Tales of the Old London Slum – Complete Series. Morrison Arthur

than to run the risk of incriminating himself by challenging the prosecutor’s well-coloured evidence; and, as it was a certain case of committal for trial, it would have been useless in any event. He made the same reply when he was asked if he had anything to say before being committed: and straightway was ‘fullied.’ He lurched serenely out of the dock, waving his cap at his friends in the court, and that was all. The Jagos waited till Cocko Harnwell got his three months and then retired to neighbouring public-houses; but Dicky remembered his little sister, and hurried home.

      The month’s session at the Old Bailey had just begun, so that Josh had no long stay at Holloway. Among the Jagos it was held to be a most creditable circumstance that Josh was to take his trial with full honours at the Old Bailey, and not at mere County Sessions at Clerkenwell, like a simple lob-crawler or peter-claimer. For Josh’s was a case of burglary with serious violence, such as was fitting for the Old Bailey, and not even a High Mobsman could come to trial with greater glory. ‘As like as not it’s laggin’ dues, after ‘is other convictions,’ said Bill Rann. And Jerry Gullen thought so too.

      Dicky went, with his mother and Em, to see Josh at Newgate. They stood with other visitors, very noisy, before a double iron railing covered with wire-netting, at the farther side whereof stood Josh and other prisoners, while a screaming hubbub of question and answer filled the air. Josh had little to say. He lounged against the farther railing with his hands in his pockets, asked what Cocko Harnwell had got, and sent a message to Bill Rann. While his wife did little more than look dolefully through the wires, and pipe:—‘Oh, Josh, wotever shall I do?’ at intervals, with no particular emotion; while Em pressed her smudgy little face against the wires, and stared mightily; and while Dicky felt that if he had been younger he would have cried. When time was up, Josh waved his hand and slouched off, and his family turned out with the rest: little Em carrying into later years a memory of father as a man who lived in a cage.

      In such a case as this, the Jago would have been for ever disgraced if Josh Perrott’s pals had neglected to get up a ‘break’ or subscription to pay for his defence. Things were never very flourishing in the Jago. But this was the sort of break a Jago could not shirk, lest it were remembered against him when his own turn came. So enough was collected to brief an exceedingly junior counsel, who did his useless best. But the facts were too strong even for the most inexperienced advocate; the evidence of the prosecutor was nowhere to be shaken, and the jury found a verdict of guilty without leaving the box—indeed, with scarce the formality of collecting their heads together over the rails. Then Josh’s past was most unpleasantly raked up before him. He had been convicted of larceny, of assaulting the police, and of robbery with violence. There were two sentences of six months’ imprisonment recorded against him, one of three months, and two of a month. Besides fines. The Recorder considered it a very serious offence. Not deterred by the punishments he had already received, the prisoner had proceeded to a worse crime—burglary; and with violence. It was plain that lenience was wasted in such a case, and simple imprisonment was not enough. There must be an exemplary sentence. The prisoner must be kept in penal servitude for five years.

      Lagging dues it was, as Bill Rann had anticipated. That Josh Perrott agreed with him was suggested by the fact that from the very beginning he described himself as a painter; because a painter in prison is apt to be employed at times in painting—a lighter and a more desirable task than falls to the lot of his fellows in other trades.

      In a room by the court Josh saw his wife, Dicky, and Bill Rann (Josh’s brother-in-law for the occasion) before his ride to Holloway, his one stopping place on the way to Chelmsford Gaol. Little Em had been left sprawling in the Jago gutters. This time Hannah Perrott wept in good earnest, and Dicky, notwithstanding his thirteen years, blinked very hard at the wall before him. The arrangement of Josh’s affairs was neither a long nor a difficult labour. ‘S’pose you’ll ‘ave to do wot you can with rush bags, an’ sacks, and match-boxes, an’ wot not,’ he said to his wife, and she assented. Josh nodded:—‘An’ if you ‘ave to go in the ‘ouse,’—he meant the workhouse,—‘well, it can’t be ‘elped. You won’t be no wuss auf ‘n me.’

      ‘Oh, she’ll be awright,’ said Bill Rann, jerking his thumb cheerfully toward the missis. ‘Wot about you? Think they’ll make it Parkhurst?’

      Josh shook his head moodily. Parkhurst being the prison reserved for convicts of less robust habit, he had little hope of enjoying its easier conditions. Presently he said:—‘I bin put away this time—fair put away.’

      ‘Wot?’ answered Bill, ‘narkin’ dues is it?’

      Josh nodded.

      ”Oo done it then? ‘Oo narked?’

      Josh shook his head. ‘Never mind,’ he said, ‘I don’t want ‘im druv out o’ the Jago ‘fore I come out. I’d be sorry to miss ‘im. I know ‘im—that’s enough.’

      And then time was up. Josh suffered the missis to kiss him, and shook hands with Bill Rann. ‘Good luck to all you Jagos,’ he said. Dicky shook hands too, and said ‘Good-bye, father!’ in a voice of such laboured cheerfulness that a grin burst for a moment amid Josh’s moody features as he was marched away, and so departed for the place—in Jago idiom—where the dogs don’t bite.

      CHAPTER XXVI

       Table of Contents

      IT was Father Sturt’s practice to visit every family in his parish in regular order. But small as the parish was—insignificant, indeed, in mere area—its population exceeded eight thousand: so that the round was one of many months, for visiting was but one among innumerable duties. But Josh Perrott’s lagging secured his family a special call. Not that the circumstances were in any way novel or at all uncommon; nor even that the vicar had any hope of being able to help. He was but the one man who could swim in a howling sea of human wreckage. In the Jago, wives like Hannah Perrott, temporarily widowed by the absence of husbands ‘in the country,’ were to be counted in scores, and most were in worse case than she, in the matter of dependent children. Father Sturt’s house-list revealed the fact that in Old Jago Street alone, near seventy of the males were at that moment on ticket-of-leave.

      In the Perrott case, indeed, the sufferers were fortunate, as things went. Mrs Perrott had but herself and the child of two to keep, for Dicky could do something, whether good or bad, for himself. The vicar might try to get regular work for Dicky, but it would be a vain toil, for he must tell an employer what he knew of Dicky’s past and of that other situation. He could but give the woman the best counsel at his command, and do what he might to quicken any latent spark of energy. So he did his best, and that was all. The struggle lay with Hannah Perrott.

      She had been left before, and more than once; but then the periods had been shorter, and, as a matter of fact, things had fallen out so well that scarce more than a meal here and there had had to be missed, though, when they came, the meals were apt to be but of crusts. And now there was more trouble ahead; for though she began her lonely time with but one small child on hand, she knew that ere long there would be two.

      Of course, she had worked before; not only when Josh had been ‘in’ but at other times, to add to the family resources. She was a clumsy needlewoman: else she might hope to earn some ninepence or a shilling a day at making shirts, by keeping well to the needle for sixteen hours out of the twenty-four; and from the whole sum there would be no deductions, except for needles and cotton, and what the frugal employer might choose to subtract for work to which he could devise an objection. But, as it was, she must do her best to get some sack-making. They paid one and sevenpence a hundred for sacks, and, with speed and long hours, she could make a hundred in four days. Rush bag-making would bring even more, which would be desirable, considering the three-and-sixpence a week for rent: which, with the payments for other rooms, made the rent of the crazy den in Old Jago Street about equal, space for space, to that of a house in Onslow Square. Then there was a more lucrative employment still, but one to be looked for at intervals only: one not to be counted on at all, in fact, for it was a prize, and many sought after it. This was the making of match-boxes.