FOR nearly a year Bobbie Lancaster lived his young life in Ely Place.
Although every day was not so full of incident as the first, he could not
charge dulness against his existence; the standard of happiness set up in
Ely Place not being a high one, was therefore easily reached; monotony at
any rate came rarely. When other plans failed, quarrels could always be
relied upon, and these gave such joy, not only to the chief actors and
actresses, but also to the audience, that it seemed small wonder so
successful a performance should be frequently repeated. Now and again
events occurred which flattered Bobbie, and gave him the dearest
satisfaction a small boy can experience—that of being treated as though
he were grown up. It had not taken Mr. Leigh and Mr. Bat Miller long to
recognize that in Bobbie they had a promising apprentice; one so
obstinately honest as to be of great assistance to them in their
dishonest profession. They exercised due caution in taking him into
their confidence. For instance, he was still at the end of the year not
sure why it was that the back room on the ground floor remained always
locked; why its windows, facing a yard, and overlooked by the huge
straggling workhouse, were closely shuttered. He knew that a man worked
there; he knew that this man was called The Fright, and Mrs. Miller, on
one expansive evening when in admirable humour, told him that The Fright
was by trade a silver chaser. Presuming on some additional knowledge
acquired at a time when supposed to be asleep, he demanded of the two men
further particulars; Mr. Bat Miller replied fiercely that spare the rod
and spoil the child had never been his motto, and thereupon gave Bobbie
the worst thrashing that the boy had ever dreamed of. Following this,
the boy found himself for some days treated with great coldness by the
adult members of the household, and made to feel that he was no longer in
the movement. When either of the men went out in the evening, the boy
was not permitted to go also; he found himself deprived of adventurous
excursions into the suburbs; the casual loafing about at busy railway
stations was denied to him. So keenly did he feel this ostracism that he
had tumultuous thoughts of giving himself up to the School Board
inspector whom he had hitherto dodged, and of devoting his time to the
acquirement of useful knowledge; it is right to add that the idea of
betraying any of the secrets which he had learnt concerning the habits of
the two men never for a moment occurred to him. An alternative was to
buy a revolver similar to the one possessed by Teddy Sullivan, and to go
out somewhere and shoot someone; the latter faintly-sketched plan was
rubbed out because Master Sullivan, his friend, encountered disaster one
evening in Union Street. In the course of a strenuous hand-to-hand fight
between Hackney Road boys and Hoxton boys, a point arrived where the
Hoxton boys found themselves badly worsted, whereupon Master Sullivan,
with a sentence plagiarized from a penny romance which he knew almost by
heart, “Ten thousand furies take you, you dastardly scoundrels,” whipped
out his revolver, and closing his eyes, fired, injuring two or three
promising juveniles from the tributary streets of Hackney Road, and, as a
last consequence of this act, finding himself exposed to the glory of
police court proceedings, and to the indignity of a birching.
Tension was snapped by a quarrel between Mr. Bat Miller and his young
wife. There were times when Mrs. Bat Miller was obtrusively affectionate
with her husband; as compensation, occasions flew in when she became half
mad with jealousy. The Duchess and Mr. Leigh at these crises acted as
peacemakers, a task at times not easy; in this particular case they
failed entirely. The young woman tore her red hair with fury; she
screamed so loudly that, common as such exhibitions were in Ely Place,
neighbours began to show some interest in the front door. In this
difficulty Mr. Bat Miller, pained and distressed, appealed to Bobbie to
state whether so far from having been walking with the sister of Nose,
the boy of Drysdale Street, between the hours of nine and ten that
evening, he had not as a matter of fact been in the company of Bobbie at
Liverpool Street Station. To this question Bobbie (who at the hours
mentioned had been having a gloomy and quite solitary game of hop-scotch
at the Kingsland Road end of Ely Place) answered promptly, “Yus!” and
Mrs. Bat Miller confronted with this proof of alibi burst into regretful
tears and reproached herself for a silly woman, one who allowed herself
to be taken in by the gossip of any spiteful cat of a neighbour. Mr.
Miller, grateful to Bobbie for this timely assistance, persuaded the
quiet Leigh to allow the boy to resume his position in their confidence.
