ever known him to be. He showed no surprise at finding her out of bed. On
his shirt, just where his tie failed to cover it, were spots of blood. He
sank into a chair.
“Myra, old woman, I’m done. There’s been some rough stuff. I ’ad a job
on, at Bethnal Green. With Ding-Dong. On’y ’e was late. ’Alf-an-hour
late. If ’e’d bin on time we could ’a’ done it and fixed our get-away.
But ’e was late. And the cops must have ’ad the office. I didn’t wait. I
went in alone, and when I ’eard the jerry I up and off over the wall at
the back, where it was clear. But just as I up and off, old Ding-Dong,
’earing the schlemozzle, come running up, and they copped ’im fair. I
slipped round to see, and he lashed out and sent a cop down with a
jemmy. Then they drew their whackers and smashed him on the ’ead. He fell
kinder sideways, and come with ’is ’ead crack on the kerb. ’E’s dead now.
Dead. I ’eard it from Paris Pete, who followed ’em up to the station.
Dead, ’e is. ’E was a blasted good feller.... Well, I levanted, but I
reckon they got me taped somehow. I ’it one of the cops—’it ’im ’ard.
And now I got to lie under a bit, till it’s blown over. I’m all right,
I think; they don’t know me. I bin too careful alwis. They don’t know I
b’long ’ere. So I’m all right, if you’ll stand in, old woman. You won’t
let on, will yeh? Nobody knows about it but you and Ding-Dong. And ’e’s
dead. They’ll never git me unless you go back on me. You’ll ’ave to play
up a bit, cos I sha’n’t be able to git about at all for a bit. You’ll
’elp us out, old woman, won’t yeh? I bin a good ’usban’ to yeh, ain’t
I? I ain’t never let yeh want for nothing, ’ave I?” She seemed to catch
a sob in his throat. “Ol’ Ding-Dong ...” he stammered. “Blasted good
feller.... Dead, ’e is. Yeh won’t go back on me, will yeh?”
She flung herself back in the hammock and laughed, a high, hollow,
staccato laugh, in which was weariness and bitterness.
“Oh ... that’s all right, Tom. Yerss ... I’ll ... I’ll stand in. Oh, but
it’s dam funny....” And she went off into peals of muffled laughter.
_Old Joe_
Mr Peter Punditt nipped out of his little newsagent’s and tobacconist’s
shop in West India Dock Road, carrying in his hand a large, damp sheet,
smelling strongly of the press. This he carefully pasted over a demurely
complacent contents bill of _The Telegraph_, and then stepped back to
look at it in the grey incertitude of the Limehouse twilight. It read:
PUNDITT’S ONE-HORSE SNIP
_One Penny Daily_
Is Away from Everything
Who Gave
PAINTED LADY
GOLD CUP?
It was to be noted that Mr Punditt, from motives of modesty or wariness,
refrained from throwing any light on his part in this dubious transaction.
With cocked head and silently whistling lips he contemplated his work,
recognising, with some satisfaction, how much more arresting was his bill
than that of _Gale’s Monday Night Special_, by whose side it stood. He
was just about to nip in again, when he heard a weak, erratic step behind
him, and, turning, beheld a youth of about twenty, with sallow, pimply
face, slack-mouthed and furtive. An unlit Woodbine dropped from his lips.
Little Peter Punditt, the smartest bookie in Limehouse, Poplar and
Blackwall, turned swiftly about. “Well?”
“Er—look ’ere, Punditt, o’ man, I’m—I’m ’fraid I sha’n’t be able to
manage anything. Y’see——”
“Oh!” Punditt regarded the weed in front of him with an airy tolerance.
“Oh! Yeh can’t manage anything, can’t yeh? Yer _afraid_, are yeh?... Look
’ere, that kind ’o talk is twos into one wiv me. See?”
“Two’s into——”
“Yerss. It won’t go. It’s Punditt what’s talking to yeh. Yeh know
Punditt’s way wiv bilkers, doncher? Before I’ve finished wiv a bilker
he’s wishing he’d collected stamps instead.”
“Yes, but.... I mean ... I.... It was your tips what I followed. You let
me down every time. Every time. You said this last was a cert., and I put
me shirt on it, and——”
“An’ if I did? Who th’ell arst yeh to back ’orses at all? Eh? Did I
arst yeh to buy Punditt’s One-Horse Snip? Eh? Yeh lose yer money, then
yeh come whinin’ rahnd ’ere wiv a face abaht as cheerful as cold boiled
potatoes on a foggy night. Did I arst ye to put yer money on—eh?” His
tone changed. “Look ’ere—don’t get gay wiv me, me boy. Cos gettin’ gay
wiv me’s about as ’ealthy as monkeying wiv a buzz-saw. See? You just got
to settle up. I gave y’an extra fortnight, and it’s up to-day. Lessee ...
