the dignity of the dispensary; but straightway assigning the case to the rhubarb province, made up a powder, ordered Josh to keep the baby quiet, and pitched his sixpence among the others, well within the two minutes.
And faith in the dispensary was strengthened, for indeed Looey seemed a little better after the powder; and she was fed with spoonfuls of a fluid bought at a chandler’s shop, and called milk.
CHAPTER XII
‘DICKY PERROTT, come ‘ere,’ said Mr Aaron Weech in a voice of sad rebuke, a few days later. ‘Come ‘ere, Dicky Perrott.’
He shook his head solemnly as he stooped. Dicky slouched up.
‘What was that you found the other day an’ didn’t bring to me?’
‘Nuffin’.’ Dicky withdrew a step.
‘It’s no good you a-tellin’ me that, Dicky Perrott, when I know better. You know very well you can’t pervent me knowin’.’ His little eyes searched Dicky’s face, and Dicky sulkily shifted his own gaze. ‘You’re a wicked, ungrateful young ‘ound, an’ I’ve a good mind to tell a p’liceman to find out where you got that clock. Come ‘ere now—don’t you try runnin’ away. Wot! after me a-takin’ you in when you was ‘ungry, an’ givin’ you cawfy an’ cake, an’ good advice like a father, an’ a bloater an’ all, an’ you owin’ me thrippence a’peny besides, then you goes an’—an’ takes yer findin’s somewhere else!’
‘I never!’ protested Dicky stoutly. But Mr Weech’s cunning, equal to a shrewd guess that since his last visit Dicky had probably had another ‘find,’ and quick to detect a lie, was slack to perceive a truth.
‘Now don’t you go an’ add on a wicked lie to yer sinful ungratefulness, wotever you do,’ he said, severely. ‘That’s wuss, an’ I alwis know. Doncher know the little ‘ymn?—
An’ ‘im as does one fault at fust
An’ lies to ‘ide it, makes it two.
It’s bad enough to be ungrateful to me as is bin so kind to you, an’ it’s wuss to break the fust commandment. If the bloater don’t inflooence you, the ‘oly ‘ymn ought. ‘Ow would you like me to go an’ ask yer father for that thrippence a’peny you owe me? That’s wot I’ll ‘ave to do if you don’t mind.’
Dicky would not have liked it at all, as his frightened face testified.
‘Then find somethink an’ pay it at once, an’ then I won’t. I won’t be ‘ard on you, if you’ll be a good boy. But don’t git playin’ no more tricks—‘cos I’ll know all about ‘em. Now go an’ find somethink quick.’ And Dicky went.
CHAPTER XIII
TEN days after his first tour of the Old Jago, the Reverend Henry Sturt first preached in the parish church made of a stable, in an alley behind Meakin Street, but few yards away, though beyond sight and sound of the Jago. There, that Sunday morning was a morning of importance, a time of excitement, for the fight between Billy Leary and Josh Perrott was to come off in Jago Court. The assurance that there was money in the thing was a sovereign liniment for Billy Leary’s bruises—for they were but bruises—and he hastened to come by that money, lest it melt by caprice of the backers, or the backers themselves fall at unlucky odds with the police. He made little of Josh Perrott, his hardness and known fighting power notwithstanding. For was there not full a stone and a half between their weights? and had Billy not four or five inches the better in height and a commensurate advantage in reach? And Billy Leary’s own hardness and fighting power were well proved enough.
It was past eleven o’clock. The weekly rents—for the week forthcoming—had been extracted, or partly extracted, or scuffled over. Old Poll Rann, who had made money in sixty-five years of stall-farming and iniquity, had made the rounds of the six houses she rented, to turn out the tenants of the night who were disposed to linger. Many had already stripped themselves to their rags at pitch-and-toss in Jago Court; and the game still went busily on in the crowded area and in overflow groups in Old Jago Street; and men found themselves deprived, not merely of the money for that day’s food and that night’s lodging, but even of the last few pence set by to back a horse for Tuesday’s race. A little-regarded fight or two went on here and there as usual, and on kerbs and doorsteps sat women, hideous at all ages, filling the air with the rhetoric of the Jago.
Presently down from Edge Lane and the ‘Posties’ came the High Mobsmen, swaggering in check suits and billycocks, gold chains and lumpy rings: stared at, envied, and here and there pointed out by name or exploit. ‘Him as done the sparks in from Regent Street for nine centuries o’ quids’; ‘Him as done five stretch for a snide bank bill an’ they never found the oof’; ‘Him as maced the bookies in France an’ shot the nark in the boat’; and so forth. And the High Mob being come, the fight was due.
Of course, a fight merely as a fight was no great matter of interest: the thing was too common. But there was money on this; and again, it was no common thing to find Billy Leary defied, still less to find him challenged. Moreover, the thing had a Rann and Leary complexion, and it arose out of the battle of less than a fortnight back. So that Josh Perrott did not lack for partisans, though not a Rann believed he could stand long before Billy Leary Billy’s cause, too, had lost some popularity because it had been reported that Sally Green, in hospital, had talked of ‘summonsing’ Norah Walsh in the matter of her mangled face: a scandalous device to overreach, a piece of foul practice repugnant to all proper feeling; more especially for such a distinguished Jago as Sally Green—so well able to take care of herself. But all this was nothing as affecting the odds. They ruled at three to one on Billy Leary, with few takers, and went to four to one before the fight began.
Josh Perrott had been strictly sober for a full week. And the family had lived better, for he had brought meat home each day. Now he sat indifferently at the window of his room, and looked out at the crowd in Jago Court till such time as he might be wanted. He had not been out of the room that morning: he was saving his energy for Billy Leary.
As for Dicky, he had scarce slept for excitement. For days he had enjoyed consideration among his fellows on account of this fight. Now he shook and quivered, and nothing relieved his agitation but violent exertion. So he rushed downstairs a hundred times to see if the High Mob were coming, and back to report that they were not. At last he saw their overbearing checks, and tore upstairs, face before knees, with ”Ere they are, father! ‘Ere they are! They’re comin’ down the street, father!’ and danced frenzied about the room and the landing.
Presently Jerry Gullen and Kiddo Cook came, as seconds, to take Josh out, and then Dicky quieted a little externally, though he was bursting at the chest and throat, and his chin jolted his teeth together uncontrollably. Josh dragged off his spotted coat and waistcoat and flung them on the bed, and then was helped out of his ill-mended blue shirt. He gave a hitch to his trousers-band, tightened his belt, and was ready.
‘Ta-ta, ol’ gal,’ he said to his wife, with a grin; ‘back agin soon.’
‘With a bob or two for ye,’ added Kiddo Cook, grinning likewise.
Hannah Perrott sat pale