After some hesitation Mr. Leigh agreed, adding, however, that he hoped
Bobbie would see that the first duty of little boys was to be seen and
not heard; the second, not to go about interfering with what did not
concern them. These Mr. Leigh declared to be ever golden rules, not to
be broken without danger. Bobbie promised to bear the advice carefully
in mind, and re-assumed his position in the house with satisfaction.
The two women were nearly always kind to him, and to them he became
indebted for cheerful hours. The proudest memory of the Duchess’s was
that of her one appearance on the music hall stage. It seemed that
another young lady and herself, having, in the late sixties, saved their
money, had made their bow from the small stage of a small hall attached
to a small public-house in Banner Street, St. Luke’s. They called
themselves the Sisters Montmorency (on the urgent recommendation of the
agent), and sang a song which still remained her favourite air. When in
very good temper and when Bobbie had been a very good boy, she would go
out of the room, and re-enter with a fine swish of the skirts singing in
a thin, quavering voice this verse:—
You should see us in our landor when we’re drivin’ in the Row,
You should ’ear us chaff the dukes and belted earls;
We’re daughters of nobility, so they treat us with ceevility,
For of well-bred, high-class damsels we’re the pearls.
It appeared that the two débutantes quarrelled with each other after the
first performance over some point of etiquette and fought in Banner
Street, St. Luke’s; as a consequence the partnership had thereupon been
dissolved, and the Duchess’s career as an artiste of the music halls
found itself checked and stopped.
Proud in the ownership of a new bowler hat; magnificent in the possession
of a four-bladed knife with a corkscrew, which had come to him as his
share of the contents of a portmanteau labelled from Scarborough to
King’s Cross, and taken possession of at the latter station by Mr. Miller
before the owner had time to claim it, Bobbie strolled along Old Street
one evening, smoking a cigarette, and pushing small girls off the
pavement into the roadway. Behind him walked Miss Trixie Bell, feathered
hatted and a skirt furtively let out after departure from her mother’s
shop in Pimlico Walk; Miss Bell, in crossing lakes on the pavement, felt
justified in lifting her skirt carefully to avoid contact with the
ground, which it cleared by about twelve inches. At a junction of the
City Road the boy stopped to allow the confused trams to untie
themselves, and looking round saw her.
“Cheer!” said Miss Bell with defiant shyness. “How’s the world using
you?” Bobbie did not answer. “You ain’t seen me for a long time.”
“Ain’t wanted,” replied the boy.
“I’ve been away in the country,” said the young woman, in no way
disconcerted. “’Mongst medders and pigs and farm yards and nuts, and I
don’t know what all.”
“Well,” he said, “what of it?”
“You still living in Ely Place?”
“P’raps I am; p’raps I ain’t.”
“I wouldn’t live there for something,” remarked the girl, shrugging her
shoulders.
“They wouldn’t let you,” replied the boy. “They’re very particular about
the kerricter of people they ’ave there.”
“Must they all ’ave a bad kerricter?” asked Miss Bell innocently.
The trams at the junction of roads extricated themselves from the tangle,
and people who had been waiting on the kerb went across the roadway.
Trixie Bell followed Bobbie, and they walked on opposite sides of the
dimly-lighted pavement near St. Luke’s Asylum, continuing their
conversation with breaks occasioned by intervening passers-by.
“You’ve no call,” shouted the boy, “to come follering me about. I don’t
want no truck with gels.”
“I s’pose you’ve bought the street, ain’t you?” asked Miss Bell loudly.
“Seem to think you’re everybody ’cause you’ve got a bowler ’at on. Be
wearing a chimney-pot next, I lay.”
“Shan’t ask your permission.”
“All the boys down in the country,” called out the girl, “wash ’emselves
twice a day.”
“More fools them,” said Bobbie.
“They wouldn’t dare be seen going about with a dirty face and neck like
what you’ve got.”
“Look ’ere,” said the boy savagely. He moved nearer to her. “You leave
my face and neck alone.”
“Sorry to do otherwise,” she remarked pertly.
“When I want any remarks from you ’bout my face and neck I’ll ast for
’em. Till then you keep your mouth shut ’r I’ll shut it for you.”
“You’d do a lot.”
