickly assuming his coat, turned away with such 
 
38 LIZERUNT 
 
 an air of blamelessness as is practicable with a 
 damaged eye; while Billy went off unheeded in 
 an opposite direction. 
 
 Lizerunt and her new bloke went the routine of 
 half-pints and merry-go-rounds, and were soon on 
 right thumping terms ; and Lizerunt was as well 
 satisfied with the issue as she was proud of the 
 adventure. Billy was all very well ; but Sam was 
 better. She resolved to draw him for a feathered 
 hat before next bank holiday. So the sun went 
 down on her and her bloke hanging on each 
 other s necks and straggling toward the Romford 
 Road with shouts and choruses. The rest was 
 tram-car, Bow Music Hall, half - pints, and 
 darkness. 
 
 Billy took home his wounds, and his mother, 
 having moved his wrath by asking their origin, 
 sought refuge with a neighbour. He accomplished 
 his revenge in two instalments. Two nights 
 later Lizerunt was going with a jug of beer; 
 when somebody sprang from a dark corner, 
 
LIZERUNT 39 
 
 landed her under the ear, knocked her sprawling ; 
 and made off to the sound of her lamentations, 
 She did not see who it was, but she knew; and 
 next day Sam Cardew was swearing he d break 
 Billy s back. He did not, however, for that same 
 evening a gang of seven or eight fell on him 
 with sticks and belts. (They were Causeway 
 chaps, while Sam was a Brady s Laner, which 
 would have been reason enough by itself, even 
 if Billy Chope had not been one of them). Sam 
 did his best for a burst through and a run, but 
 they pulled and battered him down ; and they 
 kicked him about the head, and they kicked 
 him about the belly ; and they took to their heels 
 when he was speechless and still. 
 
 He lay at home for near four weeks, and when 
 he stood up again it was in many bandages. 
 Lizerunt came often to his bedside, and twice 
 she brought an orange. On these occasions 
 there was much talk of vengeance. But the 
 weeks went on. It was a month since Sam had 
 left his bed ; and Lizerunt was getting a little 
 
40 LIZERUNT 
 
 tired of bandages. Also, she had begun to 
 doubt and to consider bank holiday scarce a 
 fortnight off. For Sam was stone broke, and 
 a plush hat was further away than ever. And 
 all through the later of these weeks Billy Chope 
 was harder than ever on his mother, and she, 
 well knowing that if he helped her by taking 
 home he would pocket the money at the other 
 end, had taken to finishing and delivering in his 
 absence, and, threats failing to get at the money, 
 Billy Chope was impelled to punch her head 
 and gripe her by the throat. 
 
 There was a milliner s window, with a show 
 of nothing but fashionable plush-and-feather hats, 
 and Lizerunt was lingering hereabouts one even 
 ing ; when someone took her by the waist, and 
 someone said, Which d yer like, Lizer ? The 
 yuller un ? 
 
 Lizerunt turned and saw that it was Billy. 
 She pulled herself away, and backed off, sullen 
 and distrustful. Garn, she said. 
 
LIZERUNT 41 
 
 Straight/ said Billy, c I ll sport yer one. . . . 
 No kid, I will. 1 
 
 1 Garn/ said Lizerunt once more. c Wot yer 
 gittin at now ? 
 
 But presently, being convinced that bashing 
 wasn t in it, she approached less guardedly; and 
 she went away with a paper bag and the reddest 
 of all the plushes and the bluest of all the 
 feathers ; a hat that challenged all the Flats 
 the next bank holiday, a hat for which no girl 
 need have hesitated to sell her soul. As for 
 Billy, why, he was as good as another ; and you 
 can t have everything ; and Sam Cardew, with 
 his bandages and his grunts and groans, was no 
 great catch after all. 
 
 This was the wooing of Lizerunt : for in a few 
 months she and Billy married under the blessing 
 of a benignant rector, who periodically set aside 
 a day for free weddings, and, on principle, en 
 couraged early matrimony. And they lived with 
 Billy s mother. 
 
II 
 
 LIZER S FIRST 
 
 TT 7 HEN Billy Chope married Lizerunt there 
 was a small rejoicing. There was no 
 wedding-party; because it was considered that 
 what there might be to drink would be better in 
 the family. Lizerunt s father was not, and her 
 mother felt no interest in the affair; not having 
 seen her daughter for a year, and happening, at 
 the time, to have a month s engagement in respect 
 of a drunk and disorderly. So that there were 
 but three of them ; and Billy Chope got ex 
 ceedingly tipsy early in the day ; and in the 
 evening his bride bawled a continual chorus, while 
 his mother, influenced by that unwonted quartern 
 of gin the occasion sanctioned, wept dismally over 
 
 her boy, who was much too far gone to resent it. 
 
 42 
 
LIZERUNT 43 
 
 His was the chief reason for rejoicing. For 
 Lizerunt had always been able to extract ten 
 shillings a week from the pickle factory, and it 
 was to be presumed that as Lizer Chope her 
 earning capacity would not diminish ; and the 
 wages would make a very respectable addition 
 to the precarious revenue, depending on the 
 mangle, that Billy extorted from his mother. As 
 for Lizer, she was married. That was the con 
 siderable thing ; for she was but a few months 
 short of eighteen, and that, as you know, is a 
 little late. 
 
 Of course there were quarrels very soon ; for 
 the new Mrs Chope, less submissive at first 
 than her mother-in-law, took a little breaking 
 in, and a liberal renewal of the manual treat 
 ment once applied in her courting days. But 
 the quarrels between the women were comfort 
 ing to Billy : a diversion and a source of better 
 service. 
 
 As soon as might be Lizer took the way of 
 womankind. This circumstance brought an un- 
 
44 LIZERUNT 
 
 expected half-crown from the evangelical rector 
 who had married the couple gratis ; for recognis 
 ing Billy in the street by accident, and being told 
 of Mrs Chope s prospects, as well as that Billy 
 was out of work (a fact undeniable), he reflected 
 that his principles did on occasion lead to dis 
 comfort of a material sort. And Billy, to whose 
 comprehension the half-crown opened a new field 
 of receipt, would doubtless have long remained 
 a client of the rector, had not that zealot hastened 
 to discover a vacancy for a warehouse porter, the 
 offer of presentation whereunto alienated Billy 
 Chope for ever. But there were meetings and 
 demonstrations of the Unemployed ; and it was 
 said that shillings had been given away; and, as 
 being at a meeting in a street was at least as 
 amusing as being in a street where there was no 
 meeting, Billy often went, on the off chance. But 
 his lot was chiefly disappointment : wherefore he 
 became more especially careful to furnish himself 
 ere he left home. 
 
 For certain weeks cash came less freely than ever 
 
LIZERUNT 45 
 
 from the two women. Lizer spoke of providing 
 for the necessities of the expected child : a mani 
 festly absurd procedure, as Billy pointed out, 
 since, if they were unable to clothe or feed it, 
 the duty would fall on its grandmother. That 
 was law, and nobody could get over it. But 
 even with this argument, a shilling cost him 
 many more demands and threats than it had 
 used, and a deal more general trouble. 
 
 At last Lizer ceased from going to the pickle 
 factory, and could not even help Billy s mother 
 at the mangle for long. This lasted for near a 
 week, when Billy, rising at ten with a bad mouth, 
 resolved to stand no nonsense, and demanded 
 two shillings. 
 
 Two bob ? Wot for ? Lizer asked. 
 
 Cos I want it. None o yer lip. 
 
 1 Ain t got it, said Lizer sulkily. 
 
 That s a bleed n lie. 
 
 Lie yerself. 
 
 I ll break y in arves, ye blasted eifer ! He 
 ran at her throat and forced her back over a 
 
46 LIZERUNT 
 
 chair. Til pull yer face auf! If y don t give 
 me the money, gawblimy, I ll do for ye ! 
 
 Lizer strained and squalled. c Le go ! You ll 
 kill me an the kid too ! she grunted hoarsely. 
 Billy s mother ran in and threw her arms about 
 him, dragging him away. Don t Billy/ she said, 
 in terror. Don t Billy not now ! You ll get in 
 trouble. Come away ! She might go auf, an 
 you d get in trouble ! 
 
 Billy Chope flung his wife over and turned to 
 his mother. Take yer ands auf me, he said : 
 go on, or I ll gi ye somethin for yerself And 
 he punched her in the breast by way of illus 
 tration. 
 
 You shall ave what I ve got, Billy, if it s 
 money, the mother said. But don t go an git 
 yerself in trouble, don t. Will a shillin do ? 
 
 No, it won t. Think I m a bloomin kid ? I 
 mean avin two bob this mornin . 
 
 I was a-keepin it for the rent, Billy, but 
 
 Yus ; think o the bleed n lan lord fore me 
 doncher ? And he pocketed the two shillings. 
 
LIZERUNT 47 
 
 1 ain t settled with you yut, my gal, he added 
 to Lizer ; mikin about at ome an idin money. 
 You wait a bit. 
 
 Lizer had climbed into an erect position, and, 
 gravid and slow, had got as far as the passage. 
 Mistaking this for a safe distance, she replied 
 with defiant railings. Billy made for her with a 
 kick that laid her on the lower stairs, and, swing 
 ing his legs round his mother as she obstructed 
 him, entreating him not to get in trouble, he 
 attempted to kick again in a more telling spot. 
 But a movement among the family upstairs and 
 a tap at the door hinted of interference, and he 
 took himself off. 
 
 Lizer lay doubled up on the stairs, howling : 
 but her only articulate cry was, Gawd elp me, 
 it s comin ! 
 
 Billy went to the meeting of the Unemployed, 
 and cheered a proposal to storm the Tower of 
 London. But he did not join the procession 
 following a man with a handkerchief on a stick, 
 who promised destruction to every policeman in 
 
48 LIZERUNT 
 
 his path: for he knew the fate of such proces 
 sions. With a few others he hung about the 
 nearest tavern for a while, on the chance of the 
 advent of a flush sailor from St Katharine s, dis 
 posed to treat out-o -workers. Then he went 
 alone to a quieter beer-house and took a pint 
 or two at his own expense. A glance down the 
 music-hall bills hanging in the bar having given 
 him a notion for the evening, he bethought him 
 self of dinner, and made for home. 
 
 The front door was open, and in the first room, 
 where the mangle stood, there were no signs of 
 dinner. And this was at three o cock ! Billy 
 pushed into the room behind, demanding why. 
 
 1 Billy, Lizer said faintly from her bed, look 
 at the baby ! 
 
 Something was moving feebly under a flannel 
 petticoat. Billy pulled the petticoat aside, and 
 said, That? Well, it is a measly snipe. It 
 was a blind, hairless homunculus, short of a foot 
 long, with a skinny face set in a great skull. 
 There was a black bruise on one side from hip 
 
LIZERUNT 49 
 
 to armpit. Billy dropped the petticoat and 
 said, Where s my dinner ? 
 
 I dunno/ Lizer responded hazily. Wot s the 
 time ? 
 
 Time ? Don t try to kid me. You git up ; 
 go on. I want my dinner. 
 
 Mother s gittin it, I think/ said Lizer. c Doc 
 tor had to slap im like anythink fore e d cry. 
 E don t cry now much. E 
 
 Go on ; out ye git. I do want no more damn 
 jaw. Git my dinner. 
 
 I m a-gittin of it, Billy/ his mother said, at 
 the door. She had begun when he first entered. 
 * It won t be a minute. 
 
 You come ere ; y aint alwis s ready to do er 
 work, are ye ? She ain t no call to stop there no 
 longer, an I owe er one for this mornin . Will 
 ye git out, or shall I kick ye ? 
 
 She can t, Billy/ his mother said. And Lizer 
 snivelled and said, You re a damn brute. Y ought 
 to be bleedin well booted. 
 
 But Billy had her by the shoulders and began 
 D 
 
50 LIZERUNT 
 
 to haul ; and again his mother besought him to 
 remember what he might bring upon himself. At 
 this moment the doctor s dispenser, a fourth-year 
 London Hospital student of many inches, who 
 had been washing his hands in the kitchen, came 
 in. For a moment he failed to comprehend the 
 scene. Then he took Billy Chope by the collar, 
 hauled him pell-mell along the passage, kicked 
 him (hard) into the gutter, and shut the door. 
 
 When he returned to the room, Lizer, sitting 
 up and holding on by the bed - frame, gasped 
 hysterically : Ye bleedin makeshift, I d J ave yer 
 liver out if I could reach ye ! You touch my 
 usband, ye long pisenin ound you ! Ow ! 
 And, infirm of aim, she flung a cracked teacup 
 at his head. Billy s mother said, Y ought to 
 be ashamed of yourself, you low blaggard. If 
 is father was alive e d knock yer ead auf. Call 
 yourself a doctor a passel o boys ! Git out ! 
 Go out o my ouse or I ll give y in charge ! 
 
 But why, hang it, he d have killed her. 
 Then to Lizer Lie down, 
 
LIZERUNT 5I 
 
 Sha n t lay down. Keep auf ! if you come near 
 me I ll corpse ye. You go while ye re safe ! 
 
 The dispenser appealed to Billy s mother. For 
 God s sake make her lie down. She ll kill her 
 self. I ll go. Perhaps the doctor had better 
 come. And he went : leaving the coast clear for 
 Billy Chope to return and avenge his kicking. 
 
Ill 
 
 A CHANGE OF CIRCUMSTANCES 
 
 T IZER was some months short of twenty- 
 one when her third child was born. The 
 pickle factory had discarded her some time before, 
 and since that her trade had consisted in odd jobs 
 of charing. Odd jobs of charing have a shade 
 the better of a pickle factory in the matter of re 
 spectability, but they are precarious, and they arc 
 worse paid at that. In the East End they are 
 sporadic and few. Moreover, it is in the house 
 hold where paid help is a rarity that the bitter 
 ness of servitude is felt. Also, the uncertainty 
 and irregularity of the returns were a trouble to 
 Billy Chope. He was never sure of having got 
 them all. It might be ninepence, or a shilling, or 
 
 eighteenpence. Once or twice, to his knowledge, 
 
 52 
 
LIZERUNT 53 
 
 it had been half-a-crown, from a chance job at a 
 doctor s or a parson s, and once it was three 
 shillings. That it might be half-a-crown or three 
 shillings again, and that some of it was being kept 
 back, was ever the suspicion evoked by Lizer s 
 evening homing. Plainly, with these fluctuating 
 and uncertain revenues, more bashing than ever 
 was needed to ensure the extraction of the last 
 copper; empty-handedness called for bashing on 
 its own account ; so that it was often Lizer s hap 
 to be refused a job because of a black eye. 
 
 Lizer s self was scarcely what it had been. The 
 red of her cheeks, once bounded only by the eyes 
 and the mouth, had shrunk to a spot in the depth 
 of each hollow ; gaps had been driven in her 
 big white teeth ; even the snub nose had run to 
 a point, and the fringe hung dry and ragged, 
 while the bodily outline was as a sack s. At 
 home, the children lay in her arms or tumbled 
 at her heels, puling and foul. Whenever she was 
 near it, there was the mangle to be turned ; for 
 lately Billy s mother had exhibited a strange 
 
54 LIZERUNT 
 
 weakness, sometimes collapsing with a gasp in 
 the act of brisk or prolonged exertion, and often 
 leaning on whatever stood hard by and grasping 
 at her side. This ailment she treated, when she 
 had twopence, in such terms as made her smell 
 of gin and peppermint; and more than once this 
 circumstance had inflamed the breast of Billy her 
 son, who was morally angered by this boozing 
 away of money that was really his. 
 
 Lizer s youngest, being seven or eight months 
 old, was mostly taking care of itself, when Billy 
 made a welcome discovery after a hard and pinch 
 ing day. The night was full of blinding wet, 
 and the rain beat on the window as on a drum. 
 Billy sat over a small fire in the front room 
 smoking his pipe, while his mother folded clothes 
 for delivery. He stamped twice on the hearth, 
 and then, drawing off his boot, he felt inside it. 
 It was a nail. The poker-head made a good 
 anvil, and, looking about for a hammer, Billy 
 bethought him of a brick from the mangle. He 
 rose, and, lifting the lid of the weight-box, groped 
 
LIZERUNT 55 
 
 about among the clinkers and the other ballast 
 till he came upon a small but rather heavy paper 
 parcel. Ere wot s this ? he said, and pulled 
 it out. 
 
 His mother, whose back had been turned, 
 hastened across the room, hand to breast (it had 
 got to be her habit). What is it, Billy? she 
 said. Not that : there s nothing there. I ll get 
 anything you want, Billy. And she made a 
 nervous catch at the screw of paper. But Billy 
 fended her off, and tore the package open. It 
 was money, arranged in little columns of farthings, 
 halfpence, and threepenny pieces, with a few 
 sixpences, a shilling or two, and a single half- 
 sovereign. O/ said Billy, this is the game, 
 is it ? idin money in the mangle ! Got any 
 more ? And he hastily turned the brickbats. 
 
 * No, Billy, don t take that don t ! implored 
 his mother. There ll be some money for them 
 things when they go ome ave that. I m savin 
 it, Billy, for something partic ler : s elp me Gawd, 
 I am, Billy. 
 
56 LIZERUNT 
 
 Yus, replied Billy, raking diligently among 
 the clinkers, c savin it for a good oP booze. An 
 now you won t ave one. Bleedin nice thing, 
 idin money away from yer own son ! 
 
 It ain t for that, Billy s elp me, it ain t ; it s 
 case anythink appens to me. On y to put me 
 away decent, Billy, that s all. We never know, 
 an you ll be glad of it t elp bury me if I should 
 go any time 
 
 * I ll be glad of it now/ answered Billy, who 
 had it in his pocket ; an I ve got it. You ain t 
 a dyin sort, you ain t ; an if you was, the parish 
 ud soon tuck you up. P raps you ll be straighter 
 about money after this. 
 
 Let me ave some, then you can t want it all. 
 Give me some, an then ave the money for the 
 things. There s ten dozen and seven, and you 
 can take em yerself if ye like. 
 
 < Wot in this ere rain ? Not me ! I bet I d 
 ave the money if I wanted it without that. Ere 
 change these ere fardens at the draper s 
 wen you go out : there s two bob s worth an a 
 
LIZERUNT 57 
 
 penn orth ; I don t want to bust my pockets wi 
 them. 
 
 While they spoke Lizer had come in from the 
 back room. But she said nothing : she rather 
 busied herself with a child she had in her arms. 
 When Billy s mother, despondent and tearful, 
 had tramped out into the rain with a pile of 
 clothes in an oilcloth wrapper, she said sulkily, 
 without looking up, You might a let J er kep 
 that ; you git all you want. 
 
 At another time this remonstrance would have 
 provoked active hostilities ; but now, with the 
 money about him, Billy was complacently dis 
 posed. You shutcher ead, he said, * I got 
 this, any ow. She can make it up out o my 
 rent if she likes. This last remark was a joke, 
 and he chuckled as he made it. For Billy s rent 
 was a simple fiction, devised, on the suggestion of a 
 smart canvasser, to give him a parliamentary vote. 
 
 That night Billy and Lizer slept, as usual, in 
 the bed in the back room, where the two younger 
 children also were. Billy s mother made a bed- 
 
58 LIZERUNT 
 
 stead nightly with three chairs and an old trunk 
 in the front room by the mangle, and the eldest 
 child lay in a floor-bed near her. Early in the 
 morning Lizer awoke at a sudden outcry of the 
 little creature. He clawed at the handle till he 
 opened the door, and came staggering and tumbl 
 ing into the room with screams of terror. 
 Wring is blasted neck/ his father grunted 
 sleepily. Wot s the kid owlin for? 
 
 I s faid o g anny I s Taid o g anny! was 
 all the child could say ; and when he had said 
 it, he fell to screaming once more. 
 
 Lizer rose and went to the next room ; and 
 straightway came a scream from her also. O 
 O Billy ! Billy ! O my Gawd ! Billy come 
 ere ! 
 
 And Billy, fully startled, followed in Lizer s 
 wake. He blundered in, rubbing his eyes, and saw. 
 
 Stark on her back in the huddled bed of old 
 wrappers and shawls lay his mother. The out 
 line of her poor face strained in an upward 
 stare of painful surprise stood sharp and meagre 
 
LIZERUNT 59 
 
 against the black of the grate beyond. But the 
 muddy old skin was white, and looked cleaner 
 than its wont, and many of the wrinkles were gone. 
 
 Billy Chope, half-way across the floor, recoiled 
 from the corpse, and glared at it pallidly from 
 the doorway. 
 
 Good Gawd ! he croaked faintly, is she 
 dead ? 
 
 Seized by a fit of shuddering breaths, Lizer 
 sank on the floor, and, with her head across the 
 body, presently broke into a storm of hysterical 
 blubbering, while Billy, white and dazed, dressed 
 hurriedly and got out of the house. 
 
 He was at home as little as might be until the 
 coroner s officer carried away the body two days 
 later. When he came for his meals, he sat 
 doubtful and querulous in the matter of the 
 front room door s being shut. The dead once 
 clear away, however, he resumed his faculties 
 and clearly saw that here was a bad change for 
 the worse. There was the mangle, but who was 
 to work it? If Lizer did, there would be no 
 
60 LIZERUNT 
 
 more charing jobs a clear loss of one-third of 
 his income. And it was not at all certain that 
 the people who had given their mangling to his 
 mother would give it to Lizer. Indeed, it was 
 pretty sure that many would not, because 
 mangling is a thing given by preference to 
 widows, and many widows of the neighbourhood 
 were perpetually competing for it. Widows, more 
 over, had the first call in most odd jobs where- 
 unto Lizer might turn her hand : an injustice 
 whereon Billy meditated with bitterness. 
 
 The inquest was formal and unremarked, the 
 medical officer having no difficulty in certifying 
 a natural death from heart disease. The bright 
 idea of a collection among the jury, which Billy 
 communicated, with pitiful representations, to the 
 coroner s officer, was brutally swept aside by that 
 functionary, made cunning by much experience. 
 So the inquest brought him naught save dis 
 appointment and a sense of injury. . . . 
 
 The mangling orders fell away as suddenly 
 
LIZERUNT 61 
 
 and completely as he had feared : they were duly 
 absorbed among the local widows. Neglect the 
 children as Lizer might, she could no longer leave 
 them as she had done. Things, then, were bad 
 with Billy, and neither threats nor thumps could 
 evoke a shilling now. 
 
 It was more than Billy could bear : so that, 
 Ere/ he said one night, I ve ad enough o 
 this. You go and get some money; go on. 
 
 Go an git it ? replied Lizer. O yus. That s 
 easy, ain t it ? " Go an git it," says you. Ow ? 
 
 Any ow I don care. Go on. 
 
 1 Wy/ replied Lizer, looking up with wide eyes, 
 * d ye think I can go an pick it up in the 
 street ? 
 
 { Course you can. Plenty others does, don t 
 they ? 
 
 1 Gawd, Billy . . . wot d ye mean ? 
 
 Wot I say ; plenty others does it. Go on 
 you ain t so bleed n innocent as all that. Go 
 an see Sam Cardew. Go on ook it. 
 
 Lizer, who had been kneeling at the child s 
 
62 LIZERUNT 
 
 floor-bed, rose to her feet, pale faced and bright 
 of eye. 
 
 ( Stow kiddin , Billy/ she said. You don t 
 mean that. I ll go round to the fact ry in the 
 mornin : p raps they ll take me on temp ry. 
 
 Damn the fact ry. 
 
 He pushed her into the passage. Go on you 
 git me some money, if ye don t want yer bleed n 
 ead knocked auf. 
 
 There was a scuffle in the dark passage, with 
 certain blows, a few broken words, and a sob. 
 Then the door slammed, and Lizer Chope was 
 in the windy street. 
 
WITHOUT VISIBLE MEANS 
 
WITHOUT VISIBLE MEANS 
 
 A LL East London idled, or walked in a 
 procession, or waylaid and bashed, or cried 
 in an empty kitchen : for it was the autumn of 
 the Great Strikes. One army of men, having 
 been prepared, was ordered to strike and struck. 
 Other smaller armies of men, with no prepara 
 tion, were ordered to strike to express sym 
 pathy and struck. Other armies still were 
 ordered to strike because it was the fashion 
 and struck. Then many hands were discharged 
 because the strikes in other trades left them 
 no work. Many others came from other parts 
 in regiments to work, but remained to loaf 
 in gangs : taught by the example of earlier 
 regiments, which, the situation being explained 
 (an expression devised to include mobbings and 
 
66 WITHOUT VISIBLE MEANS 
 
 kickings and Ringings into docks), had returned 
 whence they came. So that East London was 
 very noisy and largely hungry ; and the rest of 
 the world looked on with intense interest, making 
 earnest suggestions, and comprehending nothing. 
 Lots of strikers, having no strike pay and rind 
 ing little nourishment in processions, started off 
 to walk to Manchester, Birmingham, Liverpool or 
 Newcastle, where work might be got. Along the 
 Great North Road such men might be seen in 
 silent companies of a dozen or twenty, now and 
 again singly or in couples. At the tail of one 
 such gang, which gathered in the Burdett Road 
 and found its way into the Enfield Road by 
 way of Victoria Park, Clapton, and Stamford Hill, 
 walked a little group of three : a voluble young 
 man of thirty, a stolid workman rather older, 
 and a pale, anxious little fellow, with a nasty 
 spasmic cough and a canvas bag of tools. 
 
 The little crowd straggled over the footpath 
 and the road, few of its members speaking, most 
 of them keeping to their places and themselves. 
 
WITHOUT VISIBLE MEANS 67 
 
 As yet there was nothing of the tramp in the 
 aspect of these mechanics. With their washed 
 faces and well-mended clothes they might have 
 been taken for a jury coming from a local in 
 quest. As the streets got broken and detached, 
 with patches of field between, they began to 
 look about them. One young fellow in front 
 (with no family to think of), who looked upon 
 the enterprise as an amusing sort of tour, and 
 had even brought an accordion, began to rebel 
 against the general depression, and attempted a 
 joke about going to the Alexandra Palace. But 
 in the rear, the little man with the canvas bag, 
 putting his hand abstractedly into his pocket, 
 suddenly stared and stopped. He drew out the 
 hand, and saw in it three shillings. 
 
 S elp me/ he said, the missis is done that- 
 shoved it in unbeknown when I come away ! 
 An she s on y got a bob for erself an the 
 kids/ He broke into a sweat of uneasiness. 
 I ll ave to send it back at the next post-office, 
 that s all/ 
 
6S WITHOUT VISIBLE MEANS 
 
 ( Send it back ? not you ! Thus with deep 
 scorn the voluble young man at his side. She ll 
 be all right, you lay your life. A woman allus 
 knows ow to look after erself. You ll bleed n 
 soon want it, an bad. You do as I tell you, 
 Joey: stick to it. That s right, Dave, ain t it? 
 