Monday, ain’t it? Tell yeh what I’ll do—an’ I don’t go as far wiv most
people—I’ll give yeh two days more. If yeh don’t brass up by Wednesday
night—then I’ll see that yeh get it where the bottle got the cork. That
plain enough for yeh?”
He wagged a minatory finger wearing a thick band of mourning in the nail.
“Y’know what I can do to you, doncher, sonny? A dozen words out of my
mouth, and ... Wow-wow. You be good, and don’t make me do it.”
The boy spluttered, with vociferant hands. “No, but, Punditt, o’ man, how
can I? How can I get it? There ain’t no way. I mean——”
“Don’t matter a shake of a nannygoat’s tail to me where yeh git it or
’ow yeh get it. Yeh got to get it by Wednesday—that’s all. Else....”
He threw his arms to the street, lifted both hands, thumbs protruding
upwards. With dramatic pantomime he reversed his hands, thumbs pointing
fatefully downwards. “Fumbs up, Punditt. Fumbs down, Perce Sleep. Three
quid by Wednesday, mind. Get a sudden rush of brains to the ’ead and
perduce it; otherwise ...” he lingered on the word—“otherwise—I shall
behave in a very varicose vein, I can tell yeh.”
“No, but, Punditt, I——”
“Suffish. Make a noise like a hoop and roll away!”
From his pallid face the boy expressed the bitter essence of contempt
which the weak have for all that is pitiless and strong. His mouth made
rude noises. His fingers interpreted them. He went away grieved, for he
had no possessions. He slouched away, his feet seeming not in complete
accord with his knees. A lurid sunset turned a last sickly smile upon him
before it died.
It was Peter Punditt who had spoken, and he knew it was the last word. He
knew what Peter could do for him. He knew what Peter knew about a certain
affair in Amoy Place. His floury face, flecked with pimples, slacked
some degrees further, and he went miserably down the road. He hated the
look of it. He had quarrels with God and man and all creeping things, and
his legs loathed the pavement. He was smitten and afflicted. He thought
he would like to creep away and die. He thought comfortably upon death,
and was rather sorry he had not told Peter that he would throw himself
in the river that night. Yes; he could die and leave a note that would
put the fair khybosh on old Peter Punditt. Mentally, he wrote the note,
showing up old Punditt.
But three quid.... Was there as much money anywhere in the world? If
only he’d been in regular work now—when he kept the petty cash at the
warehouse....
Oh, blast it. It didn’t bear thinking about. Blast everybody. He hated
the world. He hated the sky. He hated his home and all that was in it. No
good going home. No good mooning about the streets. No good in anything,
so far as one could see. He stopped near the bridge of the Isle of Dogs
and glowered upon the river and upon smoke-stack, rigging and sail.
The evening was at once heartsome and subdued. On the deck of a Nippon
the dear, drunken devils of yellow seamen were making soft music on
Chinese guitars. A steady frost had settled and, with complete darkness,
the usually lowering streets of the Asiatic quarter seemed strangely wide
and frank. A fat-faced moon was slowly rising. The waters were swift and
limpid, sprinkled with timid stars, and seemed to promise a very blessed
time to the weary. On the corner by the dock gates the Blue Lantern shone
sharp, like a cut gem. He lounged over the side of the bridge, and, so
still was the night, he could almost hear a goods train shunt. It was
still enough to bring from a narrow street, flanked by two tremendous
walls, a curious sound of _sup-sup, sup-sup_.
Perce Sleep heard it. “Bloody Chinks!” he growled. The next moment the
_sup-sup_ came from behind him, and a hand fell on his shoulder. A yellow
face peered at him. It was old, flabby, steamy.
“’Ullo, li’l Perce!” The words came so musically that one would have said
they were sung.
“’Ullo, Chopstick. Gointer buy us a beer?”
“Les. Co’long Shaik Yip. Have plelty beer.”
“Aw right. Look ’ere, Chinky, I’m in a mess. You’re all right for the
ready, everyone says. Got a pot o’ the dibs, I reckon. Now look ’ere ...
would you.... I mean ... will yeh be a sport, and——”
“Ao.” Shaik Yip smiled a meaningless Oriental smile. “Perce want money.
Ao. Perce and Shaik Yip talk business. Co’long. Co’long.”