Bobbie lifted his arm, but the small girl did not flinch. He made
another threatening gesture; instantly his new bowler hat went spinning
into the middle of the road in imminent danger of being run over by a
railway van. Bobbie rescued it adroitly, and returning chased Miss Bell
as far as Goswell Road.
“Don’t hit me,” she begged, panting; “I won’t do it again.”
“Time’s come,” said the boy hotly, “when I’ve got to punch your bloomin’
’ead for you.”
“Lemme off this time,” craved Miss Bell, crouching against a shop window,
“and I’ll stand you a ride back by tram.”
“You ain’t got no tuppence,” said Bobbie, relenting.
“I’ve got thruppence,” she said.
They walked on as far as Bloomsbury in order that they might have full
money’s worth. When they boarded a departing tram, and the conductor
shouted to them to get off, it delighted Bobbie very much to be able to
confound the man by declaring themselves as passengers. To do honour to
the occasion the boy rolled a cigarette, and, turning to a tall
spectacled young man on the seat behind them, borrowed a match.
“Take two,” said the tall young man.
As the tram sailed past the lighted shops in Theobald’s Road, Trixie
passed the twopence furtively to her companion, who paid the conductor
with a lordly air, offering at the same time a few criticisms on the
conductor’s appearance. Presently the girl touched very lightly his hand
and moved nearer to him.
“Keep your ’ead off my shoulder,” he remarked brusquely.
“I want to tell you something,” said Trixie.
“Needn’t get so close.”
“My mother says—”
“What,” said Bobbie, “is the old cat still alive?”
“My mother says that if you like to leave those people what you’re with
now and come and work at our shop as a errand boy—”
“A errand boy,” echoed Bobbie amazedly. “Work at that bloomin’ ’ole in
the wall?’
“She’ll give you eighteen-pence a week and see that you ’ave good
schooling, and arrange so that you grow up respectable.”
Bobbie, recovering from his astonishment, placed his cigarette on the
seat in order that he might laugh without restraint.
“Of all the dam bits of cheek!” he declared exhaustedly.
“Make a lot of difference to you,” said the wise young woman. “If you
don’t grow up respectable you’ll simply—”
“Me, respectable,” said the amused boy. “Why, you silly little ijiot,
d’you think I don’t know a trick worth fifty of that. I ain’t going to
work for my bloomin’ livin’.”
“Won’t ’ave a chance to if the police get ’old of you.”
“Is that another one of your Mar’s remarks? ’Cause, if so, you tell her
from me, that she’s a—”
“Let’s get down ’ere,” said Trixie Bell. She interrupted the string of
adjectives by rising; there were tears in her eyes. “This is ’Oxton
Street.”
“You can,” said the boy. “I’m goin’ on to Shoreditch.”
“Wish I—I hadn’t met you now,” she said, with a catch in her voice.
“Don’t let it ’appen again.”
“I’ll never speak to you,” sobbed Trixie Bell, “never no more in all my
life.”
“Best bit of news I’ve ’eard for a age.”
“Don’t you expect—don’t you expect me ever to take notice of you in
future, mind.”
“If you do,” said Bobbie, “I shall be under the pineful necessity of
knocking your ’ead clean off.”
“Goo’-bye,” said the girl hesitatingly.
“Be slippy,” said Bobbie.
The tall young man on the seat behind leaned forward as Trixie Bell
disappeared down the steps of the tram. He tapped Bobbie on the
shoulder.
“You behaved rather discourteously, sir, to your fair companion,” he
said.
“Go on!” said Bobbie, recklessly. “All of you manage my affairs! Don’t
mind me! I’ll sit back and not do nothing.”
“My excuse must be that we have met before. My name is Myddleton West,
and I was at an inquest once—”
“I remember,” said the boy.
“Is the lady who has just gone engaged to you, may I ask?”
“No fear,” said Bobbie, disdainfully. “She’s a bit gone on me, that’s
all. Perfect nuisance it is, if you ask me.”
“This,” said Myddleton West, “shows how awkward Providence is. With some
of us the case is exactly the reverse.”
“You’re a lump better off without ’em,” said the boy sagely.
“I only want one.”
“And one,” said Bobbie, “is sometimes one too many. What are you doing
in this quarter? Thought you lived ’Olborn way.”