 Matter o fancy, replied the stolid man. My 
 missis cleared my pockets out fore I got away. 
 Shouldn t wonder at bein sent after for leavin 
 er chargeable if I don t soon send some more. 
 Women s different. 
 
 The march continued, and grew dustier. The 
 cheerful pilgrim in front produced his accordion. 
 At Palmer s Green four went straight ahead to 
 try for work at the Enfield Arms Factory. The 
 others, knowing the thing hopeless, turned off to 
 the left for Potter s Bar. 
 
 After a long silence, Which ll be nearest, 
 Dave, asked little Joey Clayton, Newcastle 
 or Middlesborough ? 
 
 Middlesborough, said Dave ; I done it 
 afore. 
 
WITHOUT VISIBLE MEANS 69 
 
 Trampin ain t so rough on a man, is it, after 
 all? asked Joey wistfully. You done all right, 
 didn t you ? 
 
 * Got through. All depends, though it s rough 
 enough. Matter o luck. / ad the bad weather. 
 
 If I don t get a good easy job where we re 
 goin , remarked the voluble young man, I ll 
 ave a strike there too. 
 
 * Ave a strike there ? exclaimed Joey. Ow ? 
 Who d call em out? 
 
 Wy, / would. I think I m equal to doin it, 
 ain t I ? An when workin 1 men stand idle an 
 ungry in the midst o the wealth an the lukshry 
 an the igstravagance they ve produced with the 
 sweat of their brow, why, then, feller-workmen, 
 it s time to act It s time to bring the nigger- 
 drivin bloated capitalists to their knees. 
 
 Ear, ear, applauded Joey Clayton ; tamely, 
 perhaps, for the words were not new. * Good 
 on yer, Newman ! Newman had a habit of 
 practising this sort of thing in snatches when 
 ever he saw the chance. He had learnt the trick 
 
70 WITHOUT VISIBLE MEANS 
 
 in a debating society ; and Joey Clayton was 
 always an applausive audience. There was a 
 pause, the accordion started another tune, and 
 Newman tried a different passage of his 
 harangue. 
 
 In the shop they call me Skulky Newman. 
 Why? Cos I skulk, o course ( Ear, ear/ 
 dreamily from Dave this time). I ain t 
 ashamed of it, my friends. I m a miker out 
 an out, an I ope I shall always remain a 
 miker. The less a worker does the more as 
 to be imployed, don t they? An the more the 
 toilers wrings out o the capitalists, don t they? 
 Very well then, I mike, an I do it as a sacred 
 dooty. 
 
 You ll ave all the mikin you want for a week 
 or two, said Dave Burge placidly. Stow it. 
 
 At Potter s Bar the party halted and sat under 
 a hedge to eat hunks of bread and cheese (or 
 hunks of bread and nothing else) and to drink 
 cold tea out of cans. Skulky Newman, who had 
 brought nothing, stood in with his two friends. 
 
WITHOUT VISIBLE MEANS 71 
 
 As they started anew and turned into the Great 
 North Road he said, stretching himself and look 
 ing slyly at Joey Clayton, If Pd got a bob or 
 two I d stand you two blokes a pint apiece. 
 
 Joey looked troubled. Well, as you ain t, I 
 suppose I ought to, 5 he said uneasily, turning 
 toward the little inn hard by. Dave, he cried 
 to Burge, who was walking on, won t you ave 
 a drink ? And, Well, if you are goin to do the 
 toff, I ain t proud, was the slow reply. 
 
 Afterward, Joey was inclined to stop at the 
 post-office to send away at least two shillings. 
 But Newman wouldn t. He enlarged on the im 
 providence of putting out of reach that which 
 might be required on an emergency, he repeated 
 his axiom as to a woman s knack of keeping 
 alive in spite of all things : and Joey determined 
 not to send for a day or so at any rate. 
 
 The road got looser and dustier ; the symptoms 
 of the tramp came out stronger and stronger on 
 the gang. The accordion struck up from time 
 to time, but ceased toward the end of the after- 
 
72 WITHOUT VISIBLE MEANS 
 
 noon. The player wearied, and some of the 
 older men, soon tired of walking, were worried 
 by the noise. Joey Clayton, whose cough was 
 aggravated by the dust, was especially tortured, 
 after every fit, to hear the thing drawling 
 and whooping the tune it had drawled and 
 whooped a dozen times before; but he said 
 nothing, scarce knowing what annoyed him. 
 
 At Hatfield Station two of the foremost picked 
 up a few coppers by helping with a heavy trap- 
 load of luggage. Up Digswell Hill the party 
 tailed out lengthily, and Newman, who had been 
 letting off a set speech, was fain to save his 
 wind. The night came, clear to see and sweet 
 to smell. Between Welwyn and Codicote the 
 company broke up to roost in such barns as 
 they might possess : all but the master of the 
 accordion, who had stayed at a little public- 
 house at Welwyn, with the notion of earning a 
 pot of beer and a stable-corner (or better) by a 
 tune in the tap-room. Dave Burge lighted on a 
 lone shed of thatched hurdles with loose hay in it 
 
WITHOUT VISIBLE MEANS 73 
 
 and Newman straightway curled in the snuggest 
 corner on most of the hay. Dave Burge pulled 
 some from under him, and, having helped Joey 
 Clayton to build a nest in the best place left, was 
 soon snoring. But Joey lay awake all night, 
 and sat up and coughed and turned restlessly, 
 being unused to the circumstances and appre 
 hensive of those months in jail, which (it is well 
 known) are rancorously dealt forth among all 
 them that sleep in barns. 
 
 Luck provided a breakfast next morning at 
 Codicote : for three bicyclists, going north, stood 
 cold beef and bread round at The Anchor. The 
 man with the accordion caught up. He had 
 made his lodging and breakfast and eightpence : 
 this had determined him to stay at Hitchin, 
 and work it for, at least, a day, and then to 
 diverge into the towns and let the rest go their 
 way. So beyond Hitchin there was no music. 
 
 Joey Clayton soon fell slow. Newman had his 
 idea; and the three were left behind, and Joey 
 staggered after his mates with difficulty. He 
 
74 WITHOUT VISIBLE MEANS 
 
 lacked sleep, and he lacked stamina. Dave 
 Burge took the canvas bag, and there were 
 many rests : when Newman, expressing a resolve 
 to stick by his fellow-man through thick and 
 thin, hinted at drinks. Dave Burge made two 
 pence at Henlow level crossing by holding an 
 unsteady horse while a train passed. Joey saw 
 little of the rest of the day ; the road was yellow 
 and dazzling, his cough tore him, and things were 
 red sometimes and sometimes blue. He walked 
 without knowing it, now helped, now lurching on 
 alone. The others of the party were far ahead 
 and forgotten. There was talk of a windmill 
 ahead, where there would be rest ; and the three 
 men camped in an old boathouse by the river 
 just outside Biggleswade. Joey, sleeping as he 
 tottered, fell in a heap and lay without moving 
 from sunset to broad morning. 
 
 When he woke Dave Burge was sitting at the 
 door, but Newman was gone. Also, there was no 
 sign of the canvas bag. 
 
 * No use lookin / said Dave ; e s done it. 
 
WITHOUT VISIBLE MEANS 75 
 
 Eh? 
 
 1 Skulky s opped the twig an sneaked your 
 tools. Gawd knows where e is by now. 
 
 * No the little man gasped, sitting up in a 
 pale sweat ... Not sneaked em ... is 
 e ? . . , S elp me, there s a set o callipers 
 worth fifteen bob in that bag ... e ain t 
 gawn . . . ? 
 
 Dave Burge nodded inexorably. 
 
 Best feel in your pockets/ he said, p raps e s 
 bin there. 5 
 
 He had. The little man broke down. I was 
 a-goin } to send ome that two bob s elp me, I 
 was . . . An what can I do without my 
 tools ? If I d got no job I could a pawned em 
 an then I d a sent ome the money s elp me 
 I would ... O, it s crool ! 
 
 The walking, with the long sleep after it, had 
 left him sore and stiff, and Dave had work to 
 put him on the road again. He had forgotten 
 yesterday afternoon, and asked, at first, for the 
 
76 WITHOUT VISIBLE MEANS 
 
 others. They tramped in silence for a few miles: 
 when Joey suddenly flung himself upon a tussock 
 by the wayside. 
 
 Why won t nobody let me live ? he snivelled. 
 / ;;/ a armless bloke enough. I worked at 
 Ritterson s, man and boy, very nigh twenty year. 
 When they come an ordered us out, I come out 
 with the others, peaceful enough ; I didn t want 
 to chuck it up, Gawd knows, but I come out 
 promp when they told me. And when I found 
 another job on the Island, four big blokes set 
 about me an arf killed me. / didn t know the 
 place was blocked. And when two o the blokes 
 was took up, they said I d get strike-pay again 
 if I didn t identify em ; so I didn t. But they 
 never give me no strike-pay they laughed an 
 chucked me out. An now I m a-starvin on the 
 igh road. An Skulky . . . blimy . . . e s done 
 me too ! 
 
 There were days wherein Joey learned to eat 
 a swede pulled from behind a waggon, and to 
 
WITHOUT VISIBLE MEANS 77 
 
 feel thankful for an early turnip ; might have 
 learned, too, just what tramping means in many 
 ways to a man unskilled both in begging and in 
 theft, but was never equal to it. He coughed 
 and worse : holding to posts and gates, and often 
 spitting blood. He had little to say, but trudged 
 mechanically, taking note of nothing. 
 
 Once, as though aroused from a reverie, he 
 asked, Wasn t there some others ? 
 
 Others ? said Dave, for a moment taken 
 aback. O, yes, there was some others. They re 
 gone on ahead, y know. 
 
 Joey tramped for half a mile in silence. Then 
 he said, Expect they re avin a rough time 
 too. 
 
 Ah very like/ said Dave. 
 
 For a space Joey was silent, save for the cough. 
 Then he went on : Comes o not bringing cor- 
 clions with em. Everyone ought to take a 
 cordion what goes trampin . I knew a man 
 once that went trampin , an e took a cordion. 
 He done all right. It ain t so rough for them as 
 
73 WITHOUT VISIBLE MEANS 
 
 plays on the cordion. And Dave Burge rubbed 
 his cap about his head and stared ; but answered 
 nothing. 
 
 It was a bad day. Crusts were begged at 
 cottages. Every rise and every turn, the eternal 
 yellow road lay stretch on stretch before them, 
 flouting their unrest. Joey, now unimpression 
 able, endured more placidly than even Dave 
 Burge. Late in the afternoon, No, he said, it 
 ain t so rough for them as plays the cordion. 
 They as the best of it. ... S elp me/ he added 
 suddenly, we re all cordions ! He sniggered 
 thoughtfully, and then burst into a cough that 
 left him panting. We re nothin but a bloomin 
 lot o cordions ourselves, he went on, having got 
 his breath, * an they play any toon they like on 
 us ; and that s ow they make their livin . S elp 
 me, Dave, we re all cordions. And he laughed. 
 
 Urn yus, the other man grunted. And he 
 looked curiously at his mate; for he had never 
 heard that sort of laugh before. 
 
 But Joey fondled the conceit, and returned to 
 
WITHOUT VISIBLE MEANS 79 
 
 it from time to time ; now aloud, now to himself. 
 All cordions: playin any toon as is ordered, 
 blimy. ... Are we cordions? / don t b lieve 
 we re as much as that ... no, s elp me. We re 
 on y the footlin little keys ; shoved about to soot 
 the toon. .",-. . Little tin keys, blimy . . . foot 
 lin little keys. . . . I ve bin played on plenty, 
 / ave. . . . 
 
 Dave Burge listened with alarm, and tried to 
 talk of other things. But Joey rarely heard him. 
 I ve bin played on plenty, / ave, he persisted. 
 I was played on once by a pal : an my spring 
 broke. 
 
 At nightfall there was more bad luck. They 
 were driven from a likely barn by a leather- 
 gaitered man with a dog, and for some distance 
 no dormitory could be found. Then it was a cut 
 haystack, with a nest near the top and steps to 
 reach it. 
 
 In the night Burge was wakened by a clammy 
 hand upon his face. There was a thick mist. 
 
 It s you, Dave, ain t it? Clayton was saying. 
 
8o WITHOUT VISIBLE MEANS 
 
 Good Gawd, I thought I d lawst you. What s all 
 this ere not the water is it ? not the dock ? I m 
 soppin wet. 
 
 Burge himself was wet to the skin. He made 
 Joey lie down, and told him to sleep ; but a cough 
 ing fit prevented that. It was them cordions 
 woke me/ he explained when it was over. 
 
 So the night put on the shuddering grey of the 
 fore-dawn. And the two tramps left their perch, and 
 betook them, shivering and stamping, to the road. 
 
 That morning Joey had short fits of dizziness 
 and faintness. It s my spring broke, he would 
 say after such an attack. Bloomin 1 little tin key 
 put out o toon. And once he added, I m up to 
 one toon, though, now : this ere bloomin Dead 
 March. 
 
 Just at the outskirts of a town, where he stopped 
 to cough over a gate, a stout old lady, walking out 
 with a shaggy little dog, gave him a shilling. Dave 
 Burge picked it up as it dropped from his incapable 
 hand, and Joey, ere s a bob, he said, a lady give 
 it you. You come an git a drop o beer. 
 
WITHOUT VISIBLE MEANS 81 
 
 They carried a twopenny loaf into the tap-room 
 of a small tavern, and Dave had mild ale himself, 
 but saw that Joey was served with stout with a 
 penn orth of gin in it. Soon the gin and stout 
 reached Joey s head, and drew it to the table. 
 And he slept, leaving the rest of the shilling 
 where it lay. 
 
 Dave arose, and stuffed the last of the twopenny 
 loaf into his pocket. He took a piece of chalk 
 from the bagatelle board in the corner, and wrote 
 this on the table : dr. sir. for god sake take him 
 to the work House! 
 
 Then he gathered up the coppers where they lay, 
 and stepped quietly into the street. 
 
TO BOW BRIDGE 
 
TO BOW BRIDGE. 
 
 | ^HE eleven-five tram-car from Stratford started 
 for Bow a trifle before its time. The con 
 ductor knew what he might escape by stealing a 
 march on the closing public-houses ; as also what 
 was in store for all the conductors in his wake, 
 till there were no more revellers left to swarm 
 the cars. For it was Saturday night, and many 
 a week s wages were a-knocking down; and the 
 publicans this side of Bow Bridge shut their 
 doors at eleven under Act of Parliament, whereas 
 beyond the Bridge, which is the county of London, 
 the law gives them another hour, and a man may 
 drink many pots therein. And for this, at eleven 
 every Saturday, there is a great rush westward, 
 a vast migration over Lea, from all the length 
 
 of High Street. From the nearer parts they 
 
 85 
 
86 TO BOW BRIDGE 
 
 walk, or do their best to walk ; but from further 
 Stratford, by the Town Hall, the Church, and the 
 Martyrs Memorial, they crowd the cars. For 
 one thing, it is a long half-mile, and the week s 
 work is over. Also, the car being swamped, it 
 is odds that a man shall save his fare, since no 
 conductor may fight his way a quarter through 
 his passengers before Bow Bridge, where the 
 vehicle is emptied at a rush. And that means 
 yet another half-pint 
 
 So the eleven-five car started sooner than it 
 might have done. As it was spattering with rain, 
 I boarded it, sharing the conductor s forlorn hope, 
 but taking care to sit at the extreme fore-end 
 inside. In the broad street the market clamoured 
 and flared, its lights and shadows flickering and 
 fading about the long churchyard and the steeple 
 in the midst thereof; and toward the distant 
 lights, the shining road sparkled in long reaches, 
 like a blackguard river. 
 
 A gap fell here and there among the lights 
 where a publican put his gas out ; and at these 
 
TO BOW BRIDGE 87 
 
 points the crowds thickened. A quiet mechanic 
 came in, and sat near a decent woman with children, 
 a bundle, a basket, and a cabbage. Thirty yards 
 on the car rumbled, and suddenly its hinder end 
 was taken in a mass of people howling, struggling 
 and blaspheming who stormed and wrangled in 
 at the door and up the stairs. There were lads and 
 men whooping and flushed, there were girls and 
 women screaming choruses ; and in a moment the 
 seats were packed, knees were taken, and there was 
 not an inch of standing room. The conductor 
 cried All full ! and tugged at his bell-strap, 
 whereunto many were hanging by the hand ; but 
 he was swept from his feet, and made to push hard 
 for his own place. And there was no more foot 
 hold on the back platform nor the front, nor any 
 vacant step upon the stairway ; and the roof was 
 thronged ; and the rest of the crowd was fain to 
 waylay the next car. 
 
 This one moved off slowly, with shrieks and 
 howls that were racking to the wits. From divers 
 quarters of the roof came a bumping thunder as 
 
88 TO BOW BRIDGE 
 
 of cellar-flapping clogs. Profanity was sluiced 
 down, as it were by pailfuls, from above, and was 
 swilled back as it were in pailfuls from below 
 Blowses in feathered bonnets bawled hilarious 
 obscenity at the jiggers. A little maid with a 
 market-basket, hustled and jostled and elbowed 
 at the far end, listened eagerly and laughed 
 when she could understand ; and the quiet me 
 chanic, whose knees had been invaded by an un 
 steady young woman in a crushed hat, tried to IOOK 
 pleased. My own knees were saved from capture 
 by the near neigbourhood of an enormous female, 
 seated partly on the seat and partly on myself, 
 snorting and gulping with sleep, her head upon the 
 next man s shoulder. (To offer your seat to a stand 
 ing women would, as beseems a foreign antic, have 
 been visited by the ribaldry of the whole crowd.) 
 In the midst of the riot the decent woman sat 
 silent and indifferent, her children on and about her 
 knees. Further along, two women ate fish with 
 their fingers and discoursed personalities in voices 
 which ran strident through the uproar, as the odour 
 
TO BOW BRIDGE 89 
 
 of their snack asserted itself in the general fetor. 
 And opposite the decent woman there sat a 
 bonnetless drab, who said nothing, but looked at 
 the decent woman s children as a shoeless brat 
 looks at the dolls in a toyshop window. 
 
 So I ses to er, I ses this from the snacksters 
 I m a respectable married women, I ses. More n 
 you can say, you barefaced hussey, I ses 
 Then a shower of curses, a shout, and a roar of 
 laughter ; and the conductor, making slow and 
 laborious progress with the fares nearest him, 
 turned his head. A man had jumped upon the 
 footboard and a passenger s toes. A scuffle and 
 a fight, and both had rolled off into the mire, 
 and got left behind. Ain t they fond o one 
 another ? cried a girl. They re a-goin for a 
 walk together ; and there was a guffaw. The 
 silly bleeders 11 be too late for the pubs, said 
 a male voice ; and there was another, for the 
 general understanding was touched. 
 
 Then an effect of sympathy, perhaps a 
 scuffle broke out on the roof. But this dis- 
 
90 TO BOW BRIDGE 
 
 turbed not the insides. The conductor went 
 on his plaguy task : to save time, he passed 
 over the one or two that, asked now or not, 
 seemed likely to pay at the journey s end. 
 The snacking women resumed their talk, the 
 choristers their singing ; the rumble of the 
 wheels was lost in a babel of vacant ribaldry ; 
 the enormous woman choked and gasped and 
 snuggled lower down upon her neighbour s 
 shoulder ; and the shabby strumpet looked at 
 the children. 
 
 A man by the door vomited his liquor : 
 whereat was more hilarity, and his neighbours, 
 with many yaups, shoved further up the middle. 
 But one of the little ones, standing before her 
 mother, was pushed almost to falling ; and the 
 harlot, seeing her chance, snatched the child 
 upon her knee. The child looked up, some 
 thing in wonder, and smiled ; and the woman 
 leered as honestly as she might, saying a hoarse 
 word or two. 
 
 Presently the conflict overhead, waxing and 
 
TO BOW BRIDGE 91 
 
 waning to an accompaniment of angry shouts, 
 afforded another brief diversion to those within, 
 and something persuaded the standing passengers 
 to shove toward the door, The child had fallen 
 asleep in the street-walker s arms. Jinny! 
 cried the mother, reaching forth and shaking 
 her. Jinny! wake up now you mustn t go 
 to sleep. And she pulled the little thing from 
 her perch to where she had been standing. 
 
 The bonnetless creature bent forward, and, in 
 her curious voice (like that of one sick with 
 shouting), * She can set on my knee, m m, if 
 she likes, she said: she s tired. 
 
 The mother busied herself with a jerky adjust 
 ment of the child s hat and shawl. She mustn t 
 go to sleep, was all she said ; sharply, and with 
 out looking up. 
 
 The hoarse woman bent further forward, with 
 a propitiatory grin. Ovv old is she? ... I d 
 like to give er a penny. 
 
 The mother answered nothing ; but drew the 
 child close by the side of her knee, where a 
 
92 TO BOW BRIDGE 
 
 younger one was sitting, and looked steadily 
 through the fore windows. 
 
 The hoarse woman sat back, unquestioning 
 and unresentful, and turned her eyes upon them 
 that were crowding over the conductor ; for the 
 car was rising over Bow Bridge. Front and 
 back they surged down from the roof, and the 
 insides made for the door as one man. The big 
 woman s neighbour rose, and let her fall over on 
 the seat, whence, awaking with a loud grunt and 
 an incoherent curse, she rolled after the rest. 
 The conductor, clamant and bedevilled, was 
 caught between the two pell-mells and, demand 
 ing fares and gripping his satchel, was carried 
 over the footboard in the rush. The stramash 
 overhead came tangled and swearing down the 
 stairs, gaining volume and force in random 
 punches as it came ; and the crowd on the 
 pavement streamed vocally toward a brightness 
 at the bridge foot the lights of the Bombay 
 Grab. 
 
 The woman with the children waited till the 
 
TO BOW BRIDGE 93 
 
 footboard was clear, and then, carrying one child 
 and leading another (her marketings attached 
 about her by indeterminate means), she set the 
 two youngsters on the pavement, leaving the 
 third on the step of the car. The harlot, linger 
 ing, lifted the child again lifted her rather high 
 and set her on the path with the others. Then 
 she walked away toward the Bombay Grab. A 
 man in a blue serge suit was footing it down 
 the turning between the public-house and the 
 bridge with drunken swiftness and an inter 
 mittent stagger; and, tightening her shawl, she 
 went in chase. 
 
 The quiet mechanic stood and stretched him 
 self, and took a corner seat near the door ; and 
 the tram-car, quiet and vacant, bumped on west 
 ward. 
 
THAT BRUTE SIMMONS 
 
THAT BRUTE SIMMONS 
 
 OIMMONS S infamous behaviour toward his 
 wife is still matter for profound wonder 
 ment among the neighbours. The other women 
 had all along regarded him as a model husband, 
 and certainly Mrs Simmons was a most conscien 
 tious wife. She toiled and slaved for that man, 
 as any woman in the whole street would have 
 maintained, far more than any husband had a right 
 to expect. And now this was what she got for it. 
 Perhaps he had suddenly gone mad. 
 
 Before she married Simmons, Mrs Simmons had 
 been the widowed Mrs Ford. Ford had got a 
 berth as donkeyman on a tramp steamer, and 
 that steamer had gone down with all hands off 
 the Cape : a judgment, the widow woman feared, 
 
 for long years of contumacy which had culminated 
 
 G 
 
98 THAT BRUTE SIMMONS 
 
 in the wickedness of taking to the sea, and taking 
 to it as a donkeyman an immeasurable fall for 
 a capable engine-fitter. Twelve years as Mrs Ford 
 had left her still childless, and childless she re 
 mained as Mrs Simmons. 
 
 As for Simmons, he, it was held, was fortun 
 ate in that capable wife. He was a moderately 
 good carpenter and joiner, but no man of the 
 world, and he wanted one. Nobody could tell 
 what might not have happened to Tommy Sim 
 mons if there had been no Mrs Simmons to take 
 care of him. He was a meek and quiet man, 
 with a boyish face and sparse, limp whiskers. 
 He had no vices (even his pipe departed him 
 after his marriage), and Mrs Simmons had en 
 grafted on him divers exotic virtues. He went 
 solemnly to chapel every Sunday, under a tall 
 hat, and put a penny one returned to him for 
 the purpose out of his week s wages in the 
 plate. Then, Mrs Simmons overseeing, he took 
 off his best clothes and brushed them with solici 
 tude and pains. On Saturday afternoons he 
 
THAT BRUTE SIMMONS 99 
 
 cleaned the knives, the forks, the boots, the 
 kettles and the windows, patiently and conscien 
 tiously. On Tuesday evenings he took the clothes 
 to the mangling. And on Saturday nights he at 
 tended Mrs Simmons in her marketing, to carry 
 the parcels. 
 
 Mrs Simmons s own virtues were native and 
 numerous. She was a wonderful manager. Every 
 penny of Tommy s thirty-six or thirty-eight shil 
 lings a week was bestowed to the greatest 
 advantage, and Tommy never ventured to guess 
 how much of it she saved. Her cleanliness in 
 housewifery was distracting to behold. She met 
 Simmons at the front door whenever he came 
 home, and then and there he changed his boots 
 for slippers, balancing himself painfully on alter 
 nate feet on the cold flags. This was because 
 she scrubbed the passage and doorstep turn 
 about with the wife of the downstairs family, 
 and because the stair-carpet was her own. She 
 vigilantly supervised her husband all through 
 the process of cleaning himself after work, 
 
TOO THAT BRUTE SIMMONS 
 
 so as to come between her walls and the pos 
 sibility of random splashes; and if, in spite of 
 her diligence a spot remained to tell the tale, 
 she was at pains to impress the fact on Sim- 
 mons s memory, and to set forth at length all 
 the circumstances of his ungrateful selfishness. 
 In the beginning she had always escorted him to 
 the ready-made clothes shop, and had selected and 
 paid for his clothes : for the reason that men 
 are such perfect fools, and shopkeepers do as 
 they like with them. But she presently improved 
 on that. She found a man selling cheap rem 
 nants at a street corner, and straightway she 
 conceived the idea of making Simmons s clothes 
 herself. Decision was one of her virtues, and a 
 suit of uproarious check tweeds was begun that 
 afternoon from the pattern furnished by an old 
 one. More : it was finished by Sunday ; when 
 Simmons, overcome by astonishment at the feat, 
 was indued in it, and pushed off to chapel ere 
 he could recover his senses. The things were 
 not altogether comfortable, he found : the trousers 
 
THAT BRUTE SIMMONS 101 
 
 clung tight against his shins, but hung loose 
 behind his heels ; and when he sat, it was on 
 a wilderness of hard folds and seams. Also his 
 waistcoat collar tickled his nape, but his coat 
 collar went straining across from shoulder to 
 shoulder ; while the main garment bagged gen 
 erously below his waist. Use made a habit of 
 his discomfort, but it never reconciled him to 
 the chaff of his shopmates ; for as Mrs Simmons 
 elaborated successive suits, each one modelled 
 on the last, the primal accidents of her design 
 developed into principles, and grew even bolder 
 and more hideously pronounced. It was vain 
 for Simmons to hint as hint he did that he 
 shouldn t like her to overwork herself, tailoring 
 being bad for the eyes, and there was a new 
 tailor s in the Mile End Road, very cheap, where 
 . . . * Ho yus, she retorted, you re very con- 
 sid rit I dessay sittin there actin a livin lie 
 before your own wife Thomas Simmons as 
 though I couldn t see through you like a book. 
 A lot you care about overworkin me as long as 
 
102 THAT BRUTE SIMMONS 
 
 your turn s served throwin away money like 
 dirt in the street on a lot o swindlin tailors 
 an me workin an slavin ere to save a apenny 
 an this is my return for it anyone ud think 
 you could pick up money in the orseroad an 
 I b lieve I d be thought better of if I laid in 
 bed all day like some would that I do. So 
 that Thomas Simmons avoided the subject, nor 
 even murmured when she resolved to cut his hair. 
 
