IN PUSH SOCIETY.
The passing of the evening afterwards is the only true test of a
dinner’s success. Many a good dinner, enlivened with wine and made
brilliant with repartee, has died out in gloom. The guests have all
said their best things during the meal, and nothing is left but to
smoke moodily and look at the clock. Our heroes were not of that
mettle. They meant to have some sort of fun, and the various amusements
of Sydney were canvassed. It was unanimously voted too hot for the
theatres, ditto for billiards. There were no supporters for a proposal
to stop in the smoking-room and drink, and gambling in the card-rooms
had no attractions on such a night. At last Gordon hit off a scent.
“What do you say,” he drawled, “if we go and have a look at a dancing
saloon—one of these larrikin dancing saloons?”
“I’d like it awfully,” said one Englishman.
“Most interesting” said the other. “I’ve heard such a lot about the
Australian larrikin. What they call a basher in England, isn’t it? eh,
what? Sort of rough that lays for you with a pal and robs you, eh?”
The Bo’sun rang for cigars and liqueurs, and then answered the
question. “Pretty much the same as a basher,” he said, “but with a lot
more science and dog-cunning about him. They go in gangs, and if you
hit one of the gang, all the rest will ‘deal with you,’ as they call
it. If they have to wait a year to get you, they’ll wait, and get you
alone some night or other and set on to you. They jump on a man if they
get him down, too. Oh, they’re regular beauties.”
“Rather roughish sort of Johnnies, eh?” said the Englishman. “But we
might go and see the dancing—no harm in that.”
Pinnock said he had to go back to his office; the globe-trotter didn’t
care about going out at night; and the Bo’sun tried to laugh the thing
off. “You don’t catch me going,” he said. “There’s nothing to be
seen—just a lot of flash young rowdies dancing. You’ll gape at them,
and they’ll gape at you, and you’ll feel rather a pair of fools, and
you’ll come away. Better stop and have a rubber.”
“If you dance with any of their women, you get her particular fancy-man
on to you, don’t you?” asked Gordon. “It’s years since I was at that
sort of place myself.”
The Bo’sun, who knew nothing about it, assumed the Sir Oracle at once.
“I don’t suppose their women would dance with you if you paid ’em five
shillings a step,” he said. “There’d certainly be a fight if they did.
Are you fond of fighting, Carew?”
“Not a bit,” replied that worthy. “Never fight if you can help it. No
chap with any sense ever does.”
“That’s like me,” said Gordon. “I’d sooner run a mile than fight, any
time. I’m like a rat if I’m cornered, but it takes a man with a
stockwhip to corner me. I never start fighting till I’m done running.
But we needn’t get into a row. I vote we go. Will you come, Carew?”
“Oh, yes; I’d like to,” said the Englishman. “I don’t suppose we need
get into a fight.”
So, after many jeers from the Bo’sun, and promises to come back and
tell him all about it, Carew and Gordon sallied forth, a pair of men as
capable of looking after themselves as one would meet in a day’s march.
Stepping into the street they called a cab.
“Where to, sir?” asked the cabman.
“Nearest dancing saloon,” said Gordon, briefly.
“Nearest darncin’ saloon,” said the cabman. “There ain’t no parties
to-night, sir; it’s too ’ot.”
“We’re not expecting to drop into a ballroom without being asked, thank
you,” said Gordon. “We want to go to one of those saloons where you pay
a shilling to go in. Some place where the larrikins go.”
“Ho! is that it, sir?” said the cabman, with a grin. “Well, I’ll take
you to a noo place, most selectest place I know. Git up, ’orse.” And
off they rattled through the quiet streets, turning corners and
crossing tramlines every fifty yards apparently, and bumping against
each other in the most fraternal manner.
Soon the cab pulled up in a narrow, ill-lit street, at the open door of
a dingy house. Instructing the cabman to wait, they hustled upstairs,
to be confronted at the top by a man who took a shilling from each, and
then was not sure whether he would admit them. He didn’t seem to like
their form exactly, and muttered something to a by-stander as they went
in. They saw a long, low room, brilliantly lighted by flaring gas jets.
Down one side, on wooden forms, was seated a row of flashily-dressed
girls—larrikin-esses on their native heath, barmaids from cheap,
disreputable hotels, shop girls, factory girls—all sharp-faced and
pert, young in years, but old in knowledge of evil. The demon of
mischief peeped out of their quick-moving, restless eyes. They had
elaborate fringes, and their short dresses exhibited well-turned ankles
and legs.
A large notice on the wall stated that “Gentlemen must not dance with
nails in their boots. Gentlemen must not dance together.”
“That blocks us,” said Gordon, pointing to the notice. “Can’t dance
together, no matter how much we want to. Look at these fellows here.”
Opposite the women sat or lounged a score or two of youths—wiry,
hard-faced little fellows, for the most part, with scarcely a sizeable
man amongst them. They were all clothed in “push” evening dress—black
bell-bottomed pants, no waistcoat, very short black paget coat, white
shirt with no collar, and a gaudy neckerchief round the bare throat.
