A CHILD OF THE JAGO (Old London Slum Series). Morrison Arthur

Weech’s head lay aside, his grin widened, his glance was sidelong, his forefinger pointed from his temple over Dicky’s head, and altogether he looked so very knowing that Dicky shuffled in his seat. By what mysterious means was this new-found friend so well informed? The doubt troubled him, for Dicky knew nothing of Mr Aaron Weech’s conversation, an hour before, with Tommy Rann.

      ‘But it’s awright, bless yer,’ Mr Weech went on presently. ‘Nobody’s none the wuss for me knowin’ about ‘em…. Well, we was a-talkin’ about the watch, wasn’t we? All you got after sich a lot o’ trouble was a woppin’ with a belt. That was too bad.’ Mr Weech’s voice was piteous and sympathetic. ‘After you a-findin’ sich a nice watch—a red ‘un an’ all!—you gits nothink for yerself but a beltin’. Never mind, you’ll do better next time—I’ll take care o’ that. I don’t like to see a clever boy put upon. You go an’ find another, or somethink else—anythink good—an’ then you bring it ‘ere.’

      Mr Weech’s friendly sympathy extinguished Dicky’s doubt. ‘I didn’t find it,’ he said, shy but proud. ‘It was a click—I sneaked it.’

      ‘Eh?’ ejaculated Mr Weech, a sudden picture of blank incomprehension. ‘Eh? What? Click? Wot’s a click? Sneaked? Wot’s that? I dunno nothink about no talk o’ that sort, an’ I don’t want to. It’s my belief it means somethink wrong—but I dunno, an’ I don’t want to. ‘Ear that? Eh? Don’t let me ‘ave no more o’ that, or you’d better not come near me agin. If you find somethink, awright: you come to me an’ I’ll give ye somethink for it, if it’s any good. It ain’t no business of anybody’s where you find it, o’ course, an’ I don’t want to know. But clicks and sneaks—them’s Greek to me, an’ I don’t want to learn ‘em. Unnerstand that? Nice talk to respectable people, with yer clicks an’ sneaks!’

      Dicky blushed a little, and felt very guilty without in the least understanding the offence. But Mr Weech’s virtuous indignation subsided as quickly as it had arisen, and he went on as amiably as ever.

      ‘When you find anythink,’ he said, ‘jist like you found that watch, don’t tell nobody, an’ don’t let nobody see it. Bring it ‘ere quiet, when there ain’t any p’liceman in the street, an’ come right through to the back o’ the shop, an’ say, “I come to clean the knives.” Unnerstand? “I come to clean the knives.” There ain’t no knives to clean—it’s on’y a way o’ tellin’ me you got somethink without other people knowin’. An’ then I’ll give you somethink for it—money p’raps, or p’raps cake or wot not. Don’t forgit. “I come to clean the knives.” See?’

      Yes, Dicky understood perfectly; and Dicky saw a new world of dazzling delights. Cake—limitless cake, coffee, and the like whenever he might feel moved thereunto; but more than all, money—actual money. Good broad pennies, perhaps whole shillings—perhaps even more still: money to buy bullock’s liver for dinner, or tripe, or what you fancied: saveloys, baked potatoes from the can on cold nights, a little cart to wheel Looey in, a boat from a toy-shop with sails!

      ‘There’s no end o’ things to be found all over the place, an’ a sharp boy like you can find ‘em every day. If you don’t find ‘em, someone else will; there’s plenty on ‘em about on the look-out, an’ you got jist as much right as them. On’y mind!’—Mr Weech was suddenly stern and serious, and his forefinger was raised impressively—‘you know you can’t do anythink without I know, an’ if you say a word—if you say a word,’ his fist came on the table with a bang, ‘somethink ‘ll happen to you. Somethink bad.’

      Mr Weech rose, and was pleasant again, though business-like. ‘Now, you just go an’ find somethink,’ he said. ‘Look sharp about it, an’ don’t go an’ git in trouble. The cawfy’s a penny, an’ the cake’s a penny—ought prop’ly to be twopence, but say a penny this time. That’s twopence you owe me, an’ you better bring somethink an’ pay it off quick. So go along.’

      This was an unforeseen tag to the entertainment. For the first time in his life Dicky was in debt. It was a little disappointing to find the coffee and cake no gift after all: though, indeed, it now seemed foolish to have supposed they were; for in Dicky Perrott’s world people did not give things away—that were the act of a fool. Thus Dicky, with his hands in his broken pockets, and thought in his small face, whereon still stood the muddy streaks of yesterday’s tears, trudged out of Mr Aaron Weech’s shop-door, and along Meakin Street.

      Now he was beginning the world seriously, and must face the fact. Truly the world had been serious enough for him hitherto, but that he knew not. Now he was of an age when most boys were thieving for themselves, and he owed money like a man. True it was, as Mr Weech had said, that everybody—the whole Jago—was on the look-out for himself. Plainly he must take his share, lest it fall to others. As to the old gentleman’s watch, he had but been beforehand. Through foolish ingenuousness he had lost it, and his father had got it, who could so much more easily steal one for himself; for he was a strong man, and had but to knock over another man at any night-time. Nobody should hear of future clicks but Mr Weech. Each for himself? Come, he must open his eyes.