And they entered the Blue Lantern and ordered two Gypsy’s Warnings and
some of the Nearer-my-God-to-Thee sandwiches.
* * * * *
The Sleep _ménage_ was not such as one would turn to happily, when weary,
for repose. Perce lived with his stepfather, a paralytic, and the old
man’s daughter, a “softie.” The old man, a mass of helpless flesh, lived
in a chair by the fireside. He had been a stevedore in his time, and his
great shaggy head, his rolling shoulders, and the long, thick arms, all
now as white and motionless as death, told a tale of superb strength in
youth. There he sat now, and there he was fed and tended and washed. The
only life that had been left him was his voice, and of this there only
remained a thin piping, so that he was known locally as Old Joe, after
that Fleet Street notability who, every morning at ten-thirty in the
Fourth Edition, gives the world his famous treble.
His daughter, a slip of a girl, was the mother of the house. Her face had
that arresting beauty sometimes seen in the faces of the vacant-minded.
There was nothing of the idiot about her, save in her talk and her simple
character. She managed the house, and she managed Old Joe, and she strove
hard to manage the waster, Perce.
“Wis’ful,” someone had said. “Wis’ful—that’s ’ow she looks. Like as if
she was wanting to catch ’old of something that ain’t there.”
As for Perce, he only ate and drank and slept at the house, and had
little to do with Fanny, save to borrow coppers from her.
“A wicked boy,” piped Old Joe. “That’s what ’e is. Never tries to get
work. Got one job, and got sacked from that, and ain’t done a stroke
since. ’Anging about pubs and mixin’ wiv wasters. Grr! ’E’ll end in gaol,
mark what I say. Blast ’im. Arr.... Fanny’s the good girl. Where’d we all
be if it wasn’t for Fanny? Looks after us and keeps us all going. Does
anything to keep the ’ome together, doncher, me gel? Goes out charing, or
does needlework. Clever wiv ’er needle, she is. But that blasted Perce.
Grr! I’d spit on ’im. I’d turn ’im out the ’ouse if I could. But ’e won’t
go. Cos ’e knows I’m ’elpless and can’t do nothing. Not if ’e struck me
I couldn’t do nothink. An’ ’e’s nearly done it, oncer twice. The blasted
drunken little waster. Gawd—if I’d a-got my strength back—I’d learn ’im.
You dunno—nobody dunno—what I’ve ’ad to put up wiv from ’im—all cos I
can’t move—an’ ’e knows it. Things ’e’s said to me. Things ’e’s done.
Gawd. Dunno what I’ve a-done that I should ’ave to put up....”
Whereupon he would collapse and weep cold tears down his huge white face,
and Fanny would run in from her daily work, or drop her sewing, and paw
him and talk baby-talk to him.
He was right about Perce, though. Perce was the boy for fancy waistcoats
and the private bar. Perce was the boy for the athletic saloon—as an
onlooker. Perce was the boy for hanging on the fringe of those who
lead the impetuous life. But Perce was never the boy for a fight or an
adventure or a woman, or for any indulgence that called for quality.
Perce was the complete rotter.
Perce was the boy to glower upon the helpless giant and tell him off.
“Oh, shut up,” he’d snarl. “You ought to be in a work’ouse, you did. Or
else in a play. Cut yer blasted yap, cancher, yer rotten old nuisance!”
And the old man would return, shrilly and tearfully: “I’m sorry, Perce,
me boy. But I’m an old man, y’know, and queer. And I sits ’ere all day
and all night, and I can’t ’elp _feeling_ things. I know yer a good boy,
really, though yeh do speak sharp sometimes.... Arr ... if only Gawd’d
give me back my strength, I could work for all of us. Me, strongest man
in London Docks, and now a-sitting ’ere day and night, day and night, day
and night.”
On the Monday night he did not come home, and Old Joe was wondering where
he might be, and hoping to Christ he’d tumbled in the river; and Fanny,
too, on Tuesday night, was wondering and laying the supper, and hoping
nothing had happened, and assuring Old Joe that Perce was a nice, good
boy.
At eight o’clock a step sounded in the cadaverous darkness of Bluegate
Lane, and Perce came in. His key rattled in the door, and words passed
between him and another. He was heard to wipe his boots—a thing he had
never been known to do. He seemed to be walking uncertainly, with many
feet.
Then the kitchen door was snatched open by Fanny, the soft, and Perce was
heard by her and Old Joe to murmur: “Tha’ll be all right.”
But only Perce entered the kitchen.