“I want the police station in Kingsland Road,” said the journalist. “I
have to see the inspector about something. Do you know it?”
“Do I not?” said Bobbie confidently.
They descended at the turbulent junction of roads near Shoreditch
Station, and the boy conducted Myddleton West along the noisy crowded
pavement of Kingsland Road, under the railway arch towards the police
station. Glancing down Drysdale Street as he passed, Bobbie noticed Bat
Miller near the gas-lamp talking to Nose’s sister; observed also in the
shadow of the arch Mrs. Bat Miller watching the scene, her face white and
her lips moving. As soon as he had shown Myddleton West the entrance to
the police station, and had received sixpence for his pains, he hurried
through to Hoxton Street, coming back into Drysdale Street from that end.
His intention had been to witness the comedy that he assumed to be
impending; to his great regret, just as Mr. Bat Miller began to punch the
dark young woman affectionately, the young men who guarded Drysdale
Street from the ruthless invader suddenly appeared, led by Nose and by
Libbis, and the odds being about eight to one, drove him off with furious
threats. He went back to the police station in order to complete the
earning of his sixpence by reconducting Myddleton West to the tram for
Bloomsbury. Approaching the station, on the steps of which plain clothes
men were as usual lounging, he saw Mrs. Bat Miller on the opposite side
of the roadway, her white apron over her head, beckoning to one of the
plain clothes men. Then she walked carelessly into Union Street. The
detective followed her. Bobbie slipped across and stood in a doorway.
“Well, my dear,” said the detective. “What’s your little game?”
“Mr. Thorpe,” said Mrs. Bat Miller, panting. She pressed one hand
against her bodice and gasped for breath. “Do you want—want to do a fair
cop?”
“A fair cop,” said Mr. Thorpe, cheerfully, “would just now come in very
handy. Who are the parties?”
“He’s behaved like a wretch,” said the young woman breathlessly, “or I’d
never ’are turned on him. I’m as striteforward a gel as ever breathed in
all ’Oxton, ain’t I, Mr. Thorpe?”
“No one more so,” agreed the detective. “What’s the name of—”
“Anything else I could ’ave forgive him,” she said, trembling with
passion. “When we’ve been ’ard up and he’s come ’ome with not a penny in
his pocket and me gone without dinner, did I complain?”
“Course you didn’t. Who—”
“When he was put away for six months three year ago, didn’t I slave and
keep myself to myself, and go and meet him down at Wandsworth when he
came out?”
“No lady,” conceded Mr. Thorpe, “could have done more. What is—”
“When he was laid up in the orsepital,” she went on fiercely, “didn’t I
go to see him every visiting day and take him nuts and oranges and
goodness knows what all, and sit be his bedside for the hour together?”
“I really don’t know,” said the detective impartially, “what men are
coming to. Where are—”
“And then to go paying his attentions to a—”
“Not so loud!”
She checked herself and looked round. Then she took the lapel of Mr.
Thorpe’s coat and whispered. Bobbie could not hear the words.
“Good!” exclaimed the detective. “Are they both indoors now?”
“If they ain’t you can wait for ’em,” she replied.
“Will six men be enough d’you think?”
“Six ’ll be ample, Mr. Thorpe,” she said. “And if Miller shows fight,
tell them not to be afraid of knocking him about. It’ll do him good,
the—”
“I’ll make a note of it,” said Mr. Thorpe. “You don’t want to come with
us, I s’pose? You’d better not be seen p’raps?”
“You leave me to look after meself,” she answered.
“Come over and ’ave a cup of tea along with our female searcher,”
suggested Mr. Thorpe.
“Tea be ’anged,” she said. “I shall want something stronger than tea
when my paddy’s over.”
“Daresay we shall be able to get you a sovereign or two for this job if
you keep yourself quiet.”
“Keep your money,” she cried angrily. “All I want is to be at the
Sessions when he comes up and to watch her face.”
Bobbie crept from his doorway. Once in Kingsland Road, he flew along
swiftly, slipping in and out of the crowd, and jumping a linen basket, to
the astonishment of the two women who were carrying it. He scuttled
through the dwarf posts and down Ely Place, knocking over one or two
children toddling about in the way, and reaching the house so exhausted
that he could only just give the usual whistle at the key-hole. Mr.