 So his placid fortune endured for years. Then 
 there came a golden summer evening when Mrs 
 Simmons betook herself with a basket to do 
 some small shopping, and Simmons was left at 
 home. He washed and put away the tea-things, 
 and then he fell to meditating on a new pair of 
 trousers, finished that day and hanging behind 
 the parlour door. There they hung, in all their 
 decent innocence of shape in the seat, and they 
 were shorter of leg, longer of waist, and wilder 
 of pattern than he had ever worn before. And 
 as he looked on them the small devil of Original 
 Sin awoke and clamoured in his breast. He was 
 
THAT BRUTE SIMMONS 103 
 
 ashamed of it, of course, for well he knew the 
 gratitude he owed his wife for those same trousers, 
 among other blessings. Still, there the small 
 devil was, and the small devil was fertile in base 
 suggestions, and could not be kept from hinting 
 at the new crop of workshop gibes that would 
 spring at Tommy s first public appearance in 
 such things. 
 
 Pitch em in the dustbin ! said the small devil 
 at last ; it s all they re fit for. 
 
 Simmons turned away in sheer horror of his 
 wicked self, and for a moment thought of wash 
 ing the tea-things over again by way of disci 
 pline. Then he made for the back room, but 
 saw from the landing that the front door was 
 standing open, probably by the fault of the child 
 downstairs. Now a front door standing open was 
 a thing that Mrs Simmons would not abide : it 
 looked low. So Simmons went down, that she 
 might not be wroth with him for the thing when 
 she came back ; and, as he shut the door, he 
 looked forth into the street. 
 
io 4 THAT BRUTE SIMMONS 
 
 A man was loitering on the pavement, and 
 prying curiously about the door. His face was 
 tanned, his hands were deep in the pockets of 
 his unbraced blue trousers, and well back on his 
 head he wore the high-crowned peaked cap 
 topped with a knob of wool, which is affected 
 by Jack ashore about the docks. He lurched a 
 step nearer to the door and, Mrs Ford ain t in, 
 is she? he said. 
 
 Simmons stared at him for a matter of five 
 seconds, and then said, Eh ? 
 
 Mrs Ford as was, then Simmons now, ain t 
 it? 5 
 
 He said this with a furtive leer that Simmons 
 neither liked nor understood. 
 
 No, said Simmons, she ain t in now. 
 
 * You ain t her usband, are ye ? 
 
 <Yus. 
 
 The man took his pipe from his mouth, and 
 grinned silently and long. Blimy, he said at 
 length, you look the sort o bloke she d like, 
 and with that he grinned again. Then, seeing 
 
THAT BRUTE SIMMONS 105 
 
 that Simmons made ready to shut the door, 
 he put a foot on the sill and a hand against 
 the panel. Don t be in a urry, matey/ he said, 
 I come ere t ave a little talk with you, man 
 to man, d ye see ? And he frowned fiercely. 
 
 Tommy Simmons felt uncomfortable, but the 
 door would not shut, so he parleyed. Wot- 
 jer want ? he asked. I dunno you. 
 
 Then if you ll excuse the liberty, I ll inter- 
 dooce meself, in a manner of speaking. He 
 touched his cap with a bob of mock humility. 
 I m Bob Ford/ he said, ( come back out o 
 kingdom-come, so to say. Me as went down 
 with the Mooltan safe dead five year gone. I 
 come to see my wife. 
 
 During this speech Thomas Simmons s jaw 
 was dropping lower and lower. At the end of 
 it he poked his fingers up through his hair, 
 looked down at the mat, then up at the fan 
 light, then out into the street, then hard at his 
 visitor. But he found nothing to say. 
 
 Come to see my wife/ the man repeated. 
 
io6 THAT BRUTE SIMMONS 
 
 So now we can talk it over as man to 
 man. 
 
 Simmons slowly shut his mouth, and led the 
 way upstairs mechanically, his fingers still in 
 his hair. A sense of the state of affairs sank 
 gradually into his brain, and the small devil 
 woke again. Suppose this man was Ford ? 
 Suppose he did claim his wife ? Would it be a 
 knock-down blow ? Would it hit him out ? or 
 not ? He thought of the trousers, the tea- 
 things, the mangling, the knives, the kettles and 
 the windows ; and he thought of them in the 
 way of a backslider. 
 
 On the landing Ford clutched at his arm, 
 and asked in a hoarse whisper : Ow long fore 
 she s back? 
 
 Bout a hour, I expect/ Simmons replied, 
 having first of all repeated the question in his 
 own mind. And then he opened the parlour 
 door. 
 
 1 Ah, said Ford, looking about him, you ve 
 bin pretty comftable. Them chairs an things 
 
THAT BRUTE SIMMONS 107 
 
 jerking his pipe toward them * was hers mine 
 that is to say, speaking straight, and man to 
 man. He sat down, puffing meditatively at his 
 pipe, and presently : Well, he continued, ere 
 I am agin, oF Bob Ford dead an done for 
 gawn down in the Mooltan. On y I ain t done 
 for, see ? and he pointed the stem of his pipe 
 at Simmons s waistcoat I ain t done for, cause 
 why ? Cons kence o bein picked up by a oF 
 German sailin - utch an took to Frisco fore 
 the mast. I ve ad a few years o knockin 
 about since then, an now looking hard at 
 Simmons I ve come back to see my wife. 
 
 She she don t like smoke in ere/ said 
 Simmons, as it were at random. 
 
 No, I bet she don t, Ford answered, taking 
 his pipe from his mouth, and holding it low in 
 his hand. * I know Anner. Ovv d you find 
 er ? Do she make ye clean the winders ? 
 
 Well, Simmons admitted uneasily, I I do 
 elp er sometimes, o course. 
 
 Ah. An the knives too, I bet, an the 
 
io8 THAT BRUTE SIMMONS 
 
 bloomin kittles. I know. Wy he rose and bent 
 to look behind Simmons s head s elp me, I 
 b lieve she cuts yer air ! Well, I m damned ! 
 Jes wot she would do, too. 5 
 
 He inspected the blushing Simmons from 
 divers points of vantage. Then he lifted a leg 
 of the trousers hanging behind the door. I d 
 bet a trifle, he said, she made these ere trucks. 
 Nobody else ud do em like that. Damme 
 they re wuss n wot you re got on/ 
 
 The small devil began to have the argument 
 all its own way. If this man took his wife 
 back perhaps he d have to wear those trousers. 
 
 Ah ! Ford pursued, she ain t got no milder. 
 An my davy, wot a jore! 
 
 Simmons began to feel that this was no longer 
 his business. Plainly, Anner was this other 
 man s wife, and he was bound in honour to 
 acknowledge the fact. The small devil put it to 
 him as a matter of duty. 
 
 Well, said Ford suddenly, time s short an 
 this ain t business. I won t be ard on you, 
 
THAT BRUTE SIMMONS 109 
 
 matey. I ought prop ly to stand on my rights, 
 but seein as you re a well-meanin young man, 
 so to speak, an all settled an a-livin ere quiet 
 an matrimonual, I ll this with a burst of gener 
 osity damme, yus, I ll compound the felony, 
 an take me ook. Come, I ll name a figure, as 
 man to man, fust an last, no less an no more. 
 Five pound does it. 
 
 Simmons hadn t five pounds he hadn t even 
 five pence and he said so. * An I wouldn t think 
 for to come between a man an is wife, he added 
 not on no account. It may be rough on me, but 
 it s a dooty. Pll ook it. 
 
 1 No/ said Ford hastily, clutching Simmons by 
 the arm, don t do that. I ll make it a bit cheaper. 
 Say three quid come, that s reasonable, ain t it ? 
 Three quid ain t much compensation for me goin 
 away for ever where the stormy winds do blow, so 
 to say an never as much as seein me own wife agin 
 for better nor wuss. Between man an man now 
 three quid ; an I ll shunt. That s fair, ain t it? 
 
 Of course it s fair, Simmons replied effusively. 
 
i TO THAT BRUTE SIMMONS 
 
 It s more n fair : it s noble downright noble, / call 
 it. But I ain t goin to take a mean advantage 
 o your good- artedness, Mr Ford. She s your 
 wife, an I oughtn t to a come between you. 
 I apologise. You stop an ave yer proper rights. 
 It s me as ought to shunt, an I will. And he 
 made a step toward the door. 
 
 ( Old on, quoth Ford, and got between Simmons 
 and the door ; don t do things rash. Look wot a 
 loss it ll be to you with no ome to go to, an 
 nobody to look after ye, an all that. It ll be 
 dreadful. Say a couple there, we won t quarrel, 
 jest a single quid, between man an man, an I ll 
 stand a pot out o the money. You can easy raise 
 a quid the clock ud pretty nigh do it. A quid 
 does it ; an I ll 
 
 There was a loud double-knock at the front door. 
 In the East End a double-knock is always for the 
 upstairs lodgers. 
 
 1 Go s that ? asked Bob Ford apprehensively. 
 
 I ll see, said Thomas Simmons in reply, and he 
 made a rush for the staircase. 
 
THAT BRUTE SIMMONS in 
 
 Bob Ford heard him open the front door. Then 
 he went to the window, and, just below him, he 
 saw the crown of a bonnet. It vanished, and borne 
 to him from within the door there fell upon his 
 ear the sound of a well-remembered female voice. 
 
 Where ye goin now with no at ? asked the 
 voice sharply. 
 
 Awright, Anner there s there s somebody 
 upstairs to see you, Simmons answered. And, as 
 Bob Ford could see, a man went scuttling down the 
 street in the gathering dusk. And behold, it was 
 Thomas Simmons. 
 
 Ford reached the landing in three strides. His 
 wife was still at the front door, staring after 
 Simmons. He flung into the back room, threw 
 open the window, dropped from the wash-house roof 
 into the back-yard, scrambled desperately over the 
 fence, and disappeared into the gloom. He was 
 seen by no living soul. And that is why Simmons s 
 base desertion under his wife s very eyes, too is 
 still an astonishment to the neighbours. 
 
BEHIND THE SHADE 
 
 H 
 
BEHIND THE SHADE 
 
 r I ^HE street was the common East End street 
 two parallels of brick pierced with win 
 dows and doors. But at the end of one, where the 
 builder had found a remnant of land too small 
 for another six-roomer, there stood an odd box 
 of a cottage, with three rooms and a wash-house. 
 It had a green door with a well-blacked knocker 
 round the corner ; and in the lower window in 
 front stood a shade of fruit a cone of waxen 
 grapes and apples under a glass cover. 
 
 Although the house was smaller than the others, 
 and was built upon a remnant, it was always a 
 house of some consideration. In a street like this 
 mere independence of pattern gives distinction. 
 And a house inhabited by one sole family makes 
 
n6 BEHIND THE SHADE 
 
 a figure among houses inhabited by two or more, 
 even though it be the smallest of all. And here 
 the seal of respectability was set by the shade of 
 fruit a sign accepted in those parts. Now, when 
 people keep a house to themselves, and keep it 
 clean ; when they neither stand at the doors nor 
 gossip across back-fences ; when, moreover, they 
 have a well-dusted shade of fruit in the front 
 window ; and, especially, when they are two 
 women who tell nobody their business : they are 
 known at once for well-to-do, and are regarded 
 with the admixture of spite and respect that is 
 proper to the circumstances. They are also 
 watched. 
 
 Still, the neighbours knew the history of the 
 Perkinses, mother and daughter, in its main 
 features, with little disagreement : having told it 
 to each other, filling in the details when occasion 
 seemed to serve. Perkins, ere he died, had been 
 a shipwright; and this was when the shipwrights 
 were the aristocracy of the work-shops, and he 
 that worked more than three or four days a week 
 
BEHIND THE SHADE 117 
 
 was counted a mean slave : it was long (in fact) 
 before depression, strikes, iron plates, and collec 
 tive blindness had driven shipbuilding to the 
 Clyde. Perkins had laboured no harder than his 
 fellows, had married a tradesman s daughter, and 
 had spent his money with freedom ; and some 
 while after his death his widow and daughter came 
 to live in the small house, and kept a school for 
 tradesmen s little girls in a back room over the 
 wash-house. But as the School Board waxed in 
 power, and the tradesmen s pride in regard there 
 unto waned, the attendance, never large, came 
 down to twos and threes. Then Mrs Perkins met 
 with her accident. A dweller in Stidder s Rents 
 overtook her one night, and, having vigorously 
 punched her in the face and the breast, kicked 
 her and jumped on her for five minutes as she 
 lay on the pavement. (In the dark, it afterwards 
 appeared, he had mistaken her for his mother.) 
 The one distinct opinion the adventure bred in 
 the street was Mrs Webster s, the Little Bethelite, 
 who considered it a judgment for sinful pride 
 
BEHIND THE SHADE 
 
 Mis Perkins had been a Church-goer. But 
 the neighbours never saw Mrs Perkins again. 
 The doctor left Mi patient as well as she ever 
 would be/ but bed-ridden and helpless. Her 
 daughter was a. atMggy, sharp-faced woman of 
 thirty or so, whose black dress hung from her 
 r.;_- ?.~ :"::~ -=. : ir:: fr^rrt ^::i . ~~ ;:e: :.-: 
 got into die way of calling her Mrs Perkins, 
 -rr. -r :.: ::.-: :"" . : - ;-.::-:_.-. .-.- *:. -: -.- .:. ~-.:- 
 the school had ceased, ahhoogh Miss Peridns 
 
 r-riyr- -- - - =-- --" -~- . - - ~~^ -~- - - ^ ~ -~--.~~-~- 
 
 ~. .-:. . 7 _ 
 
 Then, one day, a end jpfM**J in the window, 
 over the - v ~ a - of fruit, with UK legend Piano 
 forte |> n^ It was not jyfMUtnl by die 
 street. It was a standing advertisement of the 
 fact that Ac FMJMHII bod a piano, which others 
 had not. It also iiLPtJul a gi**iiiig spirit on 
 the part of people able to keep a house to 
 thentsefaes, wuu red curtains and a shade of 
 frmt is the parlotif window who, moreover, had 
 able to give op keeping a school because 
 
:-- 
 
 :" : L: i; 
 
T2o BEHIND THE SHADE 
 
 It was soon after this that the Perkinses alto 
 gether ceased from shopping ceased, at any rate, 
 in that neighbourhood. Trade with them had 
 already been dwindling, and it was said that Miss 
 Perkins was getting stingier than her mother 
 who had been stingy enough herself. Indeed, the 
 Perkins demeanour began to change for the worse, 
 to be significant of a miserly retirement and an 
 offensive alienation from the rest of the street. 
 One day the deacon called, as was his practice 
 now and then ; but, being invited no further than 
 the doorstep, he went away in dudgeon, and did 
 not return. Nor, indeed, was Miss Perkins seen 
 again at chapel. 
 
 Then there was a discovery. The spare figure 
 of Miss Perkins was seldom seen in the streets, 
 and then almost always at night ; but on these 
 occasions she was observed to carry parcels, of 
 varying wrappings and shapes. Once, in broad 
 daylight, with a package in newspaper, she made 
 such haste past a shop-window where stood Mrs 
 Webster and Mrs Jones, that she tripped on the 
 
BEHIND THE SHADE 121 
 
 broken sole of one shoe, and fell headlong. The 
 newspaper broke away from its pins, and 
 although the woman reached and recovered her 
 parcel before she rose, it was plain to see that 
 it was made up of cheap shirts, cut out ready for 
 the stitching. The street had the news the same 
 hour, and it was generally held that such a 
 taking of the bread out of the mouths of them 
 that wanted it by them that had plenty was 
 a scandal and a shame, and ought to be put 
 a stop to. And Mrs Webster, foremost in the 
 setting right of things, undertook to find out 
 whence the work came, and to say a few plain 
 words in the right quarter. 
 
 All this while nobody watched closely enough 
 to note that the parcels brought in were fewer 
 than the parcels taken out. Even a hand-truck, 
 late one evening, went unremarked : the door 
 being round the corner, and most people within. 
 One morning, though, Miss Perkins, her best foot 
 foremost, was venturing along a near street with 
 an outgoing parcel large and triangular and 
 
T22 BEHIND THE SHADE 
 
 wrapped in white drugget when the relieving 
 officer turned the corner across the way. 
 
 The relieving officer was a man in whose 
 system of etiquette the Perkinses had caused 
 some little disturbance. His ordinary female 
 acquaintances (not, of course, professional) he was 
 in the habit of recognising by a gracious nod. 
 When he met the minister s wife he lifted his 
 hat, instantly assuming an intense frown, in the 
 event of irreverent observation. Now he quite 
 felt that the Perkinses were entitled to some 
 advance upon the nod, although it would be 
 absurd to raise them to a level with the 
 minister s wife. So he had long since established 
 a compromise: he closed his finger and thumb 
 upon the brim of his hat, and let his hand fall 
 forthwith. Preparing now to accomplish this 
 salute, he was astounded to see that Miss 
 Perkins, as soon as she was aware of his 
 approach, turned her face, which was rather 
 flushed, away from him, and went hurrying 
 onward, looking at the wall on her side of the 
 
BEHIND THE SHADE 123 
 
 street. The relieving officer, checking his hand 
 on its way to his hat, stopped and looked after 
 her as she turned the corner, hugging her parcel 
 on the side next the wall. Then he shouldered 
 his umbrella and pursued his way, holding his 
 head high, and staring fiercely straight before 
 him ; for a relieving officer is not used to being 
 cut. 
 
 It was a little after this that Mr Crouch, the 
 landlord, called. He had not been calling regu 
 larly, because of late Miss Perkins had left her 
 five shillings of rent with Mrs Crouch every 
 Saturday evening. He noted with satisfaction 
 the whitened sills and the shade of fruit, behind 
 which the curtains were now drawn close and 
 pinned together. He turned the corner and 
 lifted the bright knocker. Miss Perkins half 
 opened the door, stood in the opening, and 
 began to speak. 
 
 His jaw dropped. Beg pardon forgot some 
 thing. Won t wait call next week do just as 
 well ; and he hurried round the corner and 
 
124 BEHIND THE SHADE 
 
 down the street, puffing and blowing and 
 staring. Why, the woman frightened me/ he 
 afterward explained to Mrs Crouch. There s 
 something wrong with her eyes, and she 
 looked like a corpse. The rent wasn t ready 
 I could see that before she spoke ; so I 
 cleared out. 
 
 P r aps something s happened to the old lady, 
 suggested Mrs Crouch. Anyhow, I should 
 think the rent ud be all right. And he 
 thought it would. 
 
 Nobody saw the Perkinses that week. The 
 shade of fruit stood in its old place, but was 
 thought not to have been dusted after Tuesday. 
 Certainly the sills and the doorstep were 
 neglected. Friday, Saturday and Sunday were 
 swallowed up in a choking brown fog, wherein 
 men lost their bearings, and fell into docks, and 
 stepped over embankment edges. It was as 
 though a great blot had fallen, and had obliter 
 ated three clays from the calendar. It cleared 
 on Monday morning, and, just as the women in 
 
BEHIND THE SHADE 125 
 
 the street were sweeping their steps, Mr Crouch 
 was seen at the green door. He lifted the 
 knocker, dull and sticky now with the foul 
 vapour, and knocked a gentle rat-tat. There 
 was no answer. He knocked again, a little 
 louder, and waited, listening. But there was 
 neither voice nor movement within. He gave 
 three heavy knocks, and then came round to 
 the front window. There was the shade of fruit, 
 the glass a little duller on the top, the curtains 
 pinned close about it, and nothing to see 
 beyond them. He tapped at the window with 
 his knuckles, and backed into the roadway to 
 look at the one above. This was a window 
 with a striped holland blind and a short net 
 curtain ; but never a face was there. 
 
 The sweepers stopped to look, and one from 
 opposite came and reported that she had seen 
 nothing of Miss Perkins for a week, and that 
 certainly nobody had left the house that morn 
 ing. And Mr Crouch grew excited, and 
 bellowed through the keyhole. 
 
126 BEHIND THE SHADE 
 
 In the end they opened the sash-fastening 
 with a knife, moved the shade of fruit, and got 
 in. The room was bare and empty, and their 
 steps and voices resounded as those of people in 
 an unfurnished house. The washhouse was vacant, 
 but it was clean, and there was a little net 
 curtain in the window. The short passage and 
 the stairs were bare boards. In the back room 
 by the stair-head was a drawn window-blind, 
 and that was all. In the front room with the 
 strrped blind and the short curtain there was 
 a bed of rags and old newspapers ; also a 
 wooden box ; and on each of these was a 
 dead woman. 
 
 Both deaths, the doctor found, were from 
 syncope, the result of inanition ; and the better- 
 nourished woman she on the bed had died the 
 sooner ; perhaps by a day or two. The other 
 case was rather curious ; it exhibited a degree of 
 shrinkage in the digestive organs unprecedented 
 in his experience. After the inquest the street 
 had an evening s fame : for the papers printed 
 
BEHIND THE SHADE 127 
 
 coarse drawings of the house, and in leader 
 ettes demanded the abolition of something. 
 Then it became its wonted self. And it was 
 doubted if the waxen apples and the curtains 
 fetched enough to pay Mr Crouch his fortnight s 
 rent. 
 
THREE ROUNDS 
 
THREE ROUNDS 
 
 AT six o clock the back streets were dank 
 and black ; but once in the Bethnal Green 
 Road, blots and flares of gas and naphtha shook 
 and flickered till every slimy cobble in the cart- 
 way was silver-tipped. Neddy Milton was not 
 quite fighting-fit. A day s questing for an odd 
 job had left him weary in the feet ; and a lad 
 of eighteen cannot comfortably go unfed from 
 breakfast to night-fall. But box he must, for 
 the shilling was irrecoverable, and so costly a 
 chance must not be thrown away. It was by 
 a bout with the gloves that he looked to mend 
 his fortunes. That was his only avenue of 
 advancement He could read and write quite 
 decently, and in the beginning might even have 
 
f32 THREE ROUNDS 
 
 been an office-boy, if only the widow his mother, 
 had been able to give him a good send-off in 
 the matter of clothes. Also, he had had one 
 chance of picking up a trade, but the firm 
 already employed as many boys as the union was 
 disposed to allow. So Neddy had to go, and 
 pick up such stray jobs as he might. 
 
 It had been a bad day, without a doubt. 
 Things were bad generally. It was nearly a 
 fortnight since Ned had lost his last job, and 
 there seemed to be no other in the world. His 
 mother had had no slop-waistcoat finishing to 
 do for three or four days, and he distinctly 
 remembered that rather less than half a loaf was 
 left after breakfast ; so that it would never do 
 to go home, for at such a time the old woman 
 had a trick of pretending not to be hungry, 
 and of starving herself. He almost wished that 
 shilling of entrance-money back in his pocket. 
 There is a deal of stuff to be bought for a 
 shilling : fried fish, for instance, whereof the 
 aromas, warm and rank, met him thrice in a 
 
THREE ROUNDS 133 
 
 hundred yards, and the frizzle, loud or faint, sang 
 in his ears all along the Bethnal Green Road. 
 His shilling had been paid over but two days 
 before the last job gave out, and it would be use 
 ful now. Still, the investment might turn out a 
 gold mine. Luck must change. Meanwhile, as 
 to being hungry well, there was always another 
 hole in the belt ! 
 
 The landlord of the Prince Regent public 
 house had a large room behind his premises, 
 which, being moved by considerations of sport 
 and profit in doubtful proportions, he devoted 
 two nights a week to the uses of the Regent 
 Boxing Club. Here Neddy Milton, through a 
 long baptism of pummellings, had learned the 
 trick of a straight lead, a quick counter, and a 
 timely duck ; and here, in the nine-stone com 
 petition to open this very night, he might 
 perchance punch wide the gates of Fortune. For 
 some sporting publican, or discriminating book 
 maker from Bow, might see and approve his 
 sparring, and start him fairly, with money behind 
 
i 3 4 THREE ROUNDS 
 
 him a professional. That would mean a match 
 in six or eight weeks time, with good living in 
 the meanwhile : a match that would have to be 
 won, of course. And after that . . . ! 
 
 Twice before he had boxed in a competition. 
 Once he won his bout in the first round, and was 
 beaten in the second ; and once he was beaten 
 in the first, but that was by the final winner, 
 Tab Rosser, who was now matched for 
 a hundred a side, sparred exhibition bouts up 
 west, wore a light Newmarket coat, and could 
 stand whisky and soda with anybody. To be 
 taken up on the strength of these early perform 
 ances was more than he could reasonably 
 expect. There might be luck in the third trial ; 
 but he would like to feel a little fitter. Break 
 fast (what there was of it) had been ten hours 
 ago, and since there had been but a half-pint 
 of four-ale. It was the treat of a well-meaning 
 friend, but it lay cold on the stomach for want 
 of solid company. 
 
 Turning into Cambridge Road, he crossed, and 
 
THREE ROUNDS 135 
 
 went on among the by-streets leading toward 
 Globe Road. Now and again a slight aspersion 
 of fine rain came down the gusts, and further 
 damped his cap and shoulders and the ragged 
 hair that hung over his collar. Also a cold spot 
 under one foot gave him fears of a hole in his 
 boot-sole as he tramped in the chilly mud. 
 
