 Chapter 28 of To London Town. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by John Brandon. To London Town by Arthur Morrison. Chapter 28. He resolved first to try the institute. Nor his name and address must be on the class registers. But what business had he with the girl's class registers? As a diplomatist, his failure was lamentable. He could invent no reasonable excuses. And ignoble defeat was his fate at the hands of the rigid lady who managed the girl's department of the institute. Then he took to prowling about all the streets that lay beyond that second corner that had marked the end of their evening walks, watching for her, searching also desperately for some impossible sign about a house that might suggest that she lived in it. Thus he spent the daylight of two evenings watching a little muslin hung window because the muslin was tied with a ribbon of a sort he remembered her to have worn. And because he chose to fancy a neatness and a daintiness about the tying that might well be hers. But on the second evening as dusk fell the window opened and a hairy red bearded man in blue shirt sleeves put out his head and leaned on the sill to smoke his pipe and watch the red sky. Johnny swung away savagely and called himself a fool for his pains. And indeed he could ill afford to waste time. Formatement and Hearst claimed him till five each day. And a few hours in the evening were all that remained. More Nora could change her lodgings perhaps had done so already. After this he screwed his courage so high as to go to the police station where the charge against Nora's mother must have been taken and to ask for her address. But the cast iron-faced inspector in charge took his name and address instead as a beginning and then would tell him nothing. And at last maddened and reckless he went to the publican and demanded the information of him. Now if Johnny had a little more worldly experience a little more cunning and a great deal more coolness he would have done this at first and beginning by ordering a drink he would have opened a casual conversation. Led it to the matter of the window and in the end would have gained his points quietly and easily. But as it was he did none of these things. He ordered no drink and he made a blunt request taking little thought of its manner. None of the publican's point of view and perhaps forgetting that the man was in no way responsible for the rebuffs already endured. The publican for his part was already in a bad temper because of the clumsy tapping of the barrel and ensuing cheek of the potman. So he answered Johnny's demand by asking if he had come to pay for the window and receiving the negative reply he had expected he urgently recommended the intruder's departure outside in such terms as gave no choice but compliance. So that now in extremity Johnny resolved an elast expedient one that had been vaguely in his mind for a day or two though he had yet scarce had courage to consider it seriously. This was to tell his mother the whole thing and to induce her if he might to ask the address at the institute perhaps on some pretext of dressmaking business. He was not hopeful for he well knew that any hint of traffic with the family of one such as Nora's mother would be a horror to her. But he could see nothing else and to sit still were intolerable. Moreover he guessed that his mother must suspect something from his preoccupation and his neglect of his drawing. Though indeed poor Nan was most at pains just then to conceal troubles of her own. Mr. Butson in fact began to chafe under the restraints of narrow circumstances not that he was poorer than had been his habit. Indeed he was much better off but that his needs had expanded with his prosperity and with his successes in society. And it was just now that his wife began to attempt retrenchment. Probably she was encouraged by the outrageous revolt of her son. A revolt which had made advisable a certain degree of caution on the part of himself the head of the household. She spoke of a rumor that the shipyard opposite might close as so many other Thames shipyards had closed of late years. That she said would mean ruin for the shop and she must try to save what little she might mean time. An absurdity of course in Mr. Butson's view. He felt no interest in the rumors of old women about shipyards and petty measurement of the sordid chances of trade irritated him. If his wife found one source of profit running dry she must look out and tap another. That was all. So long as he got what he wanted he troubled little about the manner of its getting. But now he ran near having less than he wanted and his wife was growing even less accommodating. She went so far as to hint of withholding the paltry sum the lad earned. He should have it himself she thought. To buy his clothes and to save toward the end of his apprenticeship. More than this Mr. Butson much suspected that Johnny had actually had his own money for some while past. And that Mr. Butson had descended to the mean subterfuge of representing as his earnings a sum which in reality she extracted each week from the till an act of pure embezzlement. And then there was the cottage in Epping Forest. She wouldn't sell it now though she wanted to sell when she first left it. What good was there in keeping it? True there was three and sixpence a week of rent but that was nothing. It would go in a round of drinks or in half a round in any distinguished bar and there were deductions even from the three and sixpence. Sold the cottage might produce a respectable sum perhaps a hundred pounds at any rate eighty. The figure stirred his blood what a magnificent dash a man might cut with eighty pounds and a fortune might be made out of it too. If it were used wisely and not buried away in a wretched three and six penny cottage properly invested on judicious flat rate certainties it would double itself about twice a week. So he made it very plain to Nan that the sale of the cottage for what it would fetch and the handing over of the proceeds was a plan he insisted on. But the stupid woman wouldn't see it. It was plain that she was beginning to overestimate her importance in the establishment by reason that of late she had not been sufficiently sworn at shoved, thumped, and twisted and pinched on the arms. That was the worst of kindness to a woman. She took advantage so that he was obliged to begin to thump again. There was no need to do it so that Johnny might know and so cause a low disturbance. In fact, Johnny took little notice of things at home just now. No longer made inquiries nor lifted the poker with so impudent a stare and he was scarce indoors at all. Wherefore, Mr. Buttson punched and ruffianed being careful to leave no disreputable marks in