He sank at once into a chair, as though wearied almost to exhaustion. He
stretched his legs so that fatigue might express itself in every line of
his figure. He lit a Woodbine. Supper was on the table—some bread and
pickles and cheese, knives, and a jug of beer. He grabbed the jug to his
mouth and drank noisily from it, and angrily, as though he were at last
getting his rights from the world.
“Well, old ’un,” he tossed at the old man, perfunctorily, by way of
salutation. He strove to put warmth and jocularity in the tone, but his
face and lips remained stiff and cold. He smacked his hands together.
“Ah, well,” he observed to the room generally. He looked critically at
his hands. “Fingernails want cutting,” he remarked inconsequently. Old
Joe took no notice of his greeting; did not look at him; seemed to be
intent on something known only to himself.
“’Ere, Fanny-baby,” called Perce, “want you a minute.”
“What you want Fanny for, Percy-boy?”
“Go up t’your bedroom, will yeh, and get those scissors.”
“Here’s pair scissors here.”
“Yes, but ... I want th’other pair. The small ones in your room.”
“’Oo’s that in th’ouse?” snapped Old Joe, with pistol-shot explosion.
“Someone’s in th’ouse. I can feel it!”
“Can’t Percy-boy go’mself?” prattled Fanny.
“No—too tired. You go—there’s a goo’ girl. Then I’ll buy you some
chocolate biscuits.” He looked covertly to right and left.
“Awright. Fanny go. Cho-co-late biscuits!” she sang, to no tune.
“Fanny!” Old Joe bit off the words. “You stop ’ere!”
Perce slewed round. “Whaffor, old ’un? Why can’t she go?”
“’Cos I don’t want ’er to. Fanny—stop. Stop ’ere!”
“Whaffor, daddie dear? Why daddie not want Fanny to go?”
“Cos I ... I ... want yeh. There’s something ... something going on. I
... don’t understand. I can feel it. All round, like. Perce, me boy, what
you looking like that for? Eh? Whassup? You got some game on, Perce. Oo’s
that in th’ouse?”
Perce affected not to hear. “Go on, Fan, there’s goo’ girl. Up yeh go.
Old man’s got the fair fantods to-night.”
“_Fanny!_” It was a shrill scream, strained with effort. “Don’t you
go. It’s yer old dad tells yeh. For the love of God Almighty, don’t
go. There’s something ... I know. I can feel it. I can tell it by that
beast’s face. What’s ’e want cutting ’is nails this time o’ night?”
Fanny ran to him, crooning. “Daddie musn’t call Percy a beast. Percy good
brother to Fanny. Going to buy Fanny chocolate biscuits.”
“Yerss,” said Perce, “don’t call me names like that else I’ll make a
rough ’ouse, I tell yeh. If yeh wasn’t a blasted cripple I’d clump yeh
one fer that. See?”
The great Windsor chair in which the old man was imprisoned shook with
his efforts to raise his piping treble. “Fanny—Fanny—stop! I tell yeh,
stop! For the love of the Lord Jesus Christ, stay ’ere.”
“No. Fanny go get scissors. You not good, daddie. You call brother
beast.” And, with a beautiful smile through which nothing could be even
divined of the empty mind it clothed, she slipped through the door and
disappeared up the stairs, laughing and singing, “Cho-co-late biscuits!”
The old man moaned. His head dropped and wagged. His mouth spat toads in
the shape of curses at Perce. Perce moved away. His face was slate-grey.
He was limp, and looked as self-controlled as a rabbit about to be
slaughtered. He peered into the passage, then passed out, and the old
man heard his step ascending the stair. He caught the lazy hum of voices
busy in talk. He heard two words, in syrupy accents, which he understood:
_Pao-pei!_ He heard Fanny’s baby accents. “Can’t find scissors! Someone’s
taken scissors. Can’t find candle, neether. Someone’s taken matches, too.”
He heard Perce’s voice. “Wait half-a-jiff, Fan. Can’t yeh find the
matches? ’Ere ... Fan ... ’ere. Listen. Something nice for yeh, if yeh’ll
be a good girl. ’Ere ... lots of choc’late biscuits. Look ... no; can’t
’ave them yet. In a minute or two. ’Ere, don’t be silly.... No....
Just.... Go on.... No, it isn’t....”
A door clicked, and swiftly Perce descended the stairs, and entered the
kitchen. He was breathing rapidly.
“What you go up for?” whined Old Joe. “Eh? Oh, I know there’s something
... something going to ’appen. I can feel it.”
Perce swaggered. “You blasted invalids are alwis feeling and seeing
things that ain’t there. You’ll see blue monkeys next.”