Leigh opened the door, and seeing him took off the chain. The boy,
staggering into the dimly-lighted passage leaned against the wall.
“Bat Miller in?” he panted.
“What’s the row?” demanded Mr. Leigh concernedly. Bobbie explained in a
hurried, detached, spasmodic way. Mr. Leigh took a pair of scissors from
his pocket, and, glancing at a slip of looking-glass, cut off the
whiskers which fringed his face.
“Tell the wife,” said Mr. Leigh, quietly snipping, “to meet me at
Brenchley, if she gets clear. Tell her not to make no fuss.” He took
his overcoat from the peg, and a cloth cap with ear flaps. “Come
straight here ’ave you?” he asked.
“Like a bloomin’ arrer.”
“Look outside and see if they’ve come up yet,” requested Mr. Leigh, tying
the flaps of his cap under his chin. “We don’t want no bother or
nothing.”
Ely Place being clear at the Hoxton Street end, Mr. Leigh, his head well
down, went out of the doorway. He shook hands with Bobbie.
“You’re a capital boy,” whispered Mr. Leigh, approvingly. “If I’d got
anything smaller than a tanner about me I’d give it you. Be good!”
Bobbie closed the door, and his heart fluttering, went upstairs to the
front bedroom. The Duchess was asleep, dressed, on her bed; her
high-heeled boots ludicrously obtrusive. Bobbie aroused her and gave her
the news.
“My old man’s safe, then? What about Bat Miller?” she asked, sitting up,
affrightedly.
“We must watch out of the winder,” ordered Bobbie. “If he comes first
we’ll wave him to be off; if he comes after they’re ’ere he’ll be
nabbed.”
“You’ve got a ’ead on you,” said the Duchess, trembling, “that would be a
credit to a Prime Minister. Come to the winder and—Let me ’old your
’and, I’m all of a shake.”
“They can’t touch us, can they?” asked Bobbie, stroking the woman’s thin
trembling wrist.
“Hope not,” said the Duchess, nervously. “But there, you never know what
the law can do. Fancy her turning nark jest through a fit of jealousy.
Is that Miller talking to one of the neighbours?”
Mr. Miller it was. Mr. Miller, chatting amiably with one of the lady
neighbours on the subject of flowers and how to rear them; the lady
neighbour being something of a horticulturist in her way, possessing, as
she did, in her garden plot, one sooty shrub, a limp sunflower, and
several dandelions. Mr. Miller had just said something to the lady
neighbour which had made her laugh uproariously, when, chancing to look
up, he saw the signals of the Duchess and of Bobbie. His face took a
note of interrogation; they motioned to him to go away with all despatch.
Mr. Bat Miller crammed his hat over his head and ran off blindly; so
blindly indeed that, at the Kingsland Road end of the place, he jumped
into the arms of three overcoated men led by Mr. Thorpe; escaping these,
he was caught neatly by uniformed policemen who were close behind. At
the same moment a similar force appeared at the Hoxton Street end of the
place. Bobbie and the Duchess held each other’s hands and went
downstairs. The faint sound of a hymn came from the closed door.
Three loud raps at the front door. Bobbie went along the passage and
opened it. Mr. Thorpe, with the other men; out in the court a small
interested crowd, the noise of windows being thrown up.
“Come about the white-washin’?” asked Bobbie, innocently.
“Take the chain off, me lad,” said Mr. Thorpe, with his foot inside.
“Right you are, sir.”
The men came into the dark passage and one of them flashed a bull’s-eye
lantern around.
“Father in?” asked Mr. Thorpe.
“Well, no,” answered the boy, “he isn’t exactly in, sir.”
“Won’t be long, I daresay.”
“I wouldn’t wait, sir,” said Bobbie respectfully, “if I was you. Fact is
he’s been dead some years.”
The man with the bull’s-eye made the circle of light dance to the bottom
stair and discovered the Duchess. Another went to the closed door of the
back room and put his shoulder against it.
“Now then, ma’am,” said Mr. Thorpe, turning from the boy impatiently.
“Where’s your good gentleman?”