 In the Prince Regent there were many at 
 the bar, and the most of them knew Neddy. 
 
 Wayo, Ned, said one lad with a pitted face, 
 you don t look much of a bleed n champion. 
 Ave a drop o beer. 
 
 Ned took a sparing pull at the pot, and wiped 
 his mouth on his sleeve. A large man behind 
 him guffawed, and Neddy reddened high. He 
 had heard the joke. The man himself was one 
 of the very backers that might make one s for 
 tune, and the man s companion thought it would 
 be unsafe to back Neddy to fight anything but 
 a beefsteak. 
 
 * You re drawed with Patsy Beard, one of 
 
136 THREE ROUNDS 
 
 Ned s friends informed him. You ll ave to 
 buck up. 
 
 This was bad. Patsy Beard, on known form, 
 stood best chance of winning the competition, 
 and to have to meet him at first set-off was 
 ill luck, and no mistake. He was a thickset 
 little butcher, and there was just the ghost of 
 a hope that he might be found to be a bit over 
 the weight. 
 
 A lad by the bar looked inquiringly in Ned s 
 face and then came toward him, shouldering him 
 quietly out of the group. It was Sam Young, 
 whom Neddy had beaten in an earlier competi 
 tion. * Ungry, Neddy ? he asked, in a corner. 
 
 It was with a shamed face that Neddy confessed ; 
 for among those in peril of hunger it is disgraceful 
 to be hungry. Sam unpocketed a greasy paper, 
 enveloping a pallid sausage-roll. Ave alf o 
 this/ he said. It was a heavy and a clammy 
 thing, but Ned took it, furtively swallowed a large 
 piece, and returned the rest with sheepish thanks. 
 He did not turn again toward the others, but 
 
THREE ROUNDS 13? 
 
 went through to the room where the ring was 
 pitched. 
 
 The proceedings began. First there were exhi 
 bition bouts, to play in the company. Neddy 
 fidgeted. Why couldn t they begin the competi 
 tion at once? When they did, his bout would 
 be number five. That would mean at least an 
 hour of waiting ; and the longer he waited the 
 less fit he would feel. 
 
 In time the exhibition sparring was ended, 
 and the real business began. He watched the 
 early bouts feverishly, feeling unaccountably 
 anxious. The lads looked strong and healthy. 
 Patsy Beard was as strong as any of them, and 
 heavy. Could he stand it? This excited nerv 
 ousness was new and difficult to understand. 
 He had never felt like it before. He was al 
 most trembling ; and that lump of sausage-roll 
 had stuck half-way, and made breathing painful 
 work. Patsy Beard was at the opposite corner, 
 surrounded by admirers. He was red-faced, 
 well-fed, fleshy, and confident. His short hair 
 
138 THREE ROUNDS 
 
 clung shinily about his bullet head. Neddy noted 
 a small piece of court-plaster at the side of his 
 nose. Plainly there was a tender spot, and it 
 must be gone for, be it cut, or scratch, or only 
 pimple. On the left side, too, quite handy. 
 Come, there was some comfort in that. 
 
 He fell to watching the bout. It was a hard 
 fight, and both the lads were swinging the right 
 again and again for a knock-out. But the pace 
 was too hot, and they were soon breathing like 
 men about to sneeze, wearily pawing at each 
 other, while their heads hung forward. Some 
 body jogged him in the back, and he found 
 he must get ready. His dressing was simple. 
 All ill-conditioned old pair of rubber gym 
 nasium shoes replaced his equally ill-conditioned 
 bluchers, and a cotton singlet his shirt ; but 
 his baggy corduroys, ragged at the ankles and 
 doubtful at the seat, remained. 
 
 Presently the last pair of boxers was brought 
 into the dressing-room, and one of the seconds, 
 a battered old pug with one eye, at once seized 
 
THREE ROUNDS 139 
 
 Neddy. Come along, young un, he said. I m 
 your bloke. Got no flannels? Awright. Jump 
 on the scales. 
 
 There was no doubt as to the weight. He 
 had scaled at eight stone thirteen ; now it was 
 eight stone bare. Patsy Beard, on the other 
 hand, weighed the full nine, without an ounce 
 to spare. 
 
 * You re givin im a stone, said the old pug ; 
 all the more credit idin of im. Ere, let s 
 shove em on. Feel "em/ He grinned and 
 blinked his solitary eye as he pulled on Neddy s 
 hand one of a very black and long-worn pair 
 of boxing-gloves. They were soft and flaccid ; 
 Neddy s heart warmed toward the one - eyed 
 man, for well he knew from many knocks that 
 the softer the glove the harder the fist feels 
 through it. Sawftest pair in the place, s elp 
 me, grunted the second, with one glove hanging 
 from his teeth. My lad ad em last time. 
 Come on. 
 
 He snatched a towel and a bottle of water, 
 
140 THREE ROUNDS 
 
 and hurried Neddy from the dressing-room to 
 the ring. Neddy sat in his chair in the ring- 
 corner, and spread his arms on the ropes : while 
 his second, arms uplifted, stood before him and 
 clucked solemnly forward and back with the 
 towel flicking overhead. While he was fann 
 ing, Neddy was still conscious of the lump of 
 sausage-roll in his chest. Also he fell to won 
 dering idly why they called Beard Patsy, when 
 his first name was Joe. The same reflection 
 applied to Tab Rosser, and Hocko Jones, and 
 Tiggy Magson. But certainly he felt hollow and 
 sick in the belly. Could he stand punching? It 
 would never do to chuck it half through. Still 
 
 Ready ! sang the timekeeper. 
 
 The old pug threw the towel over his arm. 
 ( Ave a moistener, he said, presenting the water- 
 bottle to Neddy s mouth. ( Don t swaller any, 
 he added, as his principal took a large gulp. 
 4 Spit it out. 
 
 Seconds out of the ring ! 
 
 The old prize-fighter took his bottle and climbed 
 
THREE ROUNDS 141 
 
 through the ropes. Don t go in - fightin , he 
 whispered from behind. Mark im on the stick- 
 in -plaster ; an if you don t give im a idin , bli 
 me, I ll give you one ! 
 
 Time ! 
 
 The seconds seized the chairs and dragged 
 them out of the ring, as the lads advanced and 
 shook hands. Patsy Beard flung back his right 
 foot, and made a flashy prance with his left 
 knee as they began to spar for an opening : it 
 was Patsy s way. All Neddy s anxiety was 
 gone. The moment his right foot dropped be 
 hind his left, and his left hand rocked, knuckles 
 up, before him, he was a competent workman, 
 with all his tools in order. Even the lump of 
 dough on his chest he felt no more. 
 
 Buy, buy! bawled a wag in the crowd, as a 
 delicate allusion to Beard s more ordinary occu 
 pation. Patsy grinned at the compliment, but 
 Neddy confined his attention to business. He 
 feinted with his left, and got back ; but Patsy 
 was not to be drawn. Then Neddy stepped in 
 
i 4 2 THREE ROUNDS 
 
 and led quickly, ducking the counter and repeat 
 ing before getting away. Patsy came with a 
 rush and fought for the body, but Neddy 
 slipped him, and got in one for nothing on the 
 ear. The company howled. 
 
 They sparred in the middle. Patsy led per 
 functorily with the left now and again, while his 
 right elbow undulated nervously. That foretold 
 an attempt to knock out with the right : pre 
 cautions, a straight and persistent left and a wary 
 eye. So Neddy kept poking out his left, and 
 never lost sight of the court-plaster, never of the 
 shifty right. Give and take was the order of 
 the round, and they fought all over the ring. 
 Patsy Beard making for close quarters, and Neddy 
 keeping off, and stopping him with the left. 
 Neddy met a straight punch on the nose that 
 made his eyes water, but through the tears he 
 saw the plaster displaced, and a tiny stream ol 
 blood trickling toward the corner of Patsy s mouth. 
 Plainly it was a cut. He broke ground, stopped 
 half-way and banged in left and right. He got 
 
THREE ROUNDS 143 
 
 a sharp drive on the neck for his pains, and 
 took the right on his elbow ; but he had landed 
 on the spot, and the tiny streak of blood was 
 smeared out wide across Patsy s face. The com 
 pany roared and whistled with enthusiasm. It 
 was a capital rally. 
 
 But now Neddy s left grew slower, and was 
 heavy to lift. From time to time Patsy got in 
 one for nothing, and soon began to drive him 
 about the ring. Neddy fought on, weak and 
 gasping, and longed for the call of time. His 
 arms felt as they were hung with lead, and he 
 could do little more than push feebly. He heard 
 the yell of many voices : * Now then, Patsy, hout 
 him ! Ave im out ! That s it, Patsy, another 
 like that ! Keep on, Patsy ! 
 
 Patsy kept on. Right and left, above and 
 below, Neddy could see the blows coming. But 
 he was powerless to guard or to return. He could 
 but stagger about, and now and again swing an 
 ineffectual arm as it hung from the shoulder. 
 Presently a flush hit on the nose drove him 
 
i 4 4 THREE ROUNDS 
 
 against the ropes, another in the ribs almost 
 through them. But a desperate, wide whirl of 
 his right brought it heavily on Patsy s tender 
 spot, and tore open the cut. Patsy winced, 
 and 
 
 Time ! 
 
 Neddy was grabbed at the waist and put in 
 his chair. Good lad ! said the one-eyed pug 
 in his ear as he sponged his face. Nothink 
 like pluck. But you mustn t go to pieces alf 
 through the round. Was it a awk ard poke 
 upsetcher ? 
 
 Neddy, lying back and panting wildly, shook 
 his head as he gazed at the ceiling. 
 
 Awright ; try an save yourself a bit. Keep 
 yer left goin you roasted im good with that ; 
 e ll want a yard o plaster to-night. An when 
 e gits leadin loose, take it auf an give him the 
 right straight from the guard if you know the 
 trick. Point o the jaw that s for, mind. Ave 
 a cooler. He took a mouthful of water and 
 blew it in a fine spray^in^Neddy s face, wiped 
 
THREE ROUNDS 145 
 
 it down, and began another overhead fan 
 ning. 
 
 Seconds out of the ring ! called the time 
 keeper. 
 
 Go it my lad thus a whisper from behind 
 you can walk over im ! And Neddy felt the 
 wet sponge squeezed against the back of his 
 neck, and the cool water trickling down his 
 spine. 
 
 1 Time ! 
 
 Neddy was better, though there was a worn 
 feeling in his arm-muscles. Patsy s cut had been 
 well sponged, but it still bled, and Patsy meant 
 giving Neddy no rest. He rushed at once, but 
 was met by a clean right-hander, slap on the 
 sore spot. Bravo, Neddy ! came a voice, and 
 the company howled as before. Patsy was 
 steadied. He sparred with some caution, twitch 
 ing the cheek next the cut. Neddy would not 
 lead (for he must save himself), and so the two 
 sparred for a few seconds. Then Patsy rushed 
 
 again, and Neddy got busy with both hands. 
 
 K 
 
146 THREE ROUNDS 
 
 Once he managed to get the right in from 
 the guard as his second had advised, but not 
 heavily. He could feel his strength going 
 earlier than in the last round and Patsy was as 
 strong and determined as ever. Another rush 
 carried Neddy against the ropes, where he got 
 two heavy body blows and a bad jaw-rattler. 
 He floundered to the right in an attempt to 
 slip, and fell on his face. He rolled on his side, 
 however, and was up again, breathless and un 
 steady. There was a sickening throbbing in the 
 crown of his head, and he could scarce lift his 
 arms. But there was no respite : the other lad 
 was at him again, and he was driven across the 
 ring and back, blindly pushing his aching arms 
 before him, while punch followed punch on nose, 
 ears, jaws, and body, till something began to 
 beat inside his head, louder and harder than 
 all beside, stunning and sickening him. He 
 could hear the crowd roaring still, but it seemed 
 further off; and the yells of That s it, Patsy! 
 Now you re got im ! Keep at im ! Hout im 
 
THREE ROUNDS 147 
 
 this time ! came from some other building 
 close by, where somebody was getting a bad 
 licking. Somebody with no control of his legs, 
 and no breath to spit away the blood from his 
 nose as it ran and stuck over his lips. Some 
 body praying for the end of the three minutes 
 that seemed three hours, and groaning inwardly 
 because of a lump of cold lead in his belly that 
 had once been sausage-roll. Somebody to whom 
 a few called still in the other building * Chuck 
 it, Neddy ; it s no good. Why don cher chuck it ? 
 while others said, Take im away, tj ke im 
 away ! Then something hit him between the 
 eyes, and some other thing behind the head ; 
 that was one of the posts. He swung an arm, 
 but it met nothing ; then the other, and it struck 
 somewhere ; and then there was a bang that 
 twisted his head, and hard boards were against 
 his face. O it was bad, but it was a rest. 
 
 Cold water was on his face, and somebody 
 spoke. He was in his chair again, and the one- 
 eyed man was sponging him. * It was the call 
 
148 THREE ROUNDS 
 
 o time as saved ye then/ he said ; you d 
 never a got up in the ten seconds. Y aint 
 up to another round, are ye? Better chuck it. 
 It s no disgrace, after the way you ve stood 
 up. But Neddy shook his head. He had got 
 through two of the three rounds, and didn t 
 mean throwing away a chance of saving the 
 bout. 
 
 Awright, if you won t/ his Mentor said. 
 Nothink like pluck. But you re no good on 
 points a knock-out s the on y chance. Nurse 
 yer right, an give it J im good on the point. 
 E s none so fresh isself; e s blowed with the 
 work, an you pasted im fine when you did it. 
 Last thing, just before J e sent ye down, ye 
 dropped a ot un on is beak. Didn t see 
 it, didjer? The old bruiser rubbed vigorously 
 at his arms, and gave him a small, but wel 
 come, drink of water. 
 
 Seconds out of the ring ! 
 
 The one-eyed man was gone once more, but 
 again his voice came from behind. Mind 
 
THREE ROUNDS 149 
 
 give it im ard and give it im soon, an if you 
 feel groggy, chuck it d reckly. If ye don t, I ll 
 drag ye out by the slack o yer trousis an 
 disgrace ye/ 
 
 Time ! 
 
 Neddy knew there was little more than half 
 a minute s boxing left in him perhaps not so 
 much. He must do his best at once. Patsy 
 was showing signs of hard wear, and still 
 blew a little : his nose was encouragingly 
 crimson at the nostrils, and the cut was open 
 and raw. He rushed in with a lead which 
 Neddy ducked and cross-countered, though 
 ineffectually. There were a few vigorous ex 
 changes, and then Neddy staggered back from 
 a straight drive on the mouth. There was a 
 shout of Patsy ! and Patsy sprang in, right 
 elbow all a-jerk, and flung in the left. Neddy 
 guarded wildly, and banged in the right from 
 the guard. Had he hit? He had felt no 
 shock, but there was Patsy, lying on his face. 
 
 The crowd roared and roared again. The 
 
i5o THREE ROUNDS 
 
 old pug stuffed his chair hastily through the 
 ropes, and Neddy sank into it, panting, with 
 bloodshot eyes. Patsy lay still. The time 
 keeper watched the seconds-hand pass its ten 
 points, and gave the word, but Patsy only 
 moved a leg. Neddy Milton had won. 
 
 Brayvo, young un, said the old fighter, as he 
 threw his arm about Neddy s waist, and helped 
 him to the dressing-room. Cleanest knock 
 out I ever see smack on the point o the jaw. 
 Never thought you d a done it. I said there 
 was nothink like pluck, did n I ? Ave a wash 
 now, an you ll be all the better for the exercise. 
 Give us them gloves I m off for the next bout 
 And he seized another lad, and marched him 
 out. 
 
 Ave a drop o beer, said one of Neddy s 
 new-won friends, extending a tankard. He 
 took it, though he scarcely felt awake. He 
 was listless and weak, and would not have 
 moved for an hour had he been left alone. 
 But Patsy was brought to, and sneezed loudly, 
 
THREE ROUNDS 5 
 
 and Neddy was hauled over to shake hands 
 
 with him. 
 
 You give me a ell of a doin , said Ne< 
 / never thought I d beat you. 
 
 Beat me? well you ain t, ave you? 
 
 Knock-out, answered several at once. 
 
 Well I m damned, said Patsy Beard 
 
 In the bar, after the evening s business, 
 Neddy sat and looked wistfully at the stout 
 red-faced men who smoked fourpenny cigars 
 and drank special Scotch ; but not one notu 
 him His luck had not come after all. 
 there was the second round of bouts, and the 
 final, in a week s time-perhaps it would come 
 then If he could only win the final- 
 it must come. Meanwhile he was sick and 
 faint and felt doubtful about getting home. 
 Outside it was raining hard. He laid his head 
 on the bar table at which he was sitting, a 
 at closing time there they found him asleep. 
 
IN BUSINESS 
 
IN BUSINESS 
 
 HT^HERE was a great effervescence of rumour 
 in Cubitt Town when Ted Munsey came 
 into money. Ted Munsey, commonly alluded to 
 as Mrs Munsey s usband, was a moulder with a 
 regular job at Moffat s : a large, quiet man of 
 forty-five, the uncomplaining appurtenance of his 
 wife. This was fitting, for she had married be 
 neath her, her father having been a dock time 
 keeper. 
 
 To come into money is an unusual feat in 
 Cubitt Town ; a feat, nevertheless, continually 
 contemplated among possibilities by all Cubitt 
 Towners; who find nothing else in the Sunday 
 paper so refreshing as the paragraphs headed 
 Windfall for a Cabman and * A Fortune for a 
 
156 IN BUSINESS 
 
 Pauper, and who cut them out to pin over the 
 mantelpiece. The handsome colouring of such 
 paragraphs was responsible for many bold flights 
 of fancy in regard to Ted Munsey s fortune : 
 Cubitt Town, left to itself, being sterile soil for 
 the imagination. Some said that the Munseys 
 had come in for chests packed with bank notes, 
 on the decease of one of Mrs Munsey s relations, 
 of whom she was wont to hint. Others put it 
 at a street full of houses, as being the higher 
 ideal of wealth. A few, more romantically 
 given, imagined vaguely of ancestral lands and 
 halls, which Mrs Munsey and her forebears 
 had been done out of for many years, by 
 the lawyers. All which Mrs Munsey, in her 
 hour of triumph, was at little pains to dis 
 count, although, in simple fact, the fortune was 
 no more than a legacy of a hundred pounds 
 from Ted s uncle, who had kept a public-house 
 in Deptford. 
 
 Of the hundred pounds Mrs Munsey took 
 immediate custody. There was no guessing 
 
IN BUSINESS 157 
 
 what would have become of it in Ted s hands ; 
 probably it would have been, in chief part, 
 irrecoverably lent ; certainly it would have gone 
 and left Ted a moulder at Moffatt s, as before. 
 With Mrs Munsey there was neither hesitation 
 nor difficulty. The obvious use of a hundred 
 pounds was to put its possessors into business 
 which meant a shop ; to elevate them socially 
 at a single bound beyond the many grades 
 lying between the moulder and the small trades 
 man. Wherefore the Munseys straightway went 
 into business. Being equally ignorant of every 
 sort of shopkeeping, they were free to choose 
 the sort they pleased ; and thus it was that 
 Mrs Munsey decided upon drapery and haber 
 dashery, Ted s contribution to the discussion 
 being limited to a mild hint of greengrocery 
 and coals, instantly suppressed as low. No 
 thing could be more genteel than drapery, 
 and it would suit the girls. General chandler} , 
 sweetstuff, oil and firewood all these were low, 
 comparatively. Drapery it was, and quickly ; 
 
158 IN BUSINESS 
 
 for Mrs Munsey was not wont to shilly-shally. 
 An empty shop was found in Bromley, was 
 rented, and was stocked as far as possible. 
 Tickets were hung upon everything, bearing a 
 very large main figure with a very small three- 
 farthings beside it, and the thing was done. 
 The stain of moulding was washed from the 
 scutcheon ; the descent thereunto from dock 
 timekeeping was redeemed five-fold ; dock time 
 keeping itself was left far below, with carpen 
 tering, shipwrighting, and engine-fitting. The 
 Munseys were in business. 
 
 Ted Munsey stood about helplessly and stared, 
 irksomely striving not to put his hands in his 
 pockets, which was low; any lapse being in 
 stantly detected by Mrs Munsey, who rushed 
 from all sorts of unexpected places and cor 
 rected the fault vigorously. 
 
 ( I didn t go for to do it, Marier, he ex 
 plained penitently. It s abit I ll get out of 
 it soon. It don t look well, I know, in a busi 
 ness ; but it do seem a comfort, somehow. 
 
IN BUSINESS 159 
 
 O you an your comfort ! A lot you study 
 my comfort, Hedward ! for he was Ted no 
 more * a-toilin } an a-moilin with everything 
 to think of myself while you look on with your 
 ands in your pockets. Do try an not look like 
 a stuck ninny, do ! And Hedward, whose every 
 attempt at help or suggestion had been severely 
 repulsed, slouched uneasily to the door, and 
 strove to look as business-like as possible. 
 
 There you go again, stickin in the doorway 
 and starin up an down the street, as though 
 there was no business doin there was none, 
 but that might not be confessed. ( D y expect 
 people to come in with you a-fillin up the 
 door? Do come in, do! You d be better out 
 o the shop altogether. 
 
 Hedward thought so too, but said nothing. 
 He had been invested with his Sunday clothes 
 of lustrous black, and brought into the shop to 
 give such impression of a shop-walker as he 
 might. He stood uneasily on alternate feet, and 
 stared at the ceiling, the floor, or the space 
 
160 IN BUSINESS 
 
 before him, with an unhappy sense of being on 
 show and not knowing what was expected of 
 him. He moved his hands purposelessly, and 
 knocked things down with his elbows ; he rubbed 
 his hair all up behind, and furtively wiped the 
 resulting oil from his hand on his trousers : 
 never looking in the least degree like a shop 
 walker. 
 
 The first customer was a very small child who 
 came for a ha porth of pins, and on whom 
 Hedward gazed with much interest and respect, 
 while Mrs Munsey handed over the purchase : 
 abating not a jot of his appreciation when 
 the child returned, later, to explain that what 
 she really wanted was sewing cotton. Other 
 customers were disappointingly few. Several 
 old neighbours came in from curiosity, to talk 
 and buy nothing. One woman, who looked at 
 many things without buying, was discovered 
 after her departure to have stolen a pair of 
 stockings ; and Hedward was duly abused for 
 not keeping a sharp look-out while his wife s 
 
IN BUSINESS 161 
 
 back was turned. Finally, the shutters went up 
 on a day s takings of three and sevenpence 
 farthing, including a most dubious threepenny 
 bit. But then, as Mrs Munsey said, when you 
 are in business you must expect trade to vary ; 
 and of course there would be more customers 
 when the shop got known ; although Hed- 
 ward certainly might have taken the trouble to 
 find one in a busier thoroughfare. Hedward 
 (whose opinion in that matter, as in others, had 
 never been asked) retired to the back-yard to 
 smoke a pipe a thing he had been pining for 
 all day : but was quickly recalled (the pipe 
 being a clay) upon Mrs Munsey s discovery that 
 the act could be observed from a neighbour s 
 window. He was continually bringing the family 
 into disgrace, and Mrs Munsey despaired aloud 
 over him far into the night. 
 
 The days came and went, and trade varied, as 
 a fact, very little indeed. Between three and 
 sevenpence farthing and nothing the scope for 
 fluctuation is small, and for some time the 
 
 L 
 
i6 2 IN BUSINESS 
 
 first day s record was never exceeded. But on 
 the fifth day a customer bought nearly seven 
 shillings worth all at once. Her husband had 
 that day returned from sea with money, and 
 she, after months of stint, indulged in an orgie 
 of haberdashery at the nearest shop. Mrs 
 Munsey was reassured. Trade was increasing ; 
 perhaps an assistant would be needed soon, in 
 addition to the two girls. 
 
 Only the younger of the girls, by-the-bye, had 
 as yet taken any active interest in the business : 
 Emma, the elder, spending much of her time in 
 a bedroom, making herself unpresentable by 
 inordinate blubbering. This was because of Mrs 
 Munsey s prohibition of more company-keeping 
 with Jack Page. Jack was a plumber, just out 
 of his time rather a catch for a moulder s 
 daughter, but impossible, of course, for the 
 daughter of people in business, as Emma should 
 have had the proper feeling to see for herself. 
 This Emma had not : she wallowed in a luxury 
 of woe, exacerbated on occasions to poignancy by 
 
IN BUSINESS 163 
 
 the scoldings and sometimes by the thumpings 
 of her mar ; and neglected even the select 
 weekly quadrille class, membership whereof was 
 part of the novel splendour. 
 
 But there was never again a seven-shilling 
 customer. The state of trade perplexed Mrs 
 Munsey beyond telling. Being in business, one 
 must, by the circumstance, have a genteel com 
 petence : this was an elementary axiom in 
 Cubitt Town. But where was the money? 
 What was the difference between this and other 
 shops? Was a screw loose anywhere? In that 
 case it certainly could not be her fault ; where 
 fore she nagged Hedward. 
 
 One day a polite young man called in a 
 large pony-trap and explained the whole mystery. 
 Nobody could reasonably expect to succeed in 
 a business of this sort who did not keep a good 
 stock of the fancy aprons and lace bows made by 
 the firm he was charged to represent. Of course, 
 he knew what business was, and that cash was 
 not always free, but that need never hinder 
 
164 IN BUSINESS 
 
 transactions with him : three months credit was 
 the regular thing with any respectable, well-estab 
 lished business concern, and in three months 
 one would certainly sell all the fancy aprons 
 and lace bows of this especial kind and price 
 that one had room for. And he need scarcely 
 remind a lady of Mrs Munsey s business experi 
 ence that fancy aprons and lace bows of the 
 right sort were by far the most profitable goods 
 known to the trade. Everybody knew that. 
 Should they say a gross of each, just to go on 
 with ? No? Well, then half a gross. These 
 prices were cut so near that it really did not pay 
 to split the gross, but this time, to secure a good 
 customer, he would stretch a point. Mrs Munsey 
 was enlightened. Plainly the secret of success 
 in business was to buy advantageously, in the 
 way the polite young man suggested, sell at a 
 good price, and live on the profits : merely 
 paying over the remainder at the end of three 
 months. Nothing could be simpler. So she 
 began the system forthwith. Other polite young 
 
IN BUSINESS 165 
 
 men called, and further certain profits were 
 arranged for on similar terms. 
 
