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

cried in a bewildered sort of way, because the others did. Little Josh, conceiving that his father was somehow causing all the tears, kicked and swore at him. He tried to get Hannah to smile at this, but it was no go; and they had to carry her out at last. Dicky was well-plucked though, bad as he was. He felt him shake and choke when he kissed him, but he walked out straight and steady, with the two children. Well, it was over….

      He hoped they would get up a break in the Jago for Hannah and the youngsters. His own break had never come off—they owed him one. The last break he was at was at Mother Gapp’s, before the Dove-Laners fell through the floor. It must have cost Mother Gapp a deal of money to put in the new floor; but then she must have made a lot in her time, what with one thing and another. There was the fencing, and the houses she had bought in Honey Lane, and the two fourpenny doss-houses in Hoxton that they said were hers, and—well, nobody could say what else. Some said she came of the gipsies that used to live at the Mount years ago. The Mount was a pretty thick place now, but not so thick as the Jago: the Jagos were thick as glue and wide as Broad Street. Bob the Bender fell in Broad Street, toy-getting, and got a stretch and a half….

      Yes, yes, of course, they always tolled a bell. But it was rather confusing, with things to think about.

      Ah, they had come at last. Come, there was nothing more to think about now; nothing but to take it game. Hold tight—Jago hold tight…. ‘No thank you, sir—nothing to say, special. On’y much obliged to ye, thank ye kindly, for the grub an’—an’ bein’ kind an’ wot not. Thanks all of ye, come to that. Specially you, sir.’ It was the tall black figure again….

      What, this was the chap, was it? Seedy-looking. Sort of undertaker’s man to look at. All right—straps. Not cords to tie, then. Waist; wrists; elbows; more straps dangling below—do them presently. This was how they did it, then…. This way?

      ‘I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in Me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in Me shall never die.’

      A very big gate, this, all iron, painted white. Round to the right. Not very far, they told him. It was dark in the passage, but the door led into the yard, where it was light and open, and sparrows were twittering. Another door: in a shed.

      This was the place. All white, everywhere—frame too; not black after all. Up the steps…. Hold tight: not much longer. Stand there? Very well.

      ‘Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower: he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay.

      ‘In the midst of life….’

      CHAPTER XXXVI

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      IT was but a little crowd that stood at the Old Bailey corner while the bell tolled, to watch for the black flag. This was not a popular murder. Josh Perrott was not a man who had been bred to better things; he did not snivel and rant in the dock; and he had not butchered his wife nor his child, nor anybody with a claim on his gratitude or affection; so that nobody sympathised with him, nor got up a petition for pardon, nor wrote tearful letters to the newspapers. And the crowd that watched for the black flag was a small one, and half of it came from the Jago.

      While it was watching, and while the bell was tolling, a knot of people stood at the Perrotts’ front-doorway, in Old Jago Street. Father Sturt went across as soon as the sleepers of the night had been seen away from the shelter, and spoke to Kiddo Cook, who stood at the stair-foot to drive off intruders.

      ‘They say she’s been settin’ up all night, Father,’ Kiddo reported, in a hushed voice. ‘An’ Poll’s jest looked in at the winder from Walsh’s, and says she can see ‘em all kneelin’ round a chair with that little clock o’ theirs on it. It’s—it’s more’n ‘alf an hour yut.’

      ‘I shall come here myself presently, and relieve you. Can you wait? You mustn’t neglect trade, you know.’

      ‘I’ll wait all day, Father, if ye like. Nobody sha’n’t disturb ‘em.’

      When Father Sturt returned from his errand, ‘Have you heard anything?’ he asked.

      ‘No, Father,’ answered Kiddo Cook. ‘They ain’t moved.’

      There were two faint notes from a distant steeple, and then the bell of St Leonards beat out the inexorable hour.

      CHAPTER XXXVII

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      KIDDO COOK prospered. The stall was a present fact, and the awning was not far off; indeed, he was vigilantly in search of a second-hand one, not too much worn. But with all his affluence he was not often drunk. Nothing could be better than his pitch—right out in the High Street, in the busiest part, and hard by the London and County branch bank. They called it Kiddo’s Bank in the Jago, and made jokes about alleged deposits of his. If you bought a penn’orth of greens from Kiddo, said facetious Jagos, he didn’t condescend to take the money himself; he gave you a slip of paper, and you paid at the bank. And Kiddo had indulged in a stroke of magnificence that no other Jago would have thought of. He had taken two rooms, in the new County Council dwellings. The secret was that Father Sturt had agreed to marry Kiddo Cook and Pigeony Poll. There would be plenty for both to do, what with the stall and the regular round with the barrow.

      The wedding-day came when Hannah Perrott had been one week a widow. For a few days Father Sturt had left her alone, and had guarded her privacy. Then, seeing that she gave no sign, he went with what quiet comfort he might, and bespoke her attention to her concerns. He invented some charing work in his rooms for her. She did it very badly, and if he left her long alone, she would be found on the floor, with her face in a chair-seat, crying weakly. But the work was something for her to do and to think about, and by dint of bustling it and magnifying its importance, Father Sturt brought her to some degree of mindfulness and calm.

      Dicky walked that morning in a sort of numb, embittered fury. What should he do now? His devilmost. Spare nobody and stop at nothing. Old Beveridge was right that morning years ago. The Jago had got him, and it held him fast. Now he went doubly sealed of the outcasts: a Jago with a hanged father. Father Sturt talked of work, but who would give him work? And why do it, in any case? What came of it before? No, he was a Jago and the world’s enemy; Father Sturt was the only good man in it; as for the rest, he would spoil them when he could. There was something for to-morrow night, if only he could get calmed down enough by then. A builder’s yard in Kingsland with an office in a loft, and money in a common desk. Tommy Rann had found it, and they must do it together; if only he could get this odd numbness off him, and have his head clear. So much crying, perhaps, and so much trying not to, till his head was like to burst. Deep-eyed and pale, he dragged round into Edge Lane, and so into New Jago Street.

      Jerry Gullen’s canary was harnessed to the barrow, and Jerry himself was piling the barrow with rags and bottles. Dicky stood and looked; he thought he would rub Canary’s head, but then he changed his mind, and did not move. Jerry Gullen glanced at him furtively once or twice, and then said: ‘Good ole moke for wear, ain’t ‘e?’

      ‘Yus,’ Dicky answered moodily, his talk half random. ”E’ll peg out soon now.’

      ”Im? Not ‘im. Wy, I bet ‘e’ll live longer’n you will. ‘E ain’t goin’ to die.’

      ‘I think ‘e’d like to,’ said Dicky, and slouched on.

      Yes, Canary would be better off, dead. So would others. It would be a comfortable thing for himself if he could die quietly then and there. But it would never do for mother and the children to be left helpless. How good for them all to go off easily together, and wake in some pleasant place, say a place like Father Sturt’s sitting-room, and perhaps find—but