Their boots were marvels, very high in the heel and picked out with all
sorts of colours down the sides. They looked “varminty” enough for
anything; but the shifty eyes, low foreheads, and evil faces gave our
two heroes a sense of disgust. The Englishman thought that all the
stories he had heard of the Australian larrikin must be exaggerated,
and that any man who was at all athletic could easily hold his own
among such a poor-looking lot. The whole spectacle was disappointing.
The most elaborately decorous order prevailed; no excitement or rough
play was noticeable, and their expedition seemed likely to be a
failure.
The bushman stared down the room with far-seeing eyes, apparently
looking at nothing, and contemplated the whole show with bored
indifference.
“Nothing very dazzling about this,” he said. “I’m afraid we can’t show
you anything very exciting here. Better go back to the club, eh?”
Just then the band (piano and violin) struck up a slow, laboured waltz,
“Bid me Good-bye and go,” and each black-coated male, with languid
self-possession, strolled across the room, seized a lady by the arm,
jerked her to her feet without saying a syllable, and commenced to
dance in slow, convulsive movements, making a great many revolutions
for very little progress. Two or three girls were left sitting, as
their partners were talking in a little knot at the far end of the
room; one among them was conspicuously pretty, and she began to ogle
Carew in a very pronounced way.
“There’s one hasn’t got a partner,” said Gordon. “Good-looking Tottie,
too. Go and ask her to dance. See what she says.”
The Englishman hesitated for a second. “I don’t like asking a perfect
stranger to dance,” he said.
“Go on,” said Gordon, “it’s all right. She’ll like it.”
Carew drew down his cuffs, squared his shoulders, assumed his most
absolutely stolid drawing-room manner, and walked across the room, a
gleaming vision of splendour in his immaculate evening dress.
“May I—er—have the pleasure of this dance?” he said, with elaborate
politeness.
The girl giggled a little, but said nothing, then rose and took his
arm.
As she did so, a youth among the talkers at the other end of the room
looked round, and stared for a second. Then he moistened his fingers
with his tongue, smoothed the hair on his temples, and with elbows held
out from his sides, shoulders hunched up, and under-jaw stuck well out,
bore down on Carew and the girl, who were getting under way when he
came up. Taking not the slightest notice of Carew, he touched the girl
on the shoulder with a sharp peremptory tap, and brought their dance to
a stop.
“’Ere,” he said, in commanding tones. “’Oo are you darncin’ with?”
“I’m darncin’ with ’im,” answered the girl, pertly, indicating the
Englishman with a jerk of her head.
“Ho, you’re darncin’ with ’im, are you? ’E brought you ’ere, p’r’aps?”
“No, he didn’t,” she said.
“No,” said he. “You know well enough ’e didn’t.”
While this conversation was going on, the English-man maintained an
attitude of dignified reserve, leaving it to the lady to decide who was
to be the favoured man. At last he felt it was hardly right for an
Oxford man, and a triple blue at that, to be discussed in this
contemptuous way by a larrikin and his “donah,” so he broke into the
discussion, perhaps a little abruptly, but using his most polished
style.
“I—ah—asked this lady to dance, and if she—er—will do me the honour,”
he said, “I—”
“Oh! you arst ’er to darnce? And what right ’ad you to arst ’er to
darnce, you lop-eared rabbit?” interrupted the larrikin, raising his
voice as he warmed to his subject. “I brought ’er ’ere. I paid the
shillin’. Now then, you take your ’ook,” he went on, pointing sternly
to the door, and talking as he would to a disobedient dog. “Go on, now.
Take your ’ook.”
The Englishman said nothing, but his jaw set ominously. The girl
giggled, delighted at being the centre of so much observation. The band
stopped playing, and the dancers crowded round. Word was passed down
that it was a “toff darncin’ with Nugget’s donah,” and from various
parts of the room black-coated duplicates of Nugget hurried swiftly to
the scene.
The doorkeeper turned to Gordon. “You’d best get your mate out o’
this,” he said. “These are the Rocks Push, and they’ll deal with him
all right.”
“Deal with him, will they?” said Gordon, looking at the gesticulating
Nugget. “They’ll bite off more than they can chew if they interfere
with him. This is just his form, a row like this. He’s a bit of a
champion in a rough-and-tumble, I believe.”
“Is he?” said the doorkeeper, sardonically. “Well, look ’ere, now, you
take it from me, if there’s a row Nugget will spread him out as flat as
a newspaper. They’ve all been in the ring in their time, these coves.
There’s Nugget, and Ginger, and Brummy—all red ’ot. You get him away!”
Meanwhile the Englishman’s ire was gradually rising. He was past the
stage of considering whether it was worth while to have a fight over a
factory girl in a shilling dancing saloon, and the desire for battle
blazed up in his eyes. He turned and confronted Nugget.