 The weak spot in the plan was the absence 
 of any binding arrangement with the general 
 public ; and this was not long in discovering 
 itself. Nobody came to buy the fancy aprons 
 and the lace bows, tempting as they might seem. 
 Moreover, after they had hung a week or more, 
 Alice reported that a large shop in the Com 
 mercial Road was offering, by retail, aprons and 
 bows of precisely the same sort at a less price 
 than the polite young man had charged for a 
 wholesale purchase. Mrs Munsey grew desperate, 
 and Hedward s life became a horror unto him. 
 He was set to stand at the door with a fancy 
 apron in one hand and a lace bow in the other, 
 and capture customers as they passed : a function 
 wherein he achieved detestable failure ; alarming 
 passing women (who considered him dangerously 
 drunk) as greatly as his situation distressed him 
 self. 
 
 Mrs Munsey grew more desperate, and drove 
 
166 IN BUSINESS 
 
 Hedward to the rear of the house, with bitter 
 revilings. Money must be got out of the stock 
 somehow. That a shop could in any circum 
 stances be unremunerative puzzled as much as 
 it dismayed her. The goods were marked down 
 to low prices often lower than cost. Still Mrs 
 Munsey had the abiding conviction that the 
 affair must pay, as others did, if only she might 
 hold out long enough. Hedward s suggestion 
 that he should return to the moulding, coming 
 and going as little in sight as possible, she 
 repelled savagely. A nice notion you ve got 
 o keepin up a proper position. You ain t con 
 tent with disgracin me and yourself too, playin 
 the fool in the shop till trade s ruined an no 
 body won t come near the place an I don t 
 wonder at it. ... You re a nice sort of usband, 
 I must say. What are you goin to do now, 
 with the business in this pretty mess, an 1 your 
 wife an* children ready to starve ? What are 
 you goin to do? Where are you goin to 
 turn ? That s what I want to know. 
 
IN BUSINESS 167 
 
 1 Well, I m a-thinkin it out, Marier, in a legal 
 point PYaps, you know, my dear 
 * Oh, don t dear me. I ate a fool. 
 Marked as low as they might be, none of the 
 aprons nor the bows nor the towels nor the 
 stockings nor any other of the goods were 
 bought never a thing beyond a ha porth of 
 thread or a farthing bodkin. Rent had to be 
 paid, and even food cost money. There was a 
 flavour of blank disappointment about Saturday 
 the pay day of less anxious times ; and quarter- 
 day, when all these polite young men would 
 demand the money that was not that day was 
 coming, black and soon. Mrs Munsey grew 
 more desperate than ever ; sharp of feature, 
 and aged. Alone, she would probably have wept. 
 Having Hedward at hand, she poured forth her 
 bitterness of spirit upon him ; till at last he 
 was nagged out of his normal stolidity, and there 
 came upon his face the look of a bullock that is 
 harried on all hands through unfamiliar streets. 
 On a night when, from sheer weariness of 
 
1 68 IN BUSINESS 
 
 soul, she fell from clatter toward sleep, of 
 a sudden Hedward spoke. * Marier he said. 
 Well ? 
 
 You ain t give me a kiss lately. Kiss me 
 now. 
 
 Don t be a fool. I m sick an tired. Go 
 to sleep, if you can sleep, with everything 
 
 * Kiss me, I tell you ! He had never com 
 manded like that before. She marvelled, feared 
 a little, and obeyed. 
 
 In the morning, when she awoke, he had 
 already gone downstairs. This was as usual. 
 When she followed, however, he was not to be 
 found in the house. The shop shutters had 
 been taken down, and the windows carefully 
 cleaned, although it was not the regular window- 
 cleaning day ; but the door was shut. On the 
 sitting-room table were two papers, one within 
 the other. The first was written with many 
 faults and smudges, and this was how it ran : 
 
 the deed and testiment of Ed. Munsey this 
 
IN BUSINESS 169 
 
 is to cirtiffy that i make over all my propperty 
 to my belov d wife stock bisness and furnitur 
 so help me god all detts i keep to pay myself 
 and my wife is not ansrable for them and 
 certiffy that I O U Minchin and co 9 pound 
 4/7 Jones and son 6 pound 13/2 and settrer 
 all other detts me and not my wife I O U 
 
 Ed. Munsey 
 
 The other was a letter : 
 
 my dear wife i have done this legle docker- 
 ment after thinking it out it will make you 
 alrite having all made over and me still oawe 
 the detts not you as you can pull round the 
 bisness as you said with time and if you do 
 not see me again will you pay the detts when 
 it is pull round as we have been allways 
 honnest and straght i should wish for Emma 
 to keep co with Jhon Page if can be mannaged 
 he might be shop walker and you will soon all 
 be rich swels i know so no more from yours 
 affec husband Ed. Munsey 
 
170 IN BUSINESS 
 
 love to Emma and Alice this one must be 
 burnt keep the other 
 
 Near the papers lay Ted Munsey s large 
 silver watch and chain, the silver ring that he 
 used to fasten his best tie, three keys, and a 
 few coppers. Upstairs the girls began to move 
 about. Mrs Munsey sat with her frightened face 
 on the table. 
 
THE RED COW GROUP 
 
THE RED COW GROUP 
 
 r I ^HE Red Cow Anarchist Group no longer 
 exists. Its leading spirit appears no more 
 among his devoted comrades, and without him 
 they are ineffectual. 
 
 He was but a young man, this leading spirit, 
 (his name, by-the-bye was Sotcher), but of his 
 commanding influence among the older but un 
 lettered men about him, read and judge. For 
 themselves, they had long been plunged in a beery 
 apathy, neither regarding nor caring for the fear 
 ful iniquities of the social system that oppressed 
 them. A Red Cow group they had always been, 
 before the coming of Sotcher to make Anarchists 
 
 of them : foregathering in a remote compart- 
 
 173 
 
174 THE RED COW GROUP 
 
 ment of the Red Cow bar, reached by a side 
 door in an alley ; a compartment uninvaded and 
 almost undiscovered by any but themselves, 
 where night after night they drank their beer 
 and smoked their pipes, sunk in a stagnant 
 ignorance of their manifold wrongs. During the 
 day Old Baker remained to garrison the strong 
 hold. He was a long-bankrupt tradesman, with 
 invisible resources and no occupation but this, 
 and no known lodging but the Red Cow 
 snuggery. There he remained all day and every 
 day, holding the fort as he put it : with his 
 nose, a fiery signal of possession, never two feet 
 from the rim of his pot ; while Jerry Shand 
 was carrying heavy loads in Columbia Market ; 
 while Gunno Poison was running for a book 
 maker in Fleet Street; while Snorkey was where- 
 ever his instinct took him, doing whatever paid 
 best, and keeping out of trouble as long as he 
 could ; and while the rest of the group two or 
 three picked a living out of the London heap 
 in ways and places unspecified. But at evening, 
 
THE RED COW GROUP 175 
 
 they joined Old Baker, and they filled their 
 snuggery. 
 
 Their talk was rarely of politics, and never 
 of social problems : present and immediate 
 facts filled their whole field of contemplation. 
 Their accounts were kept, and their references to 
 pecuniary matters were always stated, in terms 
 of liquid measure. Thus, fourpence was never 
 spoken of in the common way : it was a quart, 
 and a quart was the monetary standard of the 
 community. Even as twopence was a pint, and 
 eightpence was half-a-gallon. 
 
 It was Snorkey who discovered Sotcher, and 
 it was with Snorkey that that revolutionary 
 appeared before the Red Cow group with his 
 message of enlightenment. Snorkey (who was 
 christened something else that nobody knew r or 
 cared about) had a trick of getting into extra 
 ordinary and unheard of places in his daily 
 quest of quarts, and he had met Sotcher in a 
 loft at the top of a house in Berners Street, 
 Shadwell. It was a loft where the elect of Anarch- 
 
1 76 THE RED COW GROUP 
 
 ism congregated nightly, and where everybody 
 lectured all the others. Sotcher was a very young 
 Anarchist, restless by reason of not being suffi 
 ciently listened to, and glad to find outsiders to 
 instruct and to impress with a full sense of his 
 sombre, mystic dare-devilry. Therefore he came 
 to the Red Cow with Snorkey, to spread (as he 
 said) the light. 
 
 He was not received with enthusiasm, perhaps 
 because of a certain unlaundered aspect of person 
 remarkable even to them of the Red Cow 
 group. Grease was his chief exterior character 
 istic, and his thick hair, turning up over his 
 collar, seemed to have lain for long unharried of 
 brush or comb. His face was a sebaceous trickle 
 of long features, and on his hands there was a 
 murky deposit that looked like scales. He 
 wore, in all weathers, a long black coat with a 
 rectangular rent in the skirt, and his throat he 
 clipped in a brown neckerchief that on a time 
 had been of the right Anarchist red. But no want 
 of welcome could abash him. Here, indeed, he 
 
THE RED COW GROUP 177 
 
 had an audience, an audience that did not lec 
 ture on its own account, a crude audience that 
 might take him at his own valuation. So he 
 gave it to that crude audience, hot and strong. 
 They (and he) were the salt of the earth, 
 bullied, plundered and abused. Down with 
 everything that wasn t down already. And so 
 forth and so on. 
 
 His lectures were continued. Every night it 
 was the same as every other, and each several 
 chapter of his discourse was a repetition of the 
 one before. Slowly the Red Cow group came 
 round. Plainly other people were better off 
 than they ; and certainly each man found it 
 hard to believe that anybody else was more de 
 serving than himself. 
 
 Wy are we pore ? asked Sotcher, leaning 
 forward and jerking his extended palm from 
 one to another, as though attempting a hasty 
 collection. I ask you straight, wy are we 
 pore? Why is it, my frien s that awften and 
 
 awften you find you ain t got a penny in ycr 
 
 II 
 
178 THE RED COW GROUP 
 
 pocket, not for to git a crust o bread or alf 
 a pint o reasonable refreshment ? Ow is it 
 that appens? Agin I ask, ow? 
 
 Snorkey, with a feeling that an answer was 
 expected from somebody, presently murmured 
 , No mugs/ which encouraged Gunno Poison 
 to suggest ( Backers all stony-broke. Jerry 
 Shand said nothing, but reflected on the 
 occasional result of a day on the loose. Old 
 Baker neither spoke nor thought. 
 
 I ll tell you, me frien s. It s cos o the 
 rotten state o s ciety. Wy d you allow the lazy, 
 idle, dirty, do-nothing upper classes, as they 
 call emselves, to reap all the benefits o your 
 toil wile you slave an slave to keep em in 
 lukshry an starve yerselves? Wy don t you go 
 an take your shares o the wealth lyin round 
 you ? 
 
 There was another pause. Gunno Poison 
 looked at his friends one after another, spat em 
 phatically, and said Coppers. 
 
 Becos o the brute force as the privileged 
 
THE RED COW GROUP 179 
 
 classes is edged theirselves in with, that s all. 
 Becos o the paid myrmidons armed an kep to 
 make slaves o the people. Becos o the magis 
 trates an p lice. Then vvy not git rid o the 
 magistrates an p lice? They re no good, are 
 they? Oo wants em, I ask? Oo? J 
 
 They are a noosance, admitted Snorkey, who 
 had done a little time himself. He was a mere 
 groundling, and persisted in regarding the pro 
 ceedings as simple conversation, instead of as 
 an oration with pauses at the proper places. 
 
 * Nobody wants em nobody as is any good. 
 Then don t ave em, me frien s don t ave em ! 
 It all rests with you. Don t ave no magistrates 
 nor p lice, nor gover ment, nor parliament, nor 
 monarchy, nor county council, nor nothink. 
 Make a clean sweep of em. Blow em up. 
 Then you ll ave yer rights. The time s comin , 
 I tell you. It s comin , take my word for it. 
 Now you toil an slave ; then everybody 11 ave 
 to work w ether e likes it or not, and two hours 
 work a day 11 be all you ll ave to do. 
 
i8o THE RED COW GROUP 
 
 Old Baker looked a little alarmed, and for a 
 moment paused in his smoking. 
 
 Two hours a day at most, that s all ; an all 
 yer wants provided for, free an liberal. Some 
 of the group gave a lickerish look across the 
 bar. No a thority, no gover ment, no privi 
 lege, an nothink to interfere. Free contrack 
 between man an man, subjick to free revision 
 an change. 
 
 Wot s that? demanded Jerry Shand, who 
 was the slowest convert. 
 
 Wy, that, Sotcher explained, means that 
 everybody can make wot arrangements with is 
 feller-men e likes for to carry on the business 
 of life, but nothink can t bind you. You chuck 
 over the arrangement if it suits best. 
 
 Ah, said Gunno Poison musingly, rotating 
 his pot horizontally before him to stir the beer ; 
 that ud be andy sometimes. They call it 
 welshin now. 
 
 The light spread fast and free, and in a few 
 
THE RED COW GROUP 181 
 
 nights the Red Cow group was a very promising 
 little bed of anarchy. Sotcher was at pains to 
 have it reported at two places west of Totten 
 ham Court Road and at another in Dean Street, 
 Soho, that at last a comrade had secured an 
 excellent footing with a party of the proletariat 
 of East London, hitherto looked on as hopeless 
 material. More : that an early manifestation of 
 activity might be expected in that quarter. Such 
 activity had been held advisable of late, in view 
 of certain extraditions. 
 
 And Sotcher s discourse at the Red Cow 
 turned, lightly and easily, toward the question 
 of explosives. Anybody could make them, he 
 explained ; nothing simpler, with care. And here 
 he posed at large in the character of mysterious 
 desperado, the wonder and admiration of all 
 the Red Cow group. They should buy nitric 
 acid, he said, of the strongest sort, and twice 
 as much sulphuric acid. The shops where they 
 sold photographic materials were best and 
 cheapest for these things, and no questions 
 
1 82 THE RED COW GROUP 
 
 were asked. They should mix the acids, and 
 then add gently, drop by drop, the best 
 glycerine, taking care to keep everything cool. 
 After which the whole lot must be poured into 
 water, to stand for an hour. Then a thick, 
 yellowish, oily stuff would be found to have 
 sunk to the bottom, which must be passed 
 through several pails of water to be cleansed : 
 and there it was, a terrible explosive. You 
 handled it with care, and poured it on brick-dust 
 or dry sand, or anything of that sort that would 
 soak it up, and then it could be used with 
 safety to the operator. 
 
 The group listened with rapt attention, more 
 than one pot stopping half way on its passage 
 mouthwards. Then Jerry Shand wanted to 
 know if Sotcher had ever blown up anything 
 or anybody himself. 
 
 The missionary admitted that that glory had 
 not been his. c I m one o the teachers, me 
 frien s one o the pioneers that goes to show 
 the way for the active workers like you. I 
 
THE RED COW GROUP 183 
 
 on y come to explain the principles an set you 
 in the right road to the social revolution, so 
 as you may get yer rights at last. It s for you 
 to act. 
 
 Then he explained that action might be taken 
 in two ways : either individually or by mutual 
 aid in the group. Individual work was much 
 to be preferred, being safer ; but a particular 
 undertaking often necessitated co-operation. 
 But that was for the workers to settle as the 
 occasion arose. However, one thing must be 
 remembered. If the group operated, each man 
 must be watchful of the rest ; there must be 
 no half measures, no timorousness ; any com 
 rade wavering, temporising, or behaving in any 
 way suspiciously, must be straightway sup 
 pressed. There must be no mistake about 
 that. It was desperate and glorious work, and 
 there must be desperate and rapid methods 
 both of striking and guarding. These things 
 he made clear in his best conspirator s manner : 
 with nods and scowls and a shaken fore- 
 
1 84 THE RED COW GROUP 
 
 finger, -as of one accustomed to oversetting 
 empires. 
 
 The men of the Red Cow group looked at 
 each other, and spat thoughtfully. Then a com 
 rade asked what had better be blown up first. 
 Sotcher s opinion was that there was most glory 
 in blowing up people, in a crowd or at a 
 theatre. But a building was safer, as there 
 was more chance of getting away. Of buildings, 
 a public office was probably to be preferred 
 something in Whitehall, say. Or a bank 
 nobody seemed to have tried a bank : he 
 offered the suggestion now. Of course there 
 were not many public buildings in the East 
 End, but possibly the group would like to 
 act in their own neighbourhood : it would be 
 a novelty, and would attract notice ; the 
 question was one for their own decision, 
 independent freedom of judgment being the 
 right thing in these matters. There were 
 churches, of course, and the factories of the 
 bloated capitalist. Particularly, he might 
 
THE RED COW GROUP 185 
 
 suggest the gas-works close by. There was a 
 large gasometer abutting on the street, and 
 probably an explosion there would prove 
 tremendously effective, putting the lights out 
 everywhere, and attracting great attention in 
 the papers. That was glory. 
 
 Jerry Shand hazarded a remark about the 
 lives of the men in the gas-works ; but Sotcher 
 explained that that was a trivial matter. 
 Revolutions were never accomplished without 
 bloodshed, and a few casual lives were not to 
 be weighed in the balance against the glorious 
 consummation of the social upheaval. He re 
 peated his contention, when some weaker comrade 
 spoke of the chance of danger to the operator, 
 and repeated it with a proper scorn of the soft- 
 handed pusillanimity that shrank from danger to 
 life and limb in the cause. Look at the glory, 
 and consider the hundred-fold vengeance on 
 the enemy in the day to come ! The martyr s 
 crown was his who should die at the post of 
 duty. 
 
186 THE RED COW GROUP 
 
 His eloquence prevailed: there were murmurs 
 no more. Ere, tell us the name of the stuff 
 agin, broke out Gunno Poison, resolutely, feel 
 ing for a pencil and paper. Blimy, I ll make 
 some to-morrer. 
 
 He wrote down the name of the ingredients 
 with much spelling. Thick, yuller, oily stuff, 
 ain t it, wot you make? he asked. 
 
 Yus an keep it cool. 
 
 The group broke up, stern and resolute, and 
 Sotcher strode to his home exultant, a man 
 of power. 
 
 For the next night or two the enthusiasm 
 at the Red Cow was unbounded. There was 
 no longer any questioning of principles or 
 action every man was an eager anarchist 
 strong and devoted in the cause. The little 
 chemical experiment was going on well, Gunno 
 Poison reported, with confident nods and winks, 
 Sotcher repeated his discourse, as a matter 
 of routine, to maintain the general ardour, 
 
THE RED COW GROUP 187 
 
 which had, however, to endure a temporary check 
 as the result of a delicate inquiry of Snorkey s, 
 as to what funds might be expected from head 
 quarters. For there were no funds, said Sotcher, 
 somewhat surprised at the question. 
 
 Wot? demanded Jerry Shand, opening his 
 mouth and putting down his pipe : ain t we 
 goin to get nothink for all this ? 
 
 They would get the glory, Sotcher assured 
 him, and the conciousness of striking a mighty 
 blow at this, and that, and the other ; but 
 that was all. And instantly the faces of the 
 group grew long. 
 
 But, said Old Baker, I thought all you 
 blokes always got somethink from the the 
 committee ? 
 
 There was no committee, and no funds : there 
 was nothing but glory, and victory, and triumph, 
 and the social revolution, and things of that kind. 
 For a little, the comrades looked at each other 
 awkwardly, but they soon regained their cheerful 
 ness, with zeal no whit abated. The sitting 
 
1 88 THE RED COW GROUP 
 
 closed with promises of an early gathering for 
 the next night. 
 
 But when the next night came Sotcher was 
 later than usual. Ullo, shouted Gunno Pol- 
 son, as he entered, ere you are at last. 
 We ve ad to do important business without 
 you. See, he added in a lower tone, ere s 
 the stuff! And he produced an old physic- 
 bottle nearly full of a thick, yellowish fluid. 
 
 Sotcher started back half a pace, and slightly 
 paled. Don t shake it, he whispered hoarsely. 
 Don t shake it, for Gawd s sake! . . . Wot 
 wotjer bring it ere for, like that? It s it s 
 awful stuff, blimy. He looked uneasily about 
 the group, and wiped his forehead with the 
 back of his hand. I I thought you d git the 
 job over soon as the stuff was ready. . . . 
 Ere, my Gawd ! he squeaked under his breath, 
 don t put it down ard on the table like that. 
 It s sich sich awful stuff. He wiped his fore 
 head again, and, still standing, glanced once more 
 apprehensively round the circle of impassive 
 
THE RED COW GROUP 189 
 
 faces. Then after a pause, he asked, with an 
 effort : Wot wotjer goin to do now ? 
 
 Blow up the bleed n gas-works, o course/ 
 answered Gunno Poison complacently. ( Ere s 
 a penn orth o silver sand, an a bacca canister, 
 an some wire, an a big cracker with a long 
 touch-paper, so as to stick out o the canister- 
 lid. That ought to set it auf, oughtn t it? 
 Ere, you pour the stuff over the sand, 
 doncher? And he pulled out the cork and 
 made ready to mix. 
 
 "Old on old on don t! Wait a bit, for 
 Gawd s sake ! cried Sotcher in a sweat of 
 terror. You you dunno wot awful stuff it is 
 s elp me, you don t! You you ll blow us all 
 up if you don keep it still. Y you ll want 
 some other things. I ll go an 
 
 But Jerry Shand stood grimly against the 
 door. * This ere conspiracy 11 ave to be gawn 
 through proper, he said. W T e can t ave no 
 waverers nor blokes wot want to clear out in 
 the middle of it, and p r aps go an tell the 
 
1 90 THE RED COW GROUP 
 
 p lice. Them sort we as to suppress, see ? 
 There s all the stuff there, me lad, an you know 
 it. Wot s more, it s you as is got to put it up 
 agin the gas-works an set it auf. 
 
 The hapless Sotcher turned a yellower pallor 
 and asked faintly : Me ? Wy me ? 
 
 All done reg lar and proper/ Jerry replied, 
 fore you come. We voted it by ballot, all 
 square. If you d a come earlier you d a ad a 
 vote yerself. 
 
 Sotcher pushed at Jerry s shoulder despair 
 ingly. I won t, I won t ! he gasped. Lemme 
 go it ain t fair I wasn t ere lemme go ! 
 
 None o yer shovin , young man, said Jerry 
 severely. None o yer shovin , else I ll ave to 
 punch you on the jore. You re a bleed n nice 
 conspirator, you are. Its pretty plain we can t 
 depend on you, an you know wot that means, 
 eh? Doncher? You re one o the sort as as 
 to be suppressed, that s wot it means. * Ere, 
 ave a drink o this ere beer, an see if that 
 can t put a little art in ye. You got to do it, 
 
THE RED COW GROUP 191 
 
 so you may as well do it cheerful. Snorkey, 
 give im a drink. 
 
 But the wretched revolutionary would not 
 drink. He sank in a corner the furthest from 
 the table where Gunno Poison was packing his 
 dreadful canister a picture of stupefied affright. 
 
 Presently he thought of the bar a mere yard 
 of counter in an angle of the room, with a 
 screen standing above it and conceived a wild 
 notion of escape by scrambling over. But scarce 
 had he risen ere the watchful Jerry divined 
 his purpose. 
 
 Old im, Snorkey, he said. Keep im in 
 the corner. An if e won t drink that beer, 
 pour it over is ead. 
 
 Snorkey obeyed gravely and conscientiously, 
 and the bedraggled Sotcher, cowed from protest, 
 whined and sobbed desolately. 
 
 When all was ready, Jerry Shand said : I 
 s pose it s no good askin you to do it willin , 
 like a man ? 
 
 O, let me go, I I ain t well s elp me, I 
 
192 THE RED COW GROUP 
 
 ain t. I I might do it wrong an an I m 
 a a teacher a speaker ; not the active branch, 
 s elp me. Put it auf for to-night wait till to- 
 morrer. I ain t well an an you re very ard 
 on me ! 
 
 Desp rit work, desp rit ways, Jerry replied 
 laconically. You re be avin very suspicious, 
 an you re rebellin agin the orders o the group. 
 There s only one physic for that, ain t there, 
 in the rules? You re got to be suppressed. 
 Question is ow. We ll ave to kill im quiet 
 somehow/ he proceeded, turning to the group. 
 Quiet an quick. It s my belief e s spyin 
 for the p lice, an wants to git out to split on 
 us. Question is ow to do for im? 
 
 Sotcher rose, a staring spectre. He opened 
 his mouth to call, but there came forth from it 
 only a dry murmur. Hands were across his 
 mouth at once, and he was forced back into 
 the corner. One suggested a clasp-knife at the 
 throat, another a stick in his neckerchief, twisted 
 to throttling-point. But in the end it was settled 
 
THE RED COW GROUP 193 
 
 that it would be simpler, and would better 
 destroy all traces, to despatch him in the 
 explosion to tie him to the canister, in fact. 
 
 A convulsive movement under the men s hands 
 decided them to throw more beer on Sotcher s face, 
 for he seemed to be fainting. Then his pockets 
 were invaded by Gunno Poison, who turned 
 out each in succession. You won t ave no 
 use for money where you re goin , he observed 
 callously ; besides, it ud be blowed to bits an 
 no use to nobody. Look at the bloke at 
 Greenwich, ow is things was blowed away. 
 Ullo ! ere s two arf-crowns an some tanners. 
 Seven an thrippence altogether, with the 
 browns. This is the bloke wot adn t got no 
 funds. This ll be divided on free an equal 
 principles to elp pay for that beer you re wasted. 
 Old up, ol 1 man! Think o the glory. PVaps 
 you re all right, but it s best to be on the safe 
 side, an dead blokes can t split to the coppers. 
 An you mustn t forget the glory. You ave to 
 shed blood in a revolution, an a few odd lives 
 
 N 
 
i 9 4 THE RED COW GROUP 
 
 more or less don t matter not a single damn. 
 Keep your eye on the bleed n glory ! They ll 
 ave photos of you in the papers, all the broken 
 bits in a eap, fac-similiar as found on the spot. 
 Wot a comfort that ll be ! 
 
 But the doomed creature was oblivious 
 prostrate a swooning heap. They ran a piece 
 of clothes-line under his elbows, and pulled 
 them together tight. They then hobbled his 
 ankles, and took him among them through the 
 alley and down the quiet street, singing and 
 shouting their loudest as they went, in case he 
 might sufficiently recover his powers to call for 
 help. But he did not, and there in the shadow, 
 at the foot of the great gasometer, they flung 
 him down with a parting kick and a barbarous 
 knock on the head, to keep him quiet for those 
 few necessary moments. Then the murderous 
 canister, bound with wire, was put in place ; the 
 extruding touch-paper was set going with a 
 match ; and the Red Cow Anarchists disap 
 peared at a run, leaving their victim to his 
 
THE RED COW GROUP 195 
 
 fate. Presently the policeman on that beat heard 
 a sudden report from the neighbourhood of the 
 gas-works, and ran to see what it might mean. 
 