“Pray don’t ask me, fellow,” replied the Duchess, endeavouring to assume
her accent of refinement with some want of success. “If you want him, I
really think the best thing you can do is to find him.”
“Go upstairs, two of you,” commanded Mr. Thorpe. “Two others give Baker
a help with that door. Someone look after this woman and the kid.”
Bobbie, his shoulder gripped by a broad hand, watched with interest. The
door groaned complainingly for a moment or two; then it gave way with so
much suddenness that the two men stumbled into the room. Between the
figures of the men Bobbie could see the room crowded in the manner of a
workshop of limited accommodation. A wooden bench stood against the
shuttered windows; the flare of a fire out of sight reddened the untidy
floor. On a table some circular moulds of plaster of Paris; near, some
coins with a tail of metal attached that gave them an unconvincing
appearance. Three pewter pots, half melted on the edge of an iron sink.
A small battery in the corner, and at this seated the figure of a young
man. The figure looked round casually as’ the men entered, and Bobbie
caught sight of a face not pleasant to look upon.
“Is that the Fright?” whispered Bobbie to the Duchess. The Duchess
nodded and touched her forehead.
“Tile loose!” she said.
The figure turned back to his work of plating, crooning his hymn as
though the interruption was not worthy of any special notice. Then the
door partially closed.
“Mind my shoulder, please,” said the Duchess affectedly.
“I am minding it,” said the detective cheerfully.
“You’re no gentleman,” declared the Duchess, “or you wouldn’t behave to a
lady in this way.”
“I was never what you may call a society man,” said the detective. “You
seem to have got a rare old little snide factory here all to yourself.”
“I beg your pardon!” said the Duchess icily.
“Carried on nice and quiet too, apparently. No show, no display, no what
you may call arrogance about it.”
“What is this person talking about, Bobbie, my dear?”
“Ast him,” said Bobbie, his eyes fixed on the partially-closed door.
“This your boy, ma’am?”
“Are you addressing your conversation to me, sir?”
“Who does the kid belong to?”
“This lad,” said the Duchess, precisely, “is, I regret to say, an orphan.
I took some interest in his case, and my husband and myself have, so to
speak, adopted him.”
“Then you’ll probably have to unadopt him,” said the detective. “If he’s
got no relatives the State will take him in hand.”
“Who’s she?” asked Bobbie, detaching his interest from the back room.
“The State’s got a pretty decent-sized family as it is,” went on the man,
“and one extra won’t make much difference.” His two colleagues came
downstairs. “Anybody?” he asked. The two men replied not a soul.
“Then one of ’em’s nipped off,” said the detective. “Go and tell the
sergeant.”
The door re-opened as the men proceeded to obey. Between two of Mr.
Thorpe’s assistants came the demented man, his terrible face down; Bobbie
was pulled back to allow them to conduct him through the passage.
Finding himself going at a regular pace, he commenced to sing huskily a
Moody and Sankey hymn with a marching rhythm.
“Hold the gospel banner high,
On to victory grand,
Satan and his hosts defy,
And shout for Danyul’s band.”
“Bring the woman and the boy,” ordered Mr. Thorpe. “And keep close round
them. There’s an awkward crowd outside.”
The awkward crowd of Ely Place was not apparently ready to carry its
awkwardness to the point of interference with the police. On the
contrary, the crowd seemed anxious to show some friendliness towards the
plain clothes men, saying, Good evening, Mr. Thorpe, sir; more work for
you, I see. And how are you, Mr. Baker? and how’s that cold of yours
getting on, I wonder? Some of the men of Mr. Thorpe’s regiment remained
in charge of the house; the others assisted in conducting the three
arrested people to the police station.
“Hullo, young man,” said Myddleton West, at the entrance. The crowd in
Kingsland Road had swelled to the number of hundreds, and West had to
wait for their departure. “You in this affair?”
“Looks like it,” said Bobbie.
“Can I do anything?” asked the long young journalist.
“Yes!”
“Tell me!”
“Keep your head shut,” said the boy gruffly. “I don’t want no one
interfering with my affairs.”
“Deplorable thing,” remarked Myddleton West aside to the sergeant, “for a
child like that.”
“Not at all, sir,” said Mr. Thorpe, “not at all. We’ve nabbed him just
in time.”