“You go about your business,” he said, dropping all the laboured
politeness out of his tones. “If she likes to dance—”
He got no further. A shrill whistle rang through the room; a voice
shouted, “Don’t ’it ’im; ’ook ’im!” His arms were seized from behind
and pinioned to his sides. The lights were turned out. Somebody in
front hit him a terrific crack in the eye at the same moment that
someone else administered a violent kick from the rear. He was
propelled by an invisible force to the head of the stairs, and
then—whizz! down he went in one prodigious leap, clear from the top to
the first landing.
Here, in pitch-darkness, he grappled one of his assailants. For a few
seconds they swayed and struggled, and then rolled down the rest of the
stairs, over and over each other, grappling and clawing, each trying to
tear the other’s shirt off. When they rolled into the street, Carew
discovered that he had hold of Charlie Gordon.
They sat up and looked at each other. Then they made a simultaneous
rush for the stairs, but the street door was slammed in their faces.
They kicked it violently, but without result, except that a mob of
faces looked out of the first-floor window and hooted, and a bucket of
water was emptied over them. A crowd collected as if by magic, and the
spectacle of two gentlemen in evening dress trying to kick in the door
of a shilling dancing saloon afforded it unmitigated delight.
“’Ere’s two toffs got done in all right,” said one.
“What O! Won’t she darnce with you?” said another; and somebody from
the back threw banana peel at them.
Charlie recovered his wits first. The Englishman was fairly berserk
with rage, and glared round on the bystanders as if he contemplated a
rush among them. The cabman put an end to the performance. He was
tranquil and unemotional, and he soothed them down and coaxed them into
the cab. The band in the room above resumed the dreamy waltz music of
“Bid me Good-bye and go!” and they went.
Carew subsided into the corner, breathing hard and feeling his eye.
Charlie leant forward and peered out into the darkness. They were
nearly at the club before they spoke. Then he said, “Well, I’m blessed!
We made a nice mess of that, didn’t we?”
“I’d like to have got one fair crack at some of ’em,” said the
Englishman, with heartfelt earnestness. “Couldn’t we go back now?”
“No what’s the good? We’d never get in. Let the thing alone. We needn’t
say anything about it. If once it gets known that we were chucked out,
we’ll never hear the last of it. Are you marked at all?”
“Got an awful swipe in the eye,” replied the other briefly.
“I’ve got a cut lip, and my head nearly screwed off. You did that. I’ll
know the place again. Some day we’ll get a few of the right sort to
come with us, and we’ll just go there quietly, as if we didn’t mean
anything, and then, all of a sudden, we’ll turn in and break the whole
place up! Come and have a drink now.”
They had a silent drink in the deserted club. The mind of each was
filled with a sickening sense of defeat, and without much conversation
they retired to bed. They thanked heaven that the Bo’sun, Pinnock, and
Gillespie had disappeared.
Even then Fate hadn’t quite finished with the bushman. A newly-joined
member of the club, he had lived a life in which he had to shift for
himself, and the ways of luxury were new to him. Consequently, when he
awoke next morning and saw a man moving with cat-like tread about his
room, absolutely taking the money out of his clothes before his very
eyes, he sprang out of bed with a bound and half-throttled the robber.
Then, of course, it turned out that it was only the bedroom waiter, who
was taking his clothes away to brush them. This _contretemps_, on top
of the overnight mishap, made him determined to get away from town with
all speed. When he looked in the glass, he found his lip so much
swelled that his moustache stuck out in front like the bowsprit of a
ship. At breakfast he joined the Englishman, who had an eye with as
many colours as an opal, not to mention a tired look and dusty boots.
“Are you only just up?” asked Charlie, as they contemplated each other.
Carew had resumed his mantle of stolidity, but he coloured a little at
the question. “I’ve been out for a bit of a walk round town,” he said.
“Fact is,” he added in a sudden burst of confidence, “I’ve been all
over town lookin’ for that place where we were last night. Couldn’t
find anything like it at all.”
Charlie laughed at his earnestness. “Oh, bother the place,” he said.
“If you had found it, there wouldn’t have been any of them there. Now,
about ourselves—we can’t show out like this. We’d better be off to-day,
and no one need know anything about it. Besides, I half-killed a waiter
this morning. I thought he was some chap stealing my money, when he
only wanted to take my clothes away to brush ’em. Sooner we’re out of
town the better. I’ll wire to the old man that I’ve taken you with me.”
So saying, they settled down to breakfast, and by tacit agreement
avoided the club for the rest of the day.
Before leaving, Charlie had to call and interview Pinnock, and left
Carew waiting outside while he went in. He didn’t want to parade their
injuries, and knew that Carew’s eye would excite remark; but by keeping
his upper lip well drawn over his teeth, he hoped his own trouble would
escape notice.
“Seems a harmless sort of chap, that new chum,” said Pinnock.
“He’ll do all right,” said Charlie casually. “I’ve met his sort before.
He’s not such a fool as he lets on to be. Shouldn’t wonder if he killed
somebody before he gets back here, anyhow.”
“How did you get on at the dancing saloon?” asked Pinnock.
“Oh, slow enough. Nothing worth seeing. Good-bye.”
They sneaked on board the steamer without meeting the Bo’sun or
anybody, and before evening were well on their way to No Man’s Land.