 The next morning Alfred Sotcher was 
 charged at the Thames Police Court as a 
 drunk and incapable. He had been found in 
 a helpless state near the gas-works, and appeared 
 to have been tied at the elbows and ankles 
 by mischievous boys, who had also, it seemed, 
 ignited a cracker near by where he lay. The 
 divisional surgeon stated that he was called to 
 the prisoner, and found him tearful and inco 
 herent, and smelling strongly of drink. He com 
 plained of having been assaulted in a public- 
 house, but could give no intelligible account of 
 himself. A canister found by his side appeared 
 to contain a mixture of sand and castor oil, 
 but prisoner could not explain how it came there. 
 The magistrate fined him five shillings, with the 
 alternative of seven days, and as he had no 
 money he was removed to the cells. 
 
ON THE STAIRS 
 
ON THE STAIRS 
 
 house had been genteel. When trade 
 was prospering in the East End, and the 
 ship-fitter or block-maker thought it no shame 
 to live in the parish where his workshop lay, 
 such a master had lived here. Now, it was a 
 tall, solid, well-bricked, ugly house, grimy and 
 paintless in the joinery, cracked and patched in 
 the windows : where the front door stood open 
 all day long ; and the womankind sat on the 
 steps, talking of sickness and deaths and the cost 
 of things ; and treacherous holes lurked in the 
 carpet of road-soil on the stairs and in the 
 passage. For when eight families live in a 
 house, nobody buys a door-mat, and the street 
 
 was one of those streets that are always muddy. 
 
 199 
 
200 ON THE STAIRS 
 
 It smelt, too, of many things, none of them 
 pleasant (one was fried fish) ; but for all that 
 it was not a slum. 
 
 Three flights up, a gaunt woman with bare 
 forearms stayed on her way to listen at a door 
 which, opening, let out a warm, fetid waft from 
 a close sick-room. A bent and tottering old 
 woman stood on the threshold, holding the 
 door behind her. 
 
 ( An is e no better now, Mrs Curtis ? the 
 gaunt woman asked, with a nod at the opening. 
 
 The old woman shook her head, and pulled 
 the door closer. Her jaw waggled loosely in 
 her withered chaps : * Nor won t be ; till e s 
 gone. Then after a certain pause, "E s goin , 
 she said. 
 
 Don t doctor give no ope ? 
 
 Lor bless ye, I don t want to ast no doctors, 
 Mrs Curtis replied, with something not unlike 
 a chuckle. I ve seed too many on em. The 
 boy s a-goin , fast ; I can see that. An then 
 she gave the handle another tug, and 
 
ON THE STAIRS 201 
 
 whispered * he s been called. She nodded 
 amain. Three seprit knocks at the bed-head 
 las night ; an I know what that means ! 
 
 The gaunt woman raised her brows, and 
 nodded. Ah, well/ she said, we all on us 
 comes to it some day, sooner or later. An 
 it s often a appy release. 
 
 The two looked into space beyond each other, 
 the elder with a nod and a croak. Presently 
 the other pursued, E s been a very good son, 
 ain t e? 
 
 Ay, ay, well enough son to me, responded 
 the old woman, a little peevishly ; an I ll ave 
 im put away decent, though there s on y the 
 Union for me after. I can do that, thank Gawd ! 
 she added, meditatively, as chin on fist she 
 stared into the thickening dark over the stairs. 
 
 When I lost my pore usband, said the 
 gaunt woman, with a certain brightening, I 
 give im a ansome funeral. E was a Odd-feller, 
 an I got twelve pound. I ad a oak caufin an 
 a open earse. There was a kerridge for the 
 
202 ON THE STAIRS 
 
 fam ly an one for is mates two orses each, 
 an feathers, an mutes ; an it went the furthest 
 way round to the cimitry. " Wotever appens, 
 Mrs Manders," says the undertaker, "you ll feel 
 as you re treated im proper ; nobody can t 
 reproach you over that." An they couldn t. E 
 was a good usband to me, an I buried im 
 respectable. 
 
 The gaunt woman exulted. The old, old 
 story of Manders s funeral fell upon the other 
 one s ears with a freshened interest, and she 
 mumbled her gums ruminantly. Bob ll ave 
 a ansome buryin , too, she said. I can make 
 it up, with the insurance money, an this, an 
 that. On y I dunno about mutes. It s a ex 
 pense. 
 
 In the East End, when a woman has not 
 enough money to buy a thing much desired, 
 she does not say so in plain words ; she says 
 the thing is an expense/ or a great expense. 
 It means the same thing, but it sounds better. 
 Mrs Curtis had reckoned her resources, and 
 
ON THE STAIRS 203 
 
 found that mutes would be an expense. At 
 a cheap funeral mutes cost half-a-sovereign and 
 their liquor. Mrs Manders said as much. 
 
 Yus, yus, arf-a-sovereign, the old woman 
 assented. Within, the sick man feebly beat 
 the floor with a stick. I m a-comin, she cried 
 shrilly ; yus, arf-a-sovereign, but it s a lot, 
 an I don t see ow I m to do it not at 
 present. She reached for the door-handle 
 again, but stopped and added, by after-thought, 
 Unless I don t ave no plooms. 
 
 It ud be a pity not to ave plooms. I ad 
 
 There were footsteps on the stairs : then a 
 stumble and a testy word. Mrs Curtis peered 
 over into the gathering dark. Is it the doctor, 
 sir? she asked. It was the doctor s assistant; 
 and Mrs Manders tramped up to the next 
 landing as the door of the sick - room took 
 him in. 
 
 For five minutes the stairs were darker than 
 ever. Then the assistant, a very young man, 
 came out again, followed by the old woman 
 
204 ON THE STAIRS 
 
 with a candle. Mrs Manders listened in the 
 upper dark. He s sinking fast, said the 
 assistant. He must have a stimulant. Dr 
 Mansell ordered port wine. Where is it? 
 Mrs Curtis mumbled dolorously. I tell you 
 he must have it, he averred with unprofessional 
 emphasis (his qualification was only a month 
 old). * The man can t take solid food, and 
 his strength must be kept up somehow. Another 
 day may make all the difference. Is it because 
 you can t afford it ? It s a expense sich a 
 expense, doctor, the old woman pleaded. An 
 wot with arf-pints o milk an She grew 
 inarticulate, and mumbled dismally. 
 
 But he must have it, Mrs Curtis, if it s your 
 last shilling : it s the only way. If you mean 
 you absolutely haven t the money And he 
 paused a little awkwardly. He was not a 
 wealthy young man wealthy young men do 
 not devil for East End doctors but he was 
 conscious of a certain haul of sixpences at 
 nap the night before ; and, being inexperienced, 
 
ON THE STAIRS 205 
 
 he did not foresee the career of persecution 
 whereon he was entering at his own expense 
 and of his own motion. He produced five 
 shillings : If you absolutely haven t the 
 money, why take this and get a bottle good : 
 not at a public-house. But mind, at once. He 
 should have had it before. 
 
 It would have interested him, as a matter 
 of coincidence, to know that his principal had 
 been guilty of the self-same indiscretion even 
 the amount was identical on that landing the 
 day before. But, as Mrs Curtis said nothing 
 of this, he floundered down the stair and out 
 into the wetter mud, pondering whether or not 
 the beloved son of a Congregational minister 
 might take full credit for a deed of charity on 
 the proceeds of sixpenny nap. But Mrs Curtis 
 puffed her wrinkles, and shook her head saga 
 ciously as she carried in her candle. From the 
 room came a clink as of money falling into a 
 teapot. And Mrs Manders went about her 
 business. 
 
206 ON THE STAIRS 
 
 The door was shut, and the stair a pit of 
 blackness. Twice a lodger passed down, and 
 up and down, and still it did not open. Men 
 and women walked on the lower flights, and 
 out at the door, and in again. From the 
 street a shout or a snatch of laughter floated 
 up the pit. On the pavement footsteps rang 
 crisper and fewer, and from the bottom passage 
 there were sounds of stagger and sprawl. A 
 demented old clock buzzed divers hours at 
 random, and was rebuked every twenty minutes 
 by the regular tread of a policeman on his beat. 
 Finally, somebody shut the street-door with a 
 great bang, and the street was muffled. A key 
 turned inside the door on the landing, but that 
 was all. A feeble light shone for hours along 
 the crack below, and then went out. The crazy 
 old clock went buzzing on, but nothing left 
 that room all night. Nothing that opened 
 the door. . . . 
 
 When next the key turned, it was to Mrs 
 Manders s knock, in the full morning ; and soon 
 
ON THE STAIRS 207 
 
 the two women came out on the landing 
 together, Mrs Curtis with a shapeless clump 
 of bonnet. Ah, e s a lovely corpse, said 
 Mrs Manders. Like wax. So was my usband. 
 
 ( I must be stirrin , croaked the old woman, 
 an go about the insurance an the measurin 
 an that. There s lots to do. 
 
 * Ah, there is. Oo are you goin to ave, 
 Wilkins? I ad Wilkins. Better than Kedge, 
 / think : Kedge s mutes dresses rusty, an their 
 trousis is frayed. If you was thinkin of avin 
 mutes 
 
 Yus, yus, with a palsied nodding I m a- 
 goin to ave mutes : I can do it respectable, 
 thank Gawd 1 
 
 And the plooms ? 
 
 Ay, yus, and the plooms too. They ain t 
 sich a great expense, after all. 
 
SQUIRE NAPPER 
 
SQUIRE MAPPER 
 
 I 
 
 T)ILL NAPPER was a heavy man of some 
 thing between thirty-five and forty. His 
 moleskin trousers were strapped below the knees, 
 and he wore his coat loose on his back, with 
 the sleeves tied across his chest. The casual 
 observer set him down a navvy, but Mrs Napper 
 punctiliously made it known that he was in 
 the paving ; which meant that he was a pavior. 
 He lived in Canning Town, and was on a foot 
 path job at West Ham (Allen was the con 
 tractor) \vhen he won and began to wear the 
 nickname Squire. 
 
 Daily at the stroke of twelve from the neigh 
 bouring church, BM1 Napper s mates let drop 
 
 211 
 
212 SQUIRE NAPPER 
 
 rammer, trowel, spade, and pick, and turned 
 toward a row of basins, tied in blue-and-red 
 handkerchiefs, and accompanied of divers tin 
 cans with smoky bottoms. Bill himself looked 
 toward the street corner for the punctual Polly 
 bearing his own dinner fresh and hot ; for 
 home was not far, and Polly, being thirteen, 
 had no school now. 
 
 One day Polly was nearly ten minutes late. 
 Bill, at first impatient, grew savage, and thought 
 wrathfully on the strap on its nail by the 
 kitchen - dresser. But at the end of the ten 
 minutes Polly came, bringing a letter as well 
 as the basin-load of beef and cabbage. A 
 young man had left it, she said, after asking 
 many ill-mannered questions. The letter was 
 addressed * W. Napper, Esq./ with a flourish ; 
 the words, By hand, stood in the corner of 
 the envelope ; and on the flap at the back were 
 the embossed characters T. & N. These things 
 Bill Napper noted several times over, as he 
 turned the letter about in his hand. 
 
SQUIRE NAPPER 213 
 
 4 Seems to me you ll ave to open it after all/ 
 said one of Bill s mates ; and he opened it, 
 setting back his hat as a preparation to serious 
 study. The letter was dated from Old Jewry, 
 and ran thus : 
 
 1 re B. NAPPER deceased. 
 
 DEAR SIR, We have a communication in this 
 matter from our correspondents at Sydney, New 
 South Wales, in respect to testamentary dis 
 positions under which you benefit. We shall 
 be obliged if you can make it convenient to 
 call at this office any day except Saturday 
 between two and four. Your obedient servants, 
 
 1 TIMS & NORTON. 
 
 The dinner hour had gone by before the full 
 inner meaning had been wrested from this letter. 
 B. Napper deceased Bill accepted, with a little 
 assistance, as an announcement of the death of 
 his brother Ben, who had gone to Australia 
 nearly twenty years ago, and had been forgotten. 
 
2i 4 SQUIRE NAPPER 
 
 Testamentary dispositions nobody would tackle 
 with confidence, although its distinct suggestion 
 of biblical study was duly remarked. Benefit 
 was right enough, and led one of the younger 
 men, after some thought, to the opinion that Bill 
 Napper s brother might have left him something : 
 a theory instantly accepted as the most probable, 
 although some thought it foolish of him not to 
 leave it direct instead of authorising the interfer 
 ence of a lawyer, who would want to do Bill 
 out of it. 
 
 Bill Napper put up his tools, and went home. 
 There the missis put an end to doubt by re 
 peating what the lawyer s clerk said : which 
 was nothing more definite than that Bill had 
 been * left a bit ; and the clerk only acknow 
 ledged so much when he had satisfied himself, 
 by sinuous questionings, that he had found the 
 real legatee. He further advised the bringing 
 of certain evidence on the visit to the office. 
 Thus it was plain that the Napper fortunes 
 were in good case, for, as a bit means money 
 
SQUIRE NAPPER 215 
 
 all the world over, the thing was clearly no 
 worthless keepsake. 
 
 I I 
 
 On the afternoon of the next day, Bill Napper, 
 in clean moleskins and black coat, made for 
 Old Jewry. On mature consideration he had 
 decided to go through it alone. There was not 
 merely one lawyer, which would be bad enough, 
 but two of them in a partnership; and to take 
 the missis, whose intellects, being somewhat flighty, 
 were quickly divertible by the palaver of which 
 a lawyer was master, would be to distract and 
 impede his own faculties. A male friend might 
 not have been so bad, but Bill could not call 
 to mind one quite cute enough to be of any 
 use, and in any case such a friend would have 
 to be paid for the loss of his day s work. More 
 over, he might imagine himself to hold a sort of 
 
216 SQUIRE NAPPER 
 
 interest in the proceeds. So Bill Napper went 
 alone. 
 
 Having waited the proper time without the 
 bar in the clerk s office, he was shown into a 
 room where a middle-aged man sat at a writing- 
 table. There was no other lawyer to be seen. 
 This was a stratagem for which Bill Napper was 
 not prepared. He looked suspiciously about 
 the room, but without discovering anything 
 that looked like a hiding-place. Plainly there 
 were two lawyers, because their names were on 
 the door and on the letter itself; and the letter 
 said we. Why one should hide it was hard to 
 guess, unless it were to bear witness to some 
 unguarded expression. Bill Napper resolved to 
 speak little, and not loud. 
 
 The lawyer addressed him affably, inviting 
 him to sit. Then he asked to see the papers 
 that Bill had brought. These were an old testi 
 monial reciting that Bill had been employed 
 with his brother Benjamin as a boy in a 
 brick-field, and had given satisfaction ; a letter 
 
SQUIRE NAPPER 217 
 
 from a parish guardian, the son of an old em 
 ployer of Bill s father, certifying that Bill was 
 his father s son and his brother s brother ; copies 
 of the birth registry of both Bill and his brother, 
 procured that morning ; and a letter from Aus 
 tralia, the last word from Benjamin, dated eighteen 
 years back. These Bill produced in succession, 
 keeping a firm grip on each as he placed it 
 beneath the lawyer s nose. The lawyer behaved 
 somewhat testily under this restraint, but Bill 
 knew better than to let the papers out of his 
 possession, and would not be done. 
 
 When he had seen all Well, Mr Napper, 
 said the lawyer, rather snappishly (obviously he 
 was balked), these things seem all right, and 
 with the inquiries I have already made I sup 
 pose I may proceed to pay you the money. 
 It is a legacy of three hundred pounds. Your 
 brother was married, and I believe his business 
 and other property goes to his wife and children. 
 The money is intact, the estate paying legacy 
 duty and expenses. In cases of this sort there 
 
2i8 SQUIRE NAPPER 
 
 is sometimes an arrangement for the amount to 
 be paid a little at a time as required ; that, 
 however, I judge, would not be an arrangement 
 to please you. I hope, at any rate, you will 
 be able to invest the money in a profitable 
 way. I will draw a cheque. 
 
 Three hundred pounds was beyond Bill 
 Napper s wildest dreams. But he would not 
 be dazzled out of his caution. Presently the 
 lawyer tore the cheque from the book and 
 pushed it across the table with another paper. 
 He offered Bill a pen, pointing with his other 
 hand at the bottom of the second paper, and 
 saying, * This is the receipt. Sign just there, 
 please. 
 
 Bill took up the cheque, but made no move 
 ment toward the pen. Receipt ? he grunted 
 softly ; * receipt wot for ? I ain t ad no money. 
 
 There s the cheque in your hand the same 
 thing. It s an order to the bank to hand you 
 the amount the usual way of paying money 
 in business affairs. If you would rather have 
 
SQUIRE NAPPER 219 
 
 the money paid here, I can send a clerk to the 
 bank to get it. Give me the cheque. 
 
 But again Bill was not to be done. The 
 lawyer, finding him sharper than he expected, 
 now wanted to get this tricky piece of paper 
 back. So Bill only grinned at him, keeping 
 a good hold of the cheque. The lawyer lost 
 his temper. Why, damn it/ he said, you re 
 a curious person to deal with. D ye want the 
 money and the cheque too? 
 
 He rang a bell twice, and a clerk appeared. 
 Mr Dixon/ said the lawyer, I have given 
 this person a cheque for three hundred pounds. 
 Just take him round to the bank, and get it 
 cashed. Let him sign the receipt at the bank. 
 I suppose/ he added, turning to Bill, that you 
 won t object to giving a receipt when you get 
 the money, eh? 
 
 Bill Napper, conscious of his victory, expressed 
 his willingness to do the proper thing at the 
 proper time, and went out with the clerk. At 
 the bank there was little difficulty, except at 
 
220 SQUIRE NAPPER 
 
 the clerk s advice to take the money chiefly 
 in notes, which instantly confirmed Bill in a 
 determination to accept nothing but gold. When 
 all was done, and the three hundred sovereigns, 
 carefully counted over for the third and fourth 
 time, were stowed in small bags about his 
 person, Bill, much relieved after his spell of 
 watchfulness, insisted on standing the clerk a 
 drink. 
 
 Ah/ he said, all you City lawyers an clurks 
 are pretty bleed n sharp, I know, but you ain t 
 done me, an / don t bear no malice. Ave wot 
 you like ave wine or a six o Irish I ain t 
 goin to be stingy. I m goin to do it open 
 an free, I am, an set a example to men o 
 property. 
 
 I I I 
 
 Bill Napper went home in a hansom, order 
 ing a barrel of beer on the way. One of the 
 chief comforts of affluence is that you may 
 
SQUIRE NAPPER 221 
 
 have beer in by the barrel ; for then Sundays 
 and closing times vex not, and you have but 
 to reach the length of your arm for another pot 
 whenever moved thereunto. Nobody in Canning 
 Town had beer by the barrel except the trades 
 men, and for that Bill had long envied the man 
 who kept shop. And now, at his first oppor 
 tunity, he bought a barrel of thirty-six gallons. 
 
 Once home with the news, and Canning 
 Town was ablaze. Bill Napper had come in for 
 three thousand, thirty thousand, three hundred 
 thousand any number of thousands that were 
 within the compass of the gossip s command of 
 enumeration. Bill Napper was called W. Nap 
 per, Esq. he was to be knighted he was a long- 
 lost baronet anything. Bill Napper came home 
 in a hansom a brougham a state coach. 
 
 Mrs Napper went that very evening to the 
 Grove at Stratford to buy silk and satin, green, 
 red and yellow cutting her neighbours dead, 
 right and left. And by the next morning trades 
 men had sent circulars and samples of goods. 
 
222 SQUIRE NAPPER 
 
 Mrs Napper was for taking a proper position 
 in society, and a house in a fashionable part 
 Barking Road, for instance, or even East India 
 Road, Poplar; but Bill would none of such 
 foolishness. He wasn t proud, and Canning Town 
 was quite good enough for him. This much, 
 though, he conceded : that the family should take 
 a whole house of five rooms in the next street, 
 instead of the two rooms and a cellule upstairs 
 now rented. 
 
 That morning Bill lit his pipe, stuck his 
 hands in his pockets, and strolled as far as his 
 job. Wayo, squire, shouted one of the men 
 as he approached. Ere comes the bleed n toff/ 
 remarked another. 
 
 Tcheer tcheer, mates/ Bill responded, calmly 
 complacent. I m agoin to wet it. And all 
 the fourteen men left their paving for the beer 
 house close by. The foreman made some demur, 
 but was helpless, and ended by coming himself. 
 1 Now then, gaffer/ said Bill, none o your sulks. 
 No one ain t agoin to stand out of a drink o mine 
 
SQUIRE NAPPER 223 
 
 unless e wants to fight. As for the job 
 damn the job! I d buy up fifty jobs like that 
 ere and not stop for the change. You send 
 the guv nor to me if *e says anythink : unner- 
 stand? You send im to me! And he laid 
 hands on the foreman, who was not a big man, 
 and hauled him after the others. 
 
 They wetted it for two or three hours, from 
 many quart pots. Then there appeared between 
 the swing doors the wrathful face of the guv nor. 
 
 The guv nor s position was difficult. He was 
 only a small master, and but a few years back 
 had been a working mason. This deserted job 
 was his first for the parish, and by contract 
 he was bound to end it quickly under penalty. 
 Moreover, he much desired something on ac 
 count that week, and must stand well with the 
 vestry. On the other hand, this was a time of 
 strikes, and the air was electrical. Several large 
 and successful movements had quickened a spirit 
 of restlessness in the neighbourhood, and no 
 master was sure of his men. Some slight was 
 
224 SQUIRE NAPPER 
 
 fancied, something was not done as it should have 
 been done from the point of view of the work 
 shop, and there was a strike, picketing, and 
 bashing. Now, the worst thing that could have 
 happened to the guv nor at this moment was one 
 of those tiny, unrecorded strikes that were bursting 
 out weekly and daily about him, with the picket 
 ing of his two or three jobs. Furious, therefore, 
 as he was, he dared not discharge every man 
 on the spot. So he stood in the door, and said : 
 * Look here, I won t stand this sort of thing 
 it s a damn robbery. I ll 
 
 That s all right, ol cock, roared Bill Napper, 
 reaching toward the guv nor. ( You come an ave 
 a tiddley. I m a bleed n millionaire meself now, 
 but I ain t proud. What, you won t? for the 
 guv nor, unenthusiastic, remained at the door 
 You re a sulky old bleeder. These ere friends o 
 mine are avin arf a day auf at my expense : 
 unnerstand? My expense. I m a-payin for their 
 time, if you dock em ; an I can give you a 
 bob, me fine feller, if you re ard up. See ? 
 
SQUIRE NAPPER 225 
 
 The guv nor addressed himself to the fore 
 man. What s the meaning o this, Walker ? 
 he said. What game d ye call it? 
 
 Bill Napper, whom a succession of pots 
 had made uproarious, slapped the foreman 
 violently on the shoulder. This ere s the 
 gaffer, he shouted E s all right. E come ere 
 cos e couldn t elp isself. I made im come, 
 forcible. Don t you bear no spite agin the 
 gaffer, d y ear? E s my mate, is the gaffer; an 
 I could buy you up, forty times, s elp me but 
 I ain t proud. An you re a bleed n gawblimy 
 slackbaked . . . 
 
 Well/ said the guv nor to the assembled com 
 pany, but still ignoring Bill, don t you think 
 there s been about enough of this? 
 
 A few of the men glanced at one another, 
 and one or two rose. ( Awright, guv nor/ said 
 one, we re auf. And two more echoed, Aw 
 right, guv nor/ and began to move away. 
 
 1 Ah ! said Bill Napper, with disgust, as he 
 
 turned to finish his pot, you re a blasted nigger- 
 
 P 
 
226 SQUIRE NAPPER 
 
 driver, you are. An a sulky beast, he added 
 as he set the pot down. Never mind, he 
 pursued, Fm awright, an I ain t a arf-paid 
 kerb-whacker no more, under you. 
 
 You was a damn sight better kerb-whacker 
 than you are a millionaire/ the guv nor retorted, 
 feeling safer now that his men were getting 
 back to work. 
 
 * None o your lip, replied Bill, rising and 
 reaching for a pipe-spill : none o your lip, you 
 work us stone-breaker. Then, turning with a 
 sudden access of fury, I ll knock yer face off, 
 blimy ! he shouted, and raised his fist. 
 
 1 Now, then, none o that here, please, cried 
 the landlord from behind the bar; unto whom 
 Bill Napper, with all his wonted obedience in 
 that quarter, answered only, All right, guv nor, 
 and subsided. 
 
 Left alone, he soon followed the master-pavior 
 and his men through the swing doors, and so 
 went home. In his own street, observing two 
 small boys in the prelusory stages of a fight, he 
 
SQUIRE NAPPER 227 
 
 put up sixpence by way of stakes, and super 
 vised the battle from the seat afforded by a 
 convenient window-sill. After that he bought a 
 morning paper, and lay upon his bed to read it, 
 with a pipe and a jug ; for he was beginning a 
 life of leisure and comfort, wherein every day 
 should be a superior Sunday. 
 
 IV 
 
 Thus far the outward and visible signs of the 
 Napper wealth were these : the separate house ; 
 the barrel of beer ; a piano not bought as a 
 musical instrument, but as one of the visible 
 signs ; a daily paper, also primarily a sign ; the 
 bonnets and dresses of the missis ; and the 
 perpetual possession of Bill Napper by a vary 
 ing degree of fuddlement. An inward and 
 dissembled sign was a regiment, continually rein 
 forced, of mostly empty bottles, in a cupboard 
 
228 SQUIRE NAPPER 
 
 kept sacred by the missis. And the faculties 
 of that good lady herself experienced a fluctu 
 ating confusion from causes not always made 
 plain to Bill : for the money was kept in the 
 bedroom chest of drawers, and it was easy to 
 lay hands on a half-sovereign as required with 
 out unnecessary disturbance. 
 
