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 there, what foolishness!
What was this unendurable stupor that clung about him like a net? He
knew everything clearly enough, but it was all in an atmosphere of dull
heedlessness. There would be some relief in doing something violent--in
smashing something to little pieces with a hammer.
He came to the ruined houses. There was a tumult of yells, and a crowd
of thirty or forty lads went streaming across the open waste, waving
sticks.
'Come on! come on, Jago! 'Ere they are!'
A fight! Ah, what more welcome! And Dove Lane, too--Dove Lane, that had
taken to bawling the taunt, 'Jago cut-throats,' since ...
He was in the thick of the raid. 'Come on, Jago! Jago! 'Ere they are!'
Past the Board School and through Honey Lane they went, and into Dove
Lane territory. A small crowd of Dove-Laners broke and fled. Straight
ahead the Jagos went, till they were suddenly taken in flank at a
turning by a full Dove Lane mob. The Jagos were broken by the rush, but
they fought stoutly, and the street was filled with a surge of combat.
'Jago! Jago hold tight!'
Thin, wasted and shaken, Dicky fought like a tiger. He had no stick till
he floored a Dove-Laner and took his from him, but then he bludgeoned
apace, callous to every blow, till he fought through the thick, and
burst out at the edge of the fray. He pulled his cap tight, and swung
back, almost knocking over, but disregarding, a leather-aproned, furtive
hunchback, who turned and came at his heels.
'Jago! Jago hold tight!' yelled Dicky Perrott. 'Come on, Father Sturt's
boys!'
He was down. Just a punch under the arm from behind. As he rolled, face
under, he caught a single glimpse of the hunchback, running. But what
was this--all this?