Old Joe rocked himself. From above there came a second click; moving
feet. There was a moment’s silence, then, shattering it, a soft cry, a
long-drawn whoosh and a muffled scream. The scream was but a single note,
and thereafter came only nondescript low noises.
The old man mouthed and gibbered. He heaved himself idiotically in his
chair. “Oh, my Gawd. If I’d a-got my strength. Owh. What are they doing
to ’er? What you up to, yeh bleeding swine! Owh. If Gawd don’t strike you
dead for this. Owh ... hark at ’er ... my lamb ... my.... O Lord Jesus
Christ, save ’er!
“Oh, Perce, dear ... go up and stop ’em. Stop their devils’ work. Fanny!
Fanny! What they doing to yeh?” The great white cheeks sagged in many
creases as he fought for movement. The heavy arms on each side of the
chair dangled like puppets. “Oh, Gawd, if I could find out what they was
doing. Oh, if I’d a-got my strength!”
“Oh, shut yeh blasted mag, for Christ’s sake!” Perce dropped into
a chair and sat scared and pensive. Three long gasps came down the
stairway—rhythmic, regular, punctuated by a dull noise.
“Perce! Oh, if I’d a-got my strength ... oh, I’d squeeze yer throat. Owh.
I could a-killed you wiv one ’and. Kill ’im, Gawd! Kill ’im! Strike the
bleeder dead! Or give me back me arms. O-o-wh!”
And now he blubbered and whined and entreated. Big tears ran down the
doughy face. He writhed. “Oh, Perce—be a good boy and stop ’em before
it’s too late. I can’t bear it. It’ll drive me mad. I can’t listen to
it.... Oh, stop yer devils’ work and bring ’er down. My bonny li’l
gel.... Owh. I’d learn ’em to put their slimy ’ands on ’er. If I’d a-got
my strength, I’d——”
“Well, you ’aven’t. So shut yeh silly face.” Perce got up and lit another
Woodbine. He looked down uneasily at Old Joe, yet confident of security
in the utter helplessness of the living corpse. “Yeh wasting yeh breath,
that’s what yeh doing. There’s nothing to make a fuss about. Nothing.
She ain’t being murdered. And they ain’t doing the other thing, what you
think. It’s on’y a bit o’ fun. Yeh needn’t worry. I take me oath she
ain’t being ... you know, or anything. She’ll ’ave forgotten all about
it five minutes after. On’y a bit o’ sport, that’s all. I got _some_
principles, though you think I ain’t, y’old perisher. All yer swearing
don’t do no good, and yer fists can’t. And yer making a blasted fuss
about nothing at all. Nothing at all. So——”
He broke off. For a moment he wondered why. He had stopped instinctively
because something else had stopped: the little cries and gasps.
A door clicked. A step sounded. Someone came downstairs. The old man
rolled from side to side, slobbering and dribbling. He had the appearance
of one very drunk. Round the half-shut door slid a large, stooping
Chinky, flashily dressed in East End ready-mades. Under the yellow skin
was a slow flush. His eyes sparkled. His thin, black hair was disordered.
He moved towards Perce. Three coins jingled from his hand to the
stretched hand of Perce. Old Joe wobbled. He saw them; they were gold. He
jerked his head forward and let out—so suddenly that both men jumped—a
high-pitched shout, louder and stronger than any he had before been able
to produce.
“Yeh damn devils! Wotter yeh done to ’er? Oh, Gawd, if I’d a-got——”
The Chink turned about and shuffled amiably to the door. Over his
shoulder he looked at Perce and made a leering remark, accompanied by a
licking of the lips. They nodded heads together.
Curious noises came from the chair at the fire; noises like the low
sucking of a wolf. The old man’s jaw had fallen fully open and disclosed
yellow teeth. His head rolled no longer; it moved in jerks, which grew
shorter and shorter.
“My—little—gel ...” snarled the lips. “O Lord Jesus Christ, ’elp a man!”
“Blasted o’ fool,” said Perce explanatorily. “Alwis ’aving chats wiv Gawd
about something.” He took another Woodbine, lit it, and strove to appear
casual. His lips were white and his grubby hand shook.
A violent tremor spread along the flabby body of Old Joe. His head
was motionless and was turned towards the table. Something seemed to
be calling him in that direction; and, as they nodded and whispered,
suddenly the Chink, looking across Perce’s shoulder, gave a sharp cry and
his immobile face was lit with horror.
“Dekko!”
Perce obeyed sharply. And he saw the giant corpse standing on its feet,
towering above him, one huge arm stretched to his own white gills, the
other, in the joy of returned strength, clutching the long, lean knife
from the supper-table.