 Now and again Bill Napper would discuss 
 the abstract question of entering upon some in 
 vestment or business pursuit. Land had its 
 advantages ; great advantages ; and he had been 
 told that it was very cheap just now, in some 
 places. Houses were good, too, and a suitable 
 possession for a man of consideration. Not so 
 desirable on the whole, however, as Land. You 
 bought your Land and well there it was, and 
 you could take things easily. But with Houses 
 there was rent to collect, and repairs to see to 
 and so forth. It was a vastly paying thing 
 for any man with capital to be a Merchant ; 
 but there was work even in that, and you had 
 to be perpetually on guard against sharp chaps 
 
SQUIRE NAPPER 229 
 
 in the City. A public-house, suggested by one 
 of his old mates on the occasion of wetting it, 
 was out of the question. There w r as tick, and 
 long hours, and a sharp look-out, and all kinds 
 of trouble, which a man with money would 
 be a fool to encounter. Altogether, perhaps, 
 Land seemed to be the thing : although there 
 was no need to bother now, and plenty of time 
 to turn things over, even if the matter were 
 worth pondering at all, \vhen it was so easy 
 for a man to live on his means. After all, to 
 take your boots off, and lie on the bed with 
 a pipe and a pot and the paper was very com 
 fortable, and you could always stroll out and 
 meet a mate, or bring him in when so disposed. 
 Of an evening the Albert Music Hall was 
 close at hand, and the Queen s not very far away. 
 And on Sundays and Saturday afternoons Bill 
 would often take a turn down by the dock 
 gates, or even in Victoria Park, or Mile End 
 Waste, where there were speakers of all sorts. 
 At the dock gates it was mostly Labour and 
 
2 3 o SQUIRE NAPPER 
 
 Anarchy, but at the other places there was a 
 fine variety ; you could always be sure of a few 
 minutes of Teetotalism, Evangelism, Atheism, 
 Republicanism, Salvationism, Socialism, Anti-Vac- 
 cinationism, and Social Purity, with now and 
 again some Mormonism or another curious exotic. 
 Most of the speakers denounced something, and 
 if the denunciations of one speaker were not 
 sufficiently picturesque and lively, you passed on 
 to the next. Indeed you might always judge 
 afar off where the best denouncing was going 
 on, by the size of the crowds, at least until 
 the hat went round. 
 
 It was at Mile End Waste that a good 
 notion occurred to Bill Napper. He had always 
 vastly admired the denunciations of one speaker 
 a little man, shabbier, if anything, than most 
 of the others, and surpassingly tempestuous of 
 antic. He was an unattached orator, not confin 
 ing himself to any particular creed, but de 
 nouncing whatever seemed advisable, consider 
 ing the audience and circumstances. He was 
 
SQUIRE NAPPER 231 
 
 always denouncing something somewhere, and 
 was ever in a crisis that demanded the circula 
 tion of a hat. Bill esteemed this speaker for 
 his versatility as well as for the freshness of 
 his abuse, and Bill s sudden notion was to en 
 gage him for private addresses. 
 
 The orator did not take kindly to the pro 
 posal at first, strongly suspecting something in 
 the nature of guy or kid ; but a serious 
 assurance of a shilling for an occasional hour 
 and the payment of one in advance brought him 
 over. After this Squire Napper never troubled 
 to go to Mile End Waste. He sat at ease in his 
 parlour, with his pot on the piano, while the 
 orator, with another pot on the mantelpiece, 
 stood up and denounced to order. Tip us the 
 Teetotal an Down - with - the - Public- Ouse, Bill 
 would request, and the orator (his name was 
 Minns) would oblige in that line till most of 
 the strong phrases had run out, and had 
 begun to recur. Then Bill would say, Now 
 come the Rights o Labour caper. Whereupon 
 
232 SQUIRE NAPPER 
 
 Minns would take a pull at the pot, and pro 
 ceed to denounce Capital, Bill Napper applaud 
 ing or groaning at the pauses provided for those 
 purposes. And so on with whatever subjects ap 
 pealed to the patron s fancy. It was a fancy that 
 sometimes put the orator s invention to grievous 
 straits ; but for Bill the whole performance was 
 peculiarly privileged and dignified. For to have 
 an orator gesticulating and speechifying all to 
 oneself, on one s own order and choice of sub 
 ject, is a thing not given to all men. 
 
 One day Minns turned up (not having been 
 invited) with a friend. Bill did not take to 
 the friend. He was a lank-jawed man with a 
 shifty eye, who smiled as he spoke, and showed 
 a top row of irregular and dirty teeth. This 
 friend, Minns explained, was a journalist a 
 writer of newspapers ; and between them they 
 had an idea, which idea the friend set forth. 
 Everybody, he said, who knew the history of 
 Mr Napper admired his sturdy independence 
 and democratic simplicity. He was of the people 
 
SQUIRE NAPPER 233 
 
 and not ashamed of it. ( Well, no, I ain t 
 proud/ Bill interjected, wondering what was 
 coming.) With all the advantages of wealth, 
 he preferred to remain one of the people, 
 living among them plainly, conforming to their 
 simple habits, and sympathising with their 
 sorrows. ( This chap/ thought Bill, wants to 
 be took on to hold forth turn about with the 
 other, and he s showing his capers ; but I ain t 
 on it. ) It was the knowledge of these things, 
 so greatly to Mr Napper s honour, that had in 
 duced Minns and Minns s friend to place before 
 him a means by which he might do the cause 
 of toiling humanity a very great service. A 
 new weekly paper was wanted wanted very 
 badly : a paper that should rear its head on 
 behalf of the down-trodden toilers, and make 
 its mighty voice heard with dread by the 
 bloated circles of Class and Privilege. That 
 paper would prove a marvellously paying in 
 vestment to its proprietor, bringing him enor 
 mous profits every week. He would have a 
 
234 SQUIRE NAPPER 
 
 vast fortune in that paper alone, besides the 
 glory and satisfaction of striking the great blow 
 that should pave the way to the emancipation 
 of the Masses and the destruction of the vile 
 system of society whose whole and sole effect was 
 the accumulation of wealth in the hands of the 
 Grasping Few. Being professionally disengaged 
 at present, he (the speaker), in conjunction 
 with his friend Minns, had decided to give 
 Mr Napper the opportunity of becoming its pro 
 prietor. 
 
 Bill was more than surprised : he was also a 
 little bewildered. What/ he said, after two 
 draws of his pipe, d ye mean you want me to 
 go in the printin line? 
 
 That was not at all necessary. The printing 
 would be done by contract. Mr Napper would 
 only have to find the money. The paper, with 
 a couple of thousand pounds behind it or 
 even one thousand (Minns s friend read a diffi 
 culty in Bill s face) would be established for 
 ever. Even five hundred would do, and many 
 
SQUIRE NAPPER 235 
 
 successful papers had been floated with no 
 more than a couple of hundred or so. Suppose 
 they said just a couple of hundred to go on 
 with, till the paper found its legs and began 
 to pay? How would that do? 
 
 Bill Napper smoked a dozen whiffs. Then 
 he said : An what should I ave to do with 
 the two undred pound ? Buy anythink ? 
 
 Not directly that, the promoters explained. 
 It would finance the thing just finance it. 
 
 Oo d ave the money then ? 
 
 That was perfectly simple. It would simply be 
 handed over to Minns and his friend, and they 
 would attend to all the details. 
 
 Bill Napper continued to smoke. Then, be 
 ginning with a slight chuckle at the back of his 
 throat, he said : Wen I got my money, I went 
 to a lawyer s for it. There was two lawyers 
 one layin low. There was two fust-rate lawyers 
 an a lot o clurks City clurks an a bank an 
 all. An they couldn t ave me, not for a single 
 farden not a farden, try an fiddle as they would. 
 
236 SQUIRE NAPPER 
 
 , . . Well, arter that, it ain t much good you 
 a-tryin it on, is it ? And he chuckled again, 
 louder. 
 
 Minns was indignant, and Minns s friend 
 was deeply hurt. Both protested. Bill Napper 
 laughed aloud. Awright, you ll do/ he said ; 
 you ll do. My abits may be simple, but they 
 ain t as simple as all that. Ha ha ! Ere, ave 
 a drink you ain t done no arm, an I ain t 
 spiteful. Ha ha ! 
 
 It was on an evening a fortnight after this that, 
 as Bill Napper lay, very full of beer and rather 
 sleepy, on the bed the rest of his household 
 being out of doors a ladder was quietly planted 
 against the outer wall from the back - yard. 
 Bill heard nothing until the window, already 
 a little open, was slowly pushed up, and from 
 the twilight outside a head and an arm plunged 
 into the thicker darkness of the room, and a hand 
 went feeling along the edge of the chest of 
 drawers by the window. Bill rolled over on the 
 
SQUIRE NAPPER 237 
 
 bed, and reached from the floor one of a pair 
 of heavy iron-set boots. Taking the toe in his 
 right hand, and grasping the footrail of the bed 
 stead with his left, he raised himself on his knees, 
 and brought the boot-heel down heavily on the 
 intruding head. There was a gasp, and the first 
 breath of a yell, and head, arm, shoulders, and 
 body vanished with a bump and a rattle. Bill 
 Napper let the boot fall, dropped back on the 
 bed, and took no further heed. 
 
 Neither Minns nor his friend ever came back 
 again, but for some time after, at Victoria Park, 
 Minns, inciting an outraged populace to rise and 
 sweep police and army from the earth, was able 
 to point to an honourable scar on his own fore 
 head, the proof and sign of a police bludgeoning 
 at Tower Hill or Trafalgar Square. 
 
 Things went placidly on for near ten months. 
 
238 SQUIRE NAPPER 
 
 Many barrels of beer had come in full and 
 been sent empty away. Also the missis had got 
 a gold watch and divers new bonnets and gowns, 
 some by gift from Bill, some by applying privily 
 to the drawer. Her private collection of bottles, 
 too, had been cleared out twice, and was re 
 spectable for the third time. Everybody was 
 not friendly with her, and one bonnet had been 
 torn off her head by a neighbour who disliked 
 her airs. 
 
 So it stood when, on a certain morning, Bill, 
 being minded to go out, found but two shillings in 
 his pocket. He called upstairs to the missis, as 
 was his custom in such a pass, asking her to fetch 
 a sovereign or two when she came down ; and, 
 as she was long in coming, he went up himself. 
 The missis left the room hurriedly, and Bill, after 
 raking out every corner of the drawer (which he 
 himself had not opened for some time) saw 
 not a single coin. The missis had no better 
 explanation than that there must have been 
 thieves in the house some time lately : a sug- 
 
SQUIRE NAPPER 239 
 
 gestion deprived of some value by the subsequent 
 protest that Bill couldn t expect money to last 
 for ever, and that he had had the last three 
 days ago. In the end there was a vehement 
 row, and the missis was severely thumped. 
 
 The thumping over, Bill Napper conceived 
 a great idea. Perhaps after all the lawyers 
 had done him by understating the amount his 
 brother had left. It might well have been five 
 hundred pounds a thousand pounds anything. 
 Probably it was, and the lawyers had had the 
 difference. Plainly, three hundred pounds was 
 a suspiciously small sum to inherit from a well- 
 to-do brother. He would go to the lawyers 
 and demand the rest of his money. He would 
 not reveal his purpose till he saw the lawyers 
 face to face, and then he would make his demand 
 suddenly, so that surprise and consternation 
 should overwhelm and betray them. He would 
 give them to understand that he had complete 
 evidence of the whole swindle. In any case he 
 could lose nothing. He went, after carefully 
 
240 SQUIRE NAPPER 
 
 preparing his part, and was turned out by a 
 policeman. 
 
 1 After that/ mused Squire Napper, going 
 home, I suppose I d better see about getting 
 a job at Allen s again. He can t but make me 
 gaffer, considering I ve been a man of property. 
 
A POOR STICK 
 
A POOR STICK 
 
 1\/TRS JENNINGS (or Jinnins, as the 
 neighbours would have it) ruled abso 
 lutely at home, when she took so much trouble 
 as to do anything at all there which was less 
 often than might have been. As for Robert 
 her husband, he was a poor stick, said the 
 neighbours. And yet he was a man with 
 enough of hardihood to remain a non-unionist 
 in the erectors shop at Maidment s all the years 
 of his service ; no mean test of a man s fortitude 
 and resolution, as many a sufferer for inde 
 pendent opinion might testify. The truth was 
 that Bob never grew out of his courtship-blind 
 ness. Mrs Jennings governed as she pleased, 
 
 stayed out or came home as she chose, and 
 
 243 
 
244 A POOR STICK 
 
 cooked a dinner or didn t, as her inclination stood. 
 Thus it was for ten years, during which time 
 there were no children, and Bob bore all things 
 uncomplaining : cooking his own dinner when he 
 found none cooked, and sewing on his own buttons. 
 Then of a sudden came children, till in three 
 years there were three ; and Bob Jennings had 
 to nurse and to wash them as often as not. 
 
 Mrs Jennings at this time was what is called 
 rather a fine woman : a woman of large scale 
 and full development ; whose slatternly habit 
 left her coarse black hair to tumble in snake- 
 locks about her face and shoulders half the 
 day ; who, clad in half-hooked clothes, bore 
 herself notoriously and unabashed in her fullness ; 
 and of whom ill things were said regarding the 
 lodger. The gossips had their excuse. The 
 lodger was an irregular young cabinet-maker, 
 who lost quarters and halves and whole days ; 
 who had been seen abroad with his landlady, 
 what time Bob Jennings was putting the children 
 to bed at home ; who on his frequent holidays 
 
A POOR STICK 245 
 
 brought in much beer, which he and the woman 
 shared, while Bob was at work. To carry the 
 tale to Bob would have been a thankless errand, 
 for he would have none of anybody s sympathy, 
 even in regard to miseries plain to his eye. 
 But the thing got about in the workshop, and 
 there his days were made bitter. 
 
 At home things grew worse. To return at 
 half-past five, and find the children still un 
 dressed, screaming, hungry and dirty, w r as a 
 matter of habit : to get them food, to wash 
 them, to tend the cuts and bumps sustained 
 through the day of neglect, before lighting a fire 
 and getting tea for himself, were matters of daily 
 duty. Ah/ he said to his sister, who came at 
 intervals to say plain things about Mrs Jennings, 
 you shouldn t go for to set a man agin is wife, 
 Jin. Melier do n like work, 1 know, but that s 
 nach ral to er. She ought to married a swell 
 stead o me; she might V done easy if she 
 liked, bein sich a fine gal ; but she s good- arted, 
 is Melier; an she can t elp bein a bit thought- 
 
246 A POOR STICK 
 
 less/ Whereat his sister called him a fool (it 
 was her customary good-bye at such times), and 
 took herself off. 
 
 Bob Jennings s intelligence was sufficient for 
 his common needs, but it was never a vast 
 intelligence. Now, under a daily burden of dull 
 misery, it clouded and stooped. The base wit 
 of the workshop he comprehended less, and 
 realised more slowly, than before ; and the gaffer 
 cursed him for a sleepy dolt. 
 
 Mrs Jennings ceased from any pretence ol 
 housewifery, and would sometimes sit perchance 
 not quite sober while Bob washed the children 
 in the evening, opening her mouth only to 
 express her contempt for him and his establish 
 ment, and to make him understand that she was 
 sick of both. Once, exasperated by his quiet 
 ness, she struck at him, and for a moment 
 he was another man. Don t do that, Melier, 
 he said, else I might forget myself. His 
 manner surprised his wife : and it was such that 
 she never did do that again. 
 
A POOR STICK 247 
 
 So was Bob Jennings : without a friend in the 
 world, except his sister, who chid him, and the 
 children, who squalled at him : when his wife 
 vanished with the lodger, the clock, a shade of 
 wax flowers, Bob s best boots (which fitted the 
 lodger), and his silver watch. Bob had returned, 
 as usual, to the dirt and the children, and it was 
 only when he struck a light that he found the 
 clock was gone. 
 
 Mummy tooked ve t ock, said Milly, the 
 eldest child, who had followed him in from the 
 door, and now gravely observed his movements. 
 She tooked ve t ock an went ta-ta. An she 
 tooked ve fyowers. 
 
 Bob lit the paraffin lamp with the green glass 
 reservoir, and carried it and its evil smell about 
 the house. Some things had been turned over 
 and others had gone, plainly. All Melier s 
 clothes were gone. The lodger was not in, and 
 under his bedroom window, where his box had 
 stood, there was naught but an oblong patch of 
 conspicuously clean wall-paper. In a muddle of 
 
248 A POOR STICK 
 
 doubt and perplexity, Bob found himself at the 
 front door, staring up and down the street. 
 Divers women-neighbours stood at their doors, 
 and eyed him curiously ; for Mrs Webster, 
 moralist, opposite, had not watched the day s 
 proceedings (nor those of many other days) for 
 nothing, nor had she kept her story to herself. 
 
 He turned back into the house, a vague notion 
 of what had befallen percolating feebly through his 
 bewilderment. * I dunno I dunno, he faltered, 
 rubbing his ear. His mouth was dry, and he 
 moved his lips uneasily, as he gazed with aimless 
 looks about the walls and ceiling. Presently his 
 eyes rested on the child, and Milly, he said 
 decisively, come an 5 ave yer face washed. 
 
 He put the children to bed early, and went 
 out. In the morning, when his sister came, 
 because she had heard the news in common 
 with everybody else, he had not returned. Bob 
 Jennings had never lost more than two quarters 
 in his life, but he was not seen at the workshop 
 all this day. His sister stayed in the house, and 
 
A POOR STICK 249 
 
 in the evening, at his regular homing-time, he 
 appeared, haggard and dusty, and began his 
 preparations for washing the children. When he 
 was made to understand that they had been 
 already attended to, he looked doubtful and 
 troubled for a moment. Presently he said : I 
 ain t found er yet, Jin ; I was in opes she 
 might a bin back by this. I I don t expect 
 she ll be very long. She was alwis a bit larky, 
 was Melier; but very good-parted. 
 
 His sister had prepared a strenuous lecture 
 on the theme of I told you so ; but the man 
 was so broken, so meek, and so plainly un 
 hinged in his faculties, that she suppressed it. 
 Instead, she gave him comfortable talk, and 
 made him promise in the end to sleep that night, 
 and take up his customary work in the morning. 
 
 He did these things, and could have worked 
 placidly enough had he but been alone ; but 
 the tale had reached the workshop, and there 
 was no lack of brutish chaff to disorder him. 
 This the decenter men would have no part in, 
 
250 A POOR STICK 
 
 and even protested against. But the ill-con 
 ditioned kept their way, till, at the cry of Bell 
 O ! when all were starting for dinner, one of 
 the worst shouted the cruellest gibe of all. Bob 
 Jennings turned on him and knocked him over 
 a scrap-heap. 
 
 A shout went up from the hurrying workmen, 
 with a chorus of ( Serve ye right/ and the fallen 
 joker found himself awkwardly confronted by 
 the shop bruiser. But Bob had turned to a 
 corner, and buried his eyes in the bend of his 
 arm, while his shoulders heaved and shook. 
 
 He slunk away home, and stayed there : walk 
 ing restlessly to and fro, and often peeping down 
 the street from the window. When, at twilight, 
 his sister came again, he had become almost 
 cheerful, and said with some briskness : I m 
 agoin to meet er, Jin, at seven. I know where 
 she ll be waitinV 
 
 He went upstairs, and after a little while 
 came down again in his best black coat, care 
 fully smoothing a tall hat of obsolete shape 
 
A POOR STICK 251 
 
 with his pocket-handkerchief. c I ain t wore it 
 for years, he said. I ought to a wore it it 
 might V pleased er. She used to say she 
 wouldn t walk with me in no other when I 
 used to meet er in the evenin , at seven o clock. 
 He brushed assiduously, and put the hat on. 
 I d better ave a shave round the corner as I 
 go along/ he added, fingering his stubbly 
 chin. 
 
 He received as one not comprehending his 
 sister s persuasion to remain at home ; but when 
 he went she followed at a little distance. After 
 his penny shave he made for the main road, 
 where company-keeping couples walked up and 
 down all evening. He stopped at a church, and 
 began pacing slowly to and fro before it, eagerly 
 looking out each way as he went. 
 
 His sister watched him for nearly half an 
 hour, and then went home. In two hours more 
 she came back with her husband. Bob was 
 still there, walking to and fro. 
 
 * Ullo, Bob, said his brother - in - law ; come 
 
252 A POOR STICK 
 
 along J ome an get to bed, there s a good chap. 
 You ll be awright in the morninV 
 
 She ain t turned up/ Bob complained, ( or else 
 I ve missed J er. This is the reg lar place where 
 I alwis used to meet er. But she ll come to- 
 morrer. She used to leave me in the lurch 
 sometimes, bein nach rally larky. But very 
 good- arted, mindjer ; very good- arted. 
 
 She did not come the next evening, nor the 
 next, nor the evening after, nor the one after 
 that. But Bob Jennings, howbeit depressed and 
 anxious, was always confident. Somethink s 
 prevented er to-night, he would say, but she ll 
 come to-morrer. . . . I ll buy a blue tie to-morrer 
 she used to like me in a blue tie. I won t 
 miss er to-morrer. I ll come a little earlier. 
 
 So it went. The black coat grew ragged in the 
 service, and hobbledehoys, finding him safe sport, 
 smashed the tall hat over his eyes time after time. 
 He wept over the hat, and straightened it as best 
 he might. Was she coming? Night after night, 
 and night and night. But to-morrow. . . . 
 
A CONVERSION 
 
A CONVERSION 
 
 / ~T~ A HERE are some poor criminals that never 
 have a chance : circumstances are against 
 them from the first, as they explain, with tears, 
 to sympathetic mission -readers. Circumstances 
 had always been against Scuddy Lond, the gun. 
 The word gun, it may be explained, is a friendly 
 synonym for thief. 
 
 His first name was properly James, but that 
 had been long forgotten. Scuddy meant 
 nothing in particular, was derived from nothing, 
 and was not, apparently, the invention of any 
 distinct person. Still, it was commonly his only 
 name, and most of his acquaintances had also 
 nicknames of similarly vague origin. Scuddy 
 
 was a man of fine feelings, capable of a most 
 
 255 
 
256 A CONVERSION 
 
 creditable hour of rapturous misery after hearing, 
 perhaps at a sing-song, Put Me in my Little Bed, 
 or any other ditty that was rank enough in senti 
 ment : wherefore the mission-readers never really 
 despaired of him. He was a small, shabby man 
 of twenty-six, but looking younger; with a run 
 away chin, a sharp, yellow face, and tremulously 
 sly eyes ; with but faint traces of hair on his face, 
 he had a great deal of it, straight and ragged 
 and dirty, on his head. 
 
 Scuddy Lond s misfortunes began early. 
 Temptation had prevailed against him when he 
 was at school, but that was nothing. He became 
 errand boy in a grocer s shop, and complica 
 tions with the till brought him, a howling peni 
 tent, to the police court. Here, while his mother 
 hid her head in the waiting-room, he set forth 
 the villainy of older boys who had prompted him 
 to sin, and got away with no worse than a lecture 
 on the evils of bad company. So that a philan 
 thropist found him a better situation at a distance, 
 where the evil influence could no longer move 
 
A CONVERSION 257 
 
 him. Here he stayed a good while longer than 
 some who had been there before him, but who 
 had to leave because of vanishing postal orders. 
 Nevertheless, the postal orders still went, and 
 in the end he confessed to another magistrate, 
 and fervently promised to lead a better life if his 
 false start were only forgiven. Betting, he pro 
 tested, was this time the author of his fall ; and 
 as that pernicious institution was clearly to blame 
 for the unhappy young man s ruin, the lamenting 
 magistrate let him off with a simple month in 
 consideration of his misfortune and the inter 
 cession of his employer, who had never heard 
 of the grocer and his till. 
 
 After his month Scuddy went regularly into 
 business as a lob-crawler : that is to say, he re 
 turned to his first love, the till : not narrowly to 
 any individual till, but broad-mindedly to the till 
 as a general institution, to be approached in 
 unattended shops by stealthy grovelling on the 
 belly. This he did until he perceived the greater 
 
 security and comfort of waiting without while 
 
 R 
 
258 A CONVERSION 
 
 a small boy did the actual work within. From 
 this, and with this, he ventured on peter- 
 claiming : laying hands nonchalantly on un- 
 considered parcels and bags at railway stations, 
 until a day when, bearing a fat portmanteau, he ran 
 against its owner by the door of a refreshment 
 bar. This time the responsibility lay with Drink. 
 Strong Drink, he declared, with deep emotion, 
 had been his ruin ; he dated his downfall from 
 the day when a false friend persuaded him to 
 take a Social Glass ; he would still have been an 
 honest, upright, self-respecting young man but 
 for the Cursed Drink. From that moment he 
 would never touch it more. The case was met 
 with three months with hard labour, and for all 
 that Scuddy Lond had so clearly pointed out 
 the culpability of Drink, he had to do the 
 drag himself. But the mission-readers were 
 comforted: for clearly there was hope for one 
 whose eyes were so fully opened to the causes 
 of his degradation. 
 
 After the drag, Scuddy for long made a 
 
A CONVERSION 259 
 
 comfortable living, free from injurious over 
 work, in the several branches of lob - crawling 
 and peter-claiming, with an occasional deviation 
 into parlour-jumping. It is true that this last 
 did sometimes involve unpleasant exertion when 
 the window was high and the boy heavy to bunk 
 up ; and it was necessary, at times, to run. But 
 Scuddy was out of work, and hunger drove him 
 to anything, so long as it was light and not too 
 risky. And it is marvellous to reflect how much 
 may be picked up in the streets and at the 
 side-doors of London and the suburbs without 
 danger or vulgar violence. And so Scuddy s 
 life went on, with occasional misfortunes in 
 the way of a moon, or another drag, or perhaps 
 a sixer. And the mission - readers never de 
 spaired, because the real cause was always 
 hunger, or thirst, or betting, or a sudden tempta 
 tion, or something quite exceptional never any 
 thing like real, hardened, unblushing wicked 
 ness ; and the man himself was always truly 
 penitent. He made such touching references to 
 
260 A CONVERSION 
 
 his innocent childhood, and was so grateful for 
 good advice or anything else you might give him. 
 
 One bold attempt Scuddy made to realise 
 his desire for better things. He resolved to 
 depart from his evil ways and to become a 
 nark a copper s nark which is a police spy, 
 or informer. The work was not hard, there 
 was no imprisonment, and he would make 
 amends for the past. But hardly had he begun 
 his narking when some of the Kate Street mob 
 dropped on him in Brick Lane, and bashed him 
 full sore. This would never do : so once more 
 implacable circumstance drove him to his old 
 courses. And there was this added discomfort : 
 that no boy would parlour-jump nor dip the lob 
 for him. Indeed they bawled aloud, Yah, 
 Scuddy Lond the copper s nark ! So that the 
 hand of all Flower and Dean Street was 
 against him. Scuddy grew very sad. 
 
