ON THE COP
It was morning still, as Viney went away over the Cop; and, when he had
vanished beyond the distant group of little houses, Dan Ogle turned and
crept lazily into his shelter: there to make what dinner he might from
the remnant of the food that Mag had brought him the evening before; and
to doze away the time on his bed of dusty sacks, till she should bring
more in the evening to come. He would have given much for a drink, for
since his retreat to Kemp's Wharf the lime had penetrated clothes and
skin and had invaded his very vitals. More particularly it had invaded
his throat; and the pint or so of beer that Mag brought in a bottle was
not enough to do more than aggravate the trouble. But no drink was
there, and no money to buy one; else he might well have ventured out to
a public-house, now that the police sought him no more. As for Grimes of
the wharf (who had been growing daily more impatient of Dan's stay), he
offered no better relief than a surly reference to the pump. So there
was nothing for it but to sit and swear; with the consolation that this
night should be his last at Kemp's Wharf.
Sunlight came with the afternoon, and speckled the sluggish Lea; then
the shadow of the river wall fell on the water and it was dull again;
and the sun itself grew duller, and lower, and larger, in the haze of
the town. If Dan Ogle had climbed the bank, and had looked across the
Cop now, he would have seen Blind George, stick in hand, feeling his way
painfully among hummocks and ditches in the distance. Dan, however, was
expecting nobody, and he no longer kept watch on all comers, so that
Blind George neared unnoted. He gained the lime-strewn road at last, and
walked with more confidence. Up and over the bank, and down on the side
next the river, he went so boldly that one at a distance would never
have guessed him blind; for on any plain road he had once traversed he
was never at fault; and he turned with such readiness at the proper
spot, and so easily picked his way to the shed, that Dan had scarce more
warning than could bring him as far as the door, where they met.
"Dan!" the blind man said; "Dan, old pal! It's you I can hear, I'll bet,
ain't it? Where are ye?" And he groped for a friendly grip.
Dan Ogle was taken by surprise, and a little puzzled. Still, he could do
no harm by hearing what Blind George had to say; so he answered: "All
right. What is it?"
Guided by the sound, Blind George straightway seized Dan's arm; for this
was his way of feeling a speaker's thoughts while he heard his words.
"He's gone," he said, "gone clean. Do you know where?"
Dan glared into the sightless eye and shook his captured arm roughly.
"Who?" he asked.
"Viney. Did you let him have the stuff?"
"What stuff? When?"
"What stuff? That's a rum thing to ask. Unless--O!" George dropped his
voice and put his face closer. "Anybody to hear?" he whispered.
"No."
"Then why ask what stuff? You didn't let him have it this morning, did
you?"
"Dunno what you mean. Never seen him this morning."
Blind George retracted his head with a jerk, and a strange look grew on
his face: a look of anger and suspicion; strange because the great
colourless eye had no part in it. "Dan," he said, slowly, "them ain't
the words of a pal--not of a faithful pal, they ain't. It's a damn lie!"
"Lie yourself!" retorted Dan, thrusting him away. "Let go my arm, go
on!"
"I knew he was coming," Blind George went on, "an' I follered up, an'
waited behind them houses other side the Cop. I want my whack, I do. I
heared him coming away, an' I called to him, but he scuttled off. I know
his step as well as what another man 'ud know his face. I'm a poor blind
bloke, but I ain't a fool. What's your game, telling me a lie like that?"
He was standing off from the door now, angry and nervously alert. Dan
growled, and then said: "You clear out of it. You come to me first from
Viney, didn't you? Very well, you're his pal in this. Go and talk to him
about it."
"I've been--that's where I've come from. I've been to his lodgings in
Chapman Street, an' he's gone. Said he'd got a berth aboard ship--a lie.
Took his bag an' cleared, soon as ever he could get back from here. He's
on for doing me out o' my whack, arter I put it all straight for
him--that's about it. You won't put me in the cart, Dan, arter all I
done! Where's he gone?"
"I dunno nothing about him, I tell you," Dan answered angrily. "You
sling your hook, or I'll make ye!"
"Dan," said the blind man, in a voice between appeal and threat; "Dan, I
didn't put you away, when I found you was here!"
"Put me away? You? You can go an' try it now, if you like. I ain't
wanted; they won't have me. An' if they would--how long 'ud you last,
next time you went into Blue Gate? Or even if you didn't go, eh? How
long would a man last, that had both his eyes to see with, eh?" And
indeed Blind George knew, as well as Dan himself, that London was
unhealthy for any traitor to the state and liberty of Blue Gate. "How
long would he last? You try it."
"Who wants to try it? I on'y want to know----"
"Shut your mouth, Blind George, an' get out o' this place!" Ogle cried,
fast losing patience, and making a quick step forward. "Go, or you'll be
lame as well as blind, if I get hold o' ye!"
Blind George backed involuntarily, but his blank face darkened and
twisted devilishly, and he gripped his stick like a cudgel. "Ah, I'm
blind, ain't I? Mighty bold with a blind man, ain't ye? If my eyes was
like yours, or you was blind as me, you'd----"
"Go!" roared Dan furiously, with two quick steps. "Go!"
The blind man backed as quickly, fiercely brandishing his stick. "I'll
go--just as far as suits me, Dan Ogle!" he cried. "I ain't goin' to be
done out o' what's mine! One of ye's got away, but I'll stick to the
other! Keep off! I'll stick to ye till--keep off!"
As Dan advanced, the stick, flourished at random, fell on his wrist with
a crack, and in a burst of rage he rushed at the blind man, and smote
him down with blow on blow. Blind George, beaten to a heap, but cowed
not at all, howled like a wild beast, and struck madly with his stick.
The stick reached its mark more than once, and goaded Ogle to a greater
fury. He punched and kicked at the plunging wretch at his feet: who,
desperate and unflinching, with his mouth spluttering blood and curses,
never ceased to strike back as best he might.
At the noise Grimes came hurrying from his office. For a moment he stood
astonished, and then he ran and caught Dan by the arm. "I won't have
it!" he cried. "If you want to fight you go somewhere else.
You--why--why, damme, the man's blind!"
Favoured by the interruption, Blind George crawled a little off,
smearing his hand through the blood on his face, breathless and
battered, but facing his enemy still, with unabashed malevolence. For a
moment Ogle turned angrily on Grimes, but checked himself, and let fall
his hands. "Blind?" he snarled. "He'll be dead too, if he don't keep
that stick to hisself; that's what he'll be!"
The blind man got on his feet, and backed away, smearing the grisly face
as he went. "Ah! hold him back!" he cried, with a double mouthful of
oaths. "Hold him hack for his own sake! I ain't done with you, Dan Ogle,
not yet! Fight? Ah, I'll fight you--an' fight you level! I mean it! I
do! I'll fight you level afore I've done with you! Dead I'll be, will I?
Not afore you, an' not afore I've paid you!" So he passed over the bank,
threatening fiercely.
"Look here," said Grimes to Ogle, "this ends this business. I've had
enough o' you. You find some other lodgings."
"All right," Ogle growled. "I'm going: after to-night."
"I dunno why I was fool enough to let you come," Grimes pursued. "An'
when I did, I never said your pals was to come too. I remember that
blind chap now; I see him in Blue Gate, an' I don't think much of him.
An' there was another chap this morning. Up to no good, none of ye; an'
like as not to lose me my job. So I'll find another use for that shed,
see?"
"All right," the other sulkily repeated. "I tell ye I'm going: after
to-night."