 These and other matters were heavy upon 
 his heart on an evening when, with nothing in 
 his pockets but the piece of coal that he carried 
 
A CONVERSION 261 
 
 for luck, he turned aimlessly up Baker s Row. 
 Things were very bad : it was as though the 
 whole world knew him and watched. Shop 
 keepers stood frowningly at their doors. People 
 sat defiantly on piles of luggage at the railway 
 stations, and there was never a peter to touch 
 for. All the areas were empty, and there were 
 no side-doors left unguarded, where, failing the 
 more desirable wedge, one might claim a pair or 
 two of daisies put out for cleaning. All the hun 
 dred trifling things that commonly come freely 
 to hand in a mile or two of streets were some 
 how swept out of the world s economy ; and 
 Scuddy tramped into Baker s Row in melting 
 mood. Why were things so hard for some 
 and so easy for others ? It was not as though 
 he were to blame he, a man of feeling and 
 sentiment. Why were others living comfortable 
 lives unvexed of any dread of the police ? 
 And apart from that, why did other gonophs get 
 lucky touches for half a century of quids at 
 a time, while he ! ... But there : the world was 
 
262 A CONVERSION 
 
 one brutal oppression and he was its most piti 
 able victim ; and he slunk along, dank with the 
 pathos of things. 
 
 At a corner a group was standing about a 
 woman, whose voice was uplifted to a man s 
 accompaniment on a stand-accordion. Scuddy 
 listened. She sang, with a harsh tremble : 
 
 Art sang a song ofome^ sweet 
 
 The song that reached my arf. 
 Ome, ome, sweet, sweet ome, 
 She sang the song of ome, sweet ome, 
 
 The song that reached my art. 
 
 Here, indeed, was something in tune with Scuddy s 
 fine feelings. He looked up. From the dark 
 ening sky the evening star winked through 
 the smoke from a factory chimney. From a- 
 near came an exquisite scent of saveloys. Plain 
 tive influences all. He tried to think of ome 
 himself of ome strictly in the abstract, so that 
 it might reach his art. He stood for some 
 minutes torpid and mindless, oozing with senti 
 ment : till the song ended, and he went on. 
 Fine feelings fine ! 
 
A CONVERSION 263 
 
 He crossed the road, and took a turning. A 
 lame old woman sat in a recess selling trotters, 
 where a dark passage led back to a mission - 
 hall. About the opening a man hovered fervent, 
 watchful, and darted forth on passers-by. He 
 laid his hand on Scuddy s shoulder, and said : 
 * My dear friend, will you come in an ear the 
 word of the Lord Jesus Christ? 
 
 Scuddy turned : the sound of an harmonium 
 and many strenuous voices came faintly down 
 the passage. It was his mood. Why not give 
 his fine feelings another little run ? He would : 
 he would go in. 
 
 * Trotters ! quavered the lame old woman, 
 looking up wistfully. Two a penny ! Two a 
 penny ! But no : he went up the passage, and 
 she turned patiently to her board. 
 
 Along the passage the singing grew louder, 
 and burst on his ears unchecked as he pushed 
 open the door at the end: 
 
 * Oosoever will, ^oosoever will, 
 Send the proclamation over vale an V//y 
 
264 A CONVERSION 
 
 7zs a lovirt Father calls the wancVrcr 
 Oosoever will may come ! 
 
 A man by the door knew him at once for 
 a stranger, and found him a seat. The hymn 
 went quavering to an end, and the preacher in 
 charge, a small, bright-eyed man with rebellious 
 hair and a surprisingly deep voice, announced 
 that Brother Spyers would offer a prayer. 
 
 The man prayed with his every faculty. He 
 was a sturdy, red-necked artisan, great of hand 
 and wiry of beard : a smith, perhaps, or a brick 
 layer. He spread his arms wide, and, his head 
 thrown back, brought forth, with passion and 
 pain, his fervid, disordered sentences. As he 
 went on, his throat swelled and convulsed in 
 desperate knots, and the sweat hung thick on 
 his face. He called for grace, that every unsaved 
 soul there might come to the fold and believe 
 that night. Or if not all, then some even a few. 
 That at least one, only one, poor soul might be 
 plucked as a brand from the burning. And as 
 he flung together, with clumsy travail, his end- 
 
A CONVERSION 265 
 
 less, formless, unconsidered vehemences of utter 
 most Cockney, the man stood transfigured, 
 admirable. 
 
 From here and there came deep amens. 
 Then more, with gasps, groans and sobs. 
 Scuddy Lond, carried away luxuriously on a 
 tide of grievous sensation, groaned with the 
 others. The prayer ended in a chorus of 
 ejaculations. Then there was a hymn. Some 
 body stuffed an open hymn-book into Scuddy s 
 hand, but he scarce saw it. Abandoning him 
 self to the mesmeric influence of the many 
 who were singing about him, he plunged and 
 revelled in a debauch of emotion. He heard, he 
 even joined in ; but understood nothing, for his 
 feelings filled him to overflowing. 
 
 * / \ive a robe : *tis resplendent in trfiteness, 
 
 Awaitiri in glory my ivonderirf view : 
 0/i t it? en I receive it, all shiniri in brightness^ 
 Dear friend, could I see you receivirf one too ! 
 For you I am prayiri ! For you I am prayirf ! 
 For you I am prayin\ Pm prayirf for you? 
 
 The hymn ceased ; all sat down, and the preacher 
 
266 A CONVERSION 
 
 began his discourse : quietly at first, and then, 
 though in a different way, with all the choking 
 fervour of the man who had prayed. For the 
 preacher was fluent as well as zealous, and 
 his words, except when emotion stayed them, 
 poured in a torrent. He preached faith salva 
 tion in faith declaiming, beseeching, command 
 ing. * Come come ! Now is the appointed 
 time! Only believe only come! Only only 
 come ! To impassioned, broken entreaty he 
 added sudden command and the menace of 
 eternity, but broke away pitifully again in 
 urgent pleadings, pantings, gasps; pointing above, 
 spreading his arms abroad, stretching them forth 
 imploringly. Come, only come ! 
 
 Sobs broke out in more than one place. A 
 woman bowed her head and rocked, while her 
 shoulders shook again. Brother Spyers s face was 
 alight with joy. A tremor, a throe of the senses 
 ran through the assembly as through a single 
 body. 
 
 The preacher, nearing his peroration, rose to 
 
A CONVERSION 267 
 
 a last frenzy of adjuration. Then, ending in a 
 steadier key, he summoned any to stand forth 
 who had found grace that night. 
 
 His bright, strenuous eyes were on the 
 sobbers, charging them, drawing them. First 
 rose the woman who had bowed her head. 
 Her face uncovered but distorted and twitch 
 ing, still weeping but rapt and unashamed, she 
 tottered out between the seats, and sank at last 
 on the vacant form in front. Next a child, a 
 little maid of ten, lank-legged and outgrown of 
 her short skirts, her eyes squeezed down on a 
 tight knot of pocket-handkerchief, crying wildly, 
 broken-heartedly, sobbed and blundered over 
 seat-corners and toes, and sat down forlorn and 
 solitary, at the other end of the form. And 
 after her came Scuddy Lond. 
 
 Why, he knew not nor cared. In the full 
 enjoyment of a surfeit of indefinite emotion, tear 
 ful, rapturous, he had accepted the command put 
 on him by the preacher, and he had come forth, 
 walking on clouds, regenerate, compact of fine 
 
268 A CONVERSION 
 
 feelings. There was a short prayer of thanks, 
 and then a final hymn : 
 
 Ring the bells of eaven, there is joy to-day, 
 For a soul returnirH from the wild ! 
 
 Scuddy felt a curious equable lightness of 
 spirits a serene cheerfulness. His emotional 
 orgasm was spent, and in its place was a numb 
 calm, pleasant enough. 
 
 Glory ! glory! ^ow the angels sing 
 Glory ! glory ! ow the loud ^arps ring I 
 Tis the ransomed army, like a mighty sea, 
 Pealiri forth the anthem of the free! "> 
 
 The service ended. The congregation trooped 
 forth into the evening ; but Scuddy sat where he 
 was, for the preacher wanted a few words with 
 his converts ere he would let them go. He shook 
 hands with Scuddy Lond, and spoke with grave, 
 smiling confidence about his soul. Brother Spyers 
 also shook hands with him and bespoke his return 
 on Sunday. 
 
 In the cool air of the empty passage, Scuddy s 
 ordinary faculties began to assort themselves ; 
 
A CONVERSION 269 
 
 still in an atmosphere of calm cheer. Fine 
 feelings fine. And as he turned the piece 
 of coal in his pocket, he reflected that, after 
 all, the day had not been altogether unlucky 
 not in every sense a blank. Emerging into 
 the street, he saw that the lame old woman, 
 who was almost alone in view, had risen on 
 her crutch and turned her back to roll her 
 white cloth over her remaining trotters. On the 
 ledge behind stood her little pile of coppers, just 
 reckoned. Scuddy Lond s practised eye took the 
 case in a flash. With two long tip-toed steps he 
 reached the coppers, lifted them silently, and 
 hurried away up the street. He did not run, 
 for the woman was lame and had not heard 
 him. No : decidedly the day had not been 
 blank. For here was a_hot supper. 
 
ALL THAT MESSUAGE 
 
1 ALL THAT MESSUAGE 
 I 
 
 A LL that messuage dwelling-house and 
 premises now standing on part of the 
 said parcel of ground was the phrase in the 
 assignment of lease, although it only meant 
 Number Twenty-seven Mulberry Street, Old 
 Ford, containing five rooms and a wash-house, 
 and sharing a dirty front wall with the rest of 
 the street on the same side. The phrase was a 
 very fine one, and, with others more intricate, 
 lent not a little to the triumph and the per 
 plexity the transaction filled old Jack Randall 
 withal. The business was a conjunction of 
 purchase and mortgage, whereby old Jack Ran 
 dall, having thirty pounds of his own, had, 
 
274 ALL THAT MESSUAGE 
 
 after half-an-hour of helpless stupefaction in a 
 solicitor s office in Cornhill, bought a house 
 for two hundred and twenty pounds, and paid 
 ten pounds for stamps and lawyer s fees. The 
 remaining two hundred pounds had been fur 
 nished by the Indubitable Perpetual Building 
 Society, on the security of a mortgage ; and 
 the loan, with its interest, was to be repaid in 
 monthly instalments of two pounds and four- 
 pence during twelve years. Thus old Jack 
 Randall designed to provide for the wants and 
 infirmities of age ; and the outright purchase, 
 he argued, was a thing of mighty easy accom 
 plishment. For the house let at nine shillings 
 a week, which was twenty-three pounds eight 
 shillings a year ; and the mortgage instalments, 
 with the ground rent of three pounds a year, 
 only came to twenty-seven pounds four, leav 
 ing a difference of three pounds sixteen, which 
 would be more than covered by a saving of 
 eighteenpence a week : certainly not a diffi 
 cult saving for a man with a regular job and 
 
ALL THAT MESSUAGE 275 
 
 no young family, who had put by thirty pounds 
 in little more than three years. Thus on many 
 evenings old Jack Randall and his wife would 
 figure out the thing, wholly forgetting rates 
 and taxes and repairs. 
 
 Old Jack stood on the pavement of Cornhill, 
 and stared at the traffic. When he remembered 
 that Mrs Randall was by his side he said, 
 4 Well, mother, we done it ; and his wife replied, 
 4 Yus, fa , you re a lan lord now. Hereat he 
 chuckled, and began to walk eastward. For to 
 be a landlord is the ultimate dignity. There is 
 no trouble, no anxiety in the world if you are 
 a landlord ; and there is no work. You just 
 walk round on Monday mornings (or maybe 
 you even drive in a trap), and you collect your 
 rents : eight and six, or nine shillings, or ten 
 shillings, as the case may be. And there you 
 are ! It is better than shopkeeping, because the 
 money comes by itself; and it is infinitely more 
 genteel. Also, it is better than having money 
 in a bank and drawing interest ; because the 
 
276 ALL THAT MESSUAGE 
 
 house cannot run away as is the manner of 
 directors, nor dissolve into nothingness as is the 
 way of banks. And here was he, Jack Randall, 
 walking down Leadenhall Street a landlord He 
 mounted a tramcar at Aldgate, and all things 
 were real. 
 
 II 
 
 Old Jack had always been old Jack since at 
 fourteen young Jack had come prentice in the 
 same engine-turner s shop. Young Jack was a 
 married man himself now, at another shop ; and 
 old Jack was near fifty, and had set himself to 
 ward thrift. All along Whitechapel Road, Mile 
 End Road, and Bow Road he considered the 
 shops and houses from the tram-roof, madly esti 
 mating rents and values. Near Bow Road end 
 he and his wife alighted, and went inspecting 
 Twenty-seven Mulberry Street once more. Old 
 
ALL THAT MESSUAGE 277 
 
 Jack remarked that the scraper was of a different 
 shape from that he had carried in his mind 
 since their last examination ; and he mentioned 
 it to Mrs Randall, who considered the scraper 
 of fact rather better than the scraper of memory. 
 They walked to and fro several times, 
 judging the door and three windows from 
 each side of the street, and in the end they 
 knocked, with a purpose of reporting the com 
 pleted purchase. But the tenant s wife, peeping 
 from behind a blind, and seeing only the people 
 who had already come spying about the house 
 some two or three times, retired to the back 
 and went on with her weekly washing. 
 
 They waited a little, repeated the knock, and 
 then went away. The whole day was off/ and 
 a stroll in the Tower Hamlets Cemetery was 
 decided on. Victoria Park was as near, but 
 was not in the direction of home. Moreover, 
 there was less interest for Mrs Randall in 
 Victoria Park, because there were no funerals. 
 In the cemetery, Mrs Randall solaced herself 
 
278 ALL THAT MESSUAGE 
 
 and old Jack with the more sentimental among 
 the inscriptions. In the poor part, whose mis 
 cellaneous graves are marked by mounds alone, 
 they stopped to look at a very cheap funeral. 
 
 Lor , Jack/ Mrs Randall said under her 
 breath with a nudge, wot a common caufin ! 
 Why, the body s very nigh a-droppin through 
 the bottom ! The thin under-board had, in 
 fact, a bulge. Pore chap ! ain t it shockin ! 
 
 The ignominy of a funeral with no feathers 
 was a thing accepted of course, but the horror 
 of a cheap coffin they had never realised till 
 now. They turned away. In the main path 
 they met the turgid funeral of a Bow Road 
 bookmaker. After the dozen mourning coaches 
 there were cars and pony traps, and behind 
 these came a fag-end of carts and donkey- 
 barrows. Ahead of all was the glazed hearse, 
 with attendants in weepers, and by it, full of 
 the pride of artistry, walked the undertaker 
 himself. 
 
 * Now that, said old Jack, is somethin like 
 
ALL THAT MESSUAGE 279 
 
 a caufin. (It was heavy and polished and 
 beset with bright fittings.) Ah, sighed his 
 missis, * ain t it lovely ! 
 
 The hearse drew up at the chapel door, where 
 the undertaker turned to the right-about and 
 placidly surveyed the movements of his forces. 
 Mrs Randall murmured again : ( Lovely 
 lovely ! and kept her eyes on the coffin. Then 
 she edged gently up to the undertaker, and 
 whispered : What would that kind o caufin be 
 called, mister? 
 
 The undertaker looked at her from the sides 
 of his eyes and answered briskly : Two-inch 
 polished oak solid extry brass fittin s. Mrs 
 Randall returned to old Jack s side and repeated 
 the words. c That must cost a lot, she said. 
 What a thing, though, to be certain you won t 
 be buried in a trumpery box like that other ! 
 Ah, it s well to be rich. 
 
 Old Jack gazed on the coffin, and thought. 
 Surely a landlord, if anybody, was entitled to 
 indulge in an expensive coffin ? All day he 
 
2 8o ALL THAT MESSUAGE 
 
 had nursed a fancy that some small indulgence, 
 something a little heavier than usual in the 
 matter of expense, would be proper to celebrate 
 the occasion. But he reflected that his savings 
 were gone and his pockets no fuller than had 
 always been their Wednesday wont : though, 
 of course, in that matter the future would be 
 different The bearers carried the coffin into 
 the chapel, and Mrs Randall turned away 
 among the graves. Old Jack put his hands in 
 his pockets, and, looking at the ground, said: 
 That was a nobby caufin, mother, wasn t it ? 
 Whereunto Mrs Randall murmured : * Lovely 
 lovely! yet again. 
 
 Old Jack walked a little further and asked : 
 ( Two-inch polished oak, e said, didn t e ? 
 Solid, an extry brass fittin s ; beautiful ! 
 I ll remember it. That s what you shall 
 ave if it appens you go fust. There ! And 
 old Jack sat on the guard-chain of a flowery 
 grave with the air of one giving a handsome 
 order. 
 
ALL THAT MESSUAGE 281 
 
 Me ? Git out ! Look at the expense. 
 
 Matter o circumstances. Look at Jenkins s 
 Gardens. Jenkins was a bench- and at the 
 Limited ; got is ouses one under another 
 through building s ieties. That there caufin 
 ud be none too dear for Y;;/. We re beginnin ; 
 an I promise you that same, if you d like it. 
 
 Like it ! the missis ejaculated. Course 
 I should. Wouldn t you ? 
 
 Wy, yus. Any one ud prefer somethin 
 a bit nobby ; an thick. 
 
 And the missis reciprocated old Jack s 
 promise, in case he died first : if a two-inch 
 polished oak solid could be got for everything 
 she had to offer. And, tea-time approaching, 
 they made well pleased for home. 
 
 Ill 
 
 In two days old Jack was known as a land 
 lord all about. On the third day, which was 
 
282 ALL THAT MESSUAGE 
 
 Saturday, young Jack called to borrow half 
 a sovereign, but succeeded only to the extent 
 of five shillings : work was slack with him, 
 and three days of it was all he had had that 
 week. This had happened before, and he had 
 got on as best he could ; but now, with a father 
 buying house-property, it was absurd to econo 
 mise for lack of half a sovereign. When 
 he brought the five shillings home, his wife 
 asked why he had not thrown them at his 
 father s head: a course of procedure which, 
 young Jack confessed, had never occurred to 
 his mind. Stingy old unks ! she scolded. 
 A-goin about buyin ouses, an won t lend 
 is own son ten shillin s ! Much good may all 
 is money do im with is ateful mean ways! 
 This was the beginning of old Jack s estrange 
 ment from his relatives. For young Jack s 
 missis expressed her opinion in other places, 
 and young Jack was soon ready to share it : 
 rigidly abstaining from another attempt at a 
 loan, though he never repaid the five shillings. 
 
ALL THAT MESSUAGE 283 
 
 In the course of the succeeding week two of 
 his shopmates took old Jack aside at different 
 times to explain that the loan of a pound or 
 two would make the greatest imaginable differ 
 ence to the whole course of their future lives, 
 while the temporary absence of the money 
 would be imperceptible to a capitalist like him 
 self. When he roundly declared that he had 
 as few loose sovereigns as themselves, he was 
 set down an uncommon liar as well as a wretched 
 old miser. This was the beginning of old Jack s 
 unpopularity in the workshop. 
 
 IV 
 
 He took a half-day off to receive the first 
 week s rent in state, and Mrs Randall went with 
 him. He showed his written authority from the 
 last landlord, and the tenant s wife paid over 
 the sum of nine shillings, giving him at the 
 
284 ALL THAT MESSUAGE 
 
 same time the rent-book to sign and a slip of 
 written paper. This last was a week s notice to 
 terminate the tenancy. 
 
 We re very well satisfied with the ouse, the 
 tenant s wife said (she was a painfully clean, 
 angular woman, with a notable flavour of yellow 
 soap and scrubbing-brush about her), ( but my 
 usband finds it too far to get to an from 
 Albert Docks mornin and night. So we re goin 
 to West Am. And she politely ejected her 
 visitors by opening the door and crowding them 
 through it. 
 
 The want of a tenant was a contingency that 
 old Jack had never contemplated. As long as 
 it lasted it would necessitate the setting by of 
 ten and sixpence a week for the building society 
 payments and the ground - rent. This was 
 serious : it meant knocking off some of the 
 butcher s meat, all the beer and tobacco, and 
 perhaps a little firing. Old Jack resolved to 
 waste no more half -days in collecting, but to 
 send his missis. On the following Monday, 
 
ALL THAT MESSUAGE 285 
 
 therefore, while the tenant s wife kept a sharp 
 eye on the man who was piling a greengrocer s 
 van with chairs and tables, Mrs Randall fixed 
 a To Let bill in the front window. In the 
 leaves of the rent-book she found another thing 
 of chagrin : to wit, a notice demanding payment 
 of poor, highway, and general rates to the 
 amount of one pound eighteen and sevenpence. 
 Now, no thought of rates and taxes had ever 
 vexed the soul of old Jack, Of course, he might 
 have known that his own landlord paid the 
 rates for his house ; but, indeed, he had never 
 once thought of the thing, being content with 
 faithfully paying the rent, and troubling no more 
 about it. That night was one of dismal wake- 
 fulness for old Jack and his missis. If he had 
 understood the transaction at the lawyer s office, 
 he would have known that a large proportion 
 of the sum due had been allowed him in the 
 final adjustment of payment to the day; and 
 if he had known something of the ways of rate- 
 collecting, he would have understood that pay- 
 
286 ALL THAT MESSUAGE 
 
 ment was not expected for at least a month. 
 As it was, the glories of lease-possession grew 
 dim in his eyes, and a landlord seemed a poor 
 creature, spending his substance to keep roofs 
 over the heads of strangers. 
 
 On Wednesday afternoon a man called about 
 taking the house, and returned in the evening, 
 when old Jack was home. He was a large- 
 featured, quick-eyed man, with a loud, harsh 
 voice and a self-assertive manner. Quickly old 
 Jack recognised him as a speaker he had heard 
 at certain street-corners : a man who was secre 
 tary, or delegate, or that sort of thing, to some 
 thing that old Jack had forgotten. 
 
 He began with the announcement : * I am 
 Joe Parsons : delivered with a stare for emphasis, 
 and followed by a pause to permit assimilation. 
 
ALL THAT MESSUAGE 287 
 
 Old Jack had some recollection of the name, 
 but it was indefinite. He wondered whether or 
 not he should address the man as sir, consider 
 ing the street speeches, and the evident import 
 ance of the name. But then, after all, he was 
 a landlord himself. So he only said * Yus ? 
 
 1 1 am Joe Parsons, the man repeated ; and 
 I m looking for a ouse. 
 
 There was another pause, which lasted till 
 old Jack felt obliged to say something. So 
 he said Yus ? again. 
 
 I m looking for a ouse, the man repeated, 
 1 and if we can arrange things satisfactory, I 
 might take yours. 
 
 Mr Joe Parsons was far above haggling about 
 the rent, but he had certain ideas as to paint 
 ing and repairs that looked expensive. In the 
 end old Jack promised the paint a touch-up, 
 privily resolving to do the work himself in his 
 evenings. And on the whole, Mr Joe Parsons 
 was wonderfully easy to come to terms with, 
 considering his eminent public character. And 
 
288 ALL THAT MESSUAGE 
 
 anything in the nature of a reference in his case 
 would have been absurd. As himself observed, 
 his name was enough for that 
 
 VI 
 
 Old Jack did the painting, and the new 
 tenant took possession. When Mrs Randall 
 called for the first week a draggle-tailed little 
 woman with a black eye meekly informed her 
 that Mr Parsons was not at home, and had left 
 no money nor any message as to the rent. This 
 was awkward, because the first building society 
 instalment would be due before next rent-day 
 to say nothing of the rates. But it would 
 never do to offend Mr Parsons. So the money 
 was scraped together by heroic means (the 
 missis produced an unsuspected twelve and six 
 pence from a gallipot on the kitchen dresser), 
 and the first instalment was paid. 
 
4 ALL THAT MESSUAGE 289 
 
 Mrs Randall called twice at Mulberry Street 
 next rent-day, but nobody answered her knocks. 
 Old Jack, possessed by a misty notion, born of 
 use, that rent was constitutionally demandable 
 only on Monday morning, called no more for a 
 week. But on Thursday evening a stout little 
 stranger, with a bald head which he wiped con 
 tinually, came to the Randalls to ask if the 
 tenant of Twenty-seven Mulberry Street was 
 Mr Joe Parsons. Assured that it was, he 
 nodded, said Thanks ! that s all, wiped his head 
 again, and started to go. Then he paused, and 
 * Pay his rent regular ? he asked. Old Jack 
 hesitated. Ah, thought so/ said the little 
 stranger. * He s a wrong un. I ve got a bit o 
 paper for im. And he clapped on his hat with 
 the handkerchief in it and vanished. 
 
290 ALL THAT MESSUAGE 
 
 VII 
 
 Old Jack felt unhappy, for a landlord. He 
 and the missis reproached themselves for not 
 asking the little stranger certain questions ; but 
 he had gone. Next Monday morning old Jack 
 took another half-day, and went to Mulberry 
 Street himself. From appearances, he assured 
 himself that a belief, entertained by his missis, 
 that the upper part of his house was being sub 
 let, was well-founded. He watched awhile from 
 a corner, until a dirty child kicked at the door, 
 and it was opened. Then he went across 
 and found the draggle-tailed woman who had 
 answered Mrs Randall before, in every respect 
 the same to look at, except that not one eye 
 was black but two. Old Jack, with some abrupt 
 ness, demanded his rent of her, addressing her 
 as Mrs Parsons. Without disclaiming the name, 
 she pleaded with meek uneasiness that Mr 
 Parsons really wasn t at home, and she didn t 
 
1 ALL THAT MESSUAGE 5 291 
 
 know when to expect him. At last, finding this 
 ineffectual, she produced four and sixpence : 
 begging him with increasing agitation to take 
 that on account and call again. 
 
 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 down 
 stairs, said the boy, a-givin of it to is wife for 
 pay in 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. 
 
292 ALL THAT MESSUAGE 
 
 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 land 
 lord 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 aint 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 every- 
 think ? 
 
 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 
 
ALL THAT MESSUAGE 293 
 
 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. 
 
294 ALL THAT MESSUAGE 
 
 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 be 
 come 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 
 
ALL THAT MESSUAGE 295 
 
 well. He never had furniture upon which a 
 profitable distress might be levied. But if he 
 took lodgers, and they were quiet people, some 
 thing 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 
 
296 ALL THAT MESSUAGE 
 
 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 
 
ALL THAT MESSUAGE 297 
 
 that things were in order, old Jack stayed : 
 making his comings and goings late to dodge 
 the pickets, and approaching subtly by a rail 
 way-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. 
 
 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 
 
298 ALL THAT MESSUAGE 
 
 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 
 
< ALL THAT MESSUAGE 299 
 
 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 ringer. 
 
 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 
 
300 ALL THAT MESSUAGE 
 
 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 scream 
 ing ; 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. 
 
ALL THAT MESSUAGE 301 
 
 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. 
 
EDINBURGH 
 
 COLSTON AND COMPANY 
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