visible spots, such as black eyes and sometimes he kicked and he demanded more money and more, but all the while insisted on the sale of the cottage. The monstrous laws of conveyance made it impossible for him to lay hands on the deeds and sell the place himself, or he would have done it, of course. And he made it advisable too for Bessie to avoid him. And that had a better effect than any direct attack on Nan. Till at last the woman was so far reduced that she was near a very dangerous rebellion indeed, nearer than Mr. Buttson suspected, for she began to think of attempting a separation by magistrate's order. Shameful as it would be in the neighborhood, though she feared greatly. So it was when Johnny turned toward home on an evening a little before nine o'clock, sick of blind searching and ready to tell his mother the story of Norah Sansom, first till last. At Harbor Lane Corner, he saw Buttson walking off and wondered to see him about Blackwell so early in the evening. Nobody was in the shop, and Johnny went through so quietly that he surprised his mother and Bessie in the shop parlor, crying bitterly. Nan sat on a chair and Bessie bent over her, and no concealment was possible. Johnny was seized by a dire surmise. Mother, what's this? He said. What's he been doing? Nan bent lower, but answered nothing. Johnny looked toward Bessie, almost sternly. He... he's... beaten mother again. Bessie blurted between sobs. Beaten mother again? Johnny's face was white and his nostril stood wide and round. Beaten mother again? He's always doing it now, Bessie sobbed, and wanting more money. I had a good mind to tell you before, but... but... Beaten mother? The room swam before Johnny's eyes. Why? Nan rose to close the door. No, Johnny, she said meekly. I'm a bit upset. But don't let it upset you, don't you? What's the matter with your leg? Your limping? He kicked her. I saw him kick her at her ankle. Bessie burst out, pouring forth the tail unrestrained. I tried to stop him and... and... And then he hit you? Asked Johnny, not so white in the cheeks now, but whiter than ever about the mouth. Yes, but it was mother most. And Bessie wept afresh. Perhaps his evenings of disappointment had chastened Johnny's impatience. He knew that the man was out of reach now, and he forced his fury down. In ten minutes he knew the whole thing between Bessie's outpourings and Nan's tearful admissions. When's he coming back? They did not know. Probably he would be late as usual. But don't you go doing anything hasty, Johnny? Nan implored. I'm so afraid of you doing something rash. It's not much, really. I'm a bit upset, but... I'll have to think about this, Johnny said, with such calmness that Nan felt somewhat reassured. Though Bessie was inwardly afraid. I'm going out for an hour. He strode away to the institute, walking by instinct and seeing nothing till he was under the lettered lamp. He went to the dressing room and hurried into his flannels. In the gymnasium the instructor, a brawny sergeant of grenadiers, was watching some lads on the horizontal bar. Johnny approached him with a hesitating request for a free spar. Free spar, my lad? Said the sergeant. What's up? Getting cheeky? Want to give me a hyden? No, sergeant, Johnny answered. Not such a fool as that. But I never had a free spar with a man much heavier than myself. And I just want to try. That's all. There was a comprehending twinkle about the sergeant's eyes. Right, he said. You're given me near two stone. That's, if you're a bit over eleven, fetch the gloves. At another time Johnny would never have conceived the impudence of asking the sergeant, once champion of the army, for a free spar. Even a lightspar with the sergeant was something of an undertaking. Wherein one was apt to have both hands full and a bit over. But the lad had his reasons now. He dashed at the professor with a straight lead. And soon the blows were going like hail on a window pane. The sergeant stood like a rock. And Johnny's every rush was beaten back as my hammer blows on the head. But he came again fresh and eager and buzzed his master merrily about the head. Getting in a very respectable number of straight drives. Such as would knock an ordinary man down. Though the sergeant never winked. And bringing off one on the mark that did knock out a grunt, much as the punch in that region will knock one out of a squeaking doll. Steady, the sergeant called after two long rounds had been spared. You'll get stiff if you keep on at that rate, my lad. And that's not what you want, I reckon. This lasts with a grin. You haven't been boxing regular, you know, just lately. But you're all right, he added, as they walked aside. Your work keeps you in good condition. Not quite so quick as you would have been if you'd been sparring every evening, of course. But quick enough for your job, I expect. And again Johnny saw the cunning twinkle. It was about closing time. And when Johnny had changed his clothes, he found the sergeant leaving also. He thanked him and bade him good night. Good night, May, the sergeant called, and turned into the street. But he swung back along the footpath after Johnny and asked, Is it tomorrow? What sergeant? Oh, I ain't a sergeant. I'm a stranger. There's a sergeant goes to that moral establishment, perhaps, with a nod at the institute. But he behaves strictly proper. I'm just a chap out in the street that would like to see the fight. That's all. When is it? I don't quite know that myself, Johnny answered. Oh, like that is it. The sergeant was thoughtful for a moment, perhaps incredulous. Then he said, Well, can't be helped, I suppose. Anyhow, keep your left going strong, but don't lead quite so reckless, with your head up and no guard. You're good enough. And the bigger he is, the more to hit. End of Chapter 28, Recording by John Brandon Chapter 29 of Two London Town This is a LibriVox Recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by John Brandon To London Town by Arthur Morrison, Chapter 29 Mr. Butson was perhaps a shade relieved when he returned home that night and found all quiet at Johnny in bed. He had half expected, but his inopportune return might have caused trouble. But the night after, as he came from the railway station, a little earlier than usual, Johnny stopped him in the street. I want to speak to you, he said. Just come round by the dock wall. His manner was quiet and business-like, but Mr. Butson wondered, Why? He asked. Can't you tell me here? No, I can't. There are too many people about. It's money in your pocket if you come. Mr. Butson went. What it meant he could not imagine, but Johnny usually told the truth and he said it would be money in his pocket, the desirable disposition of the article. The dock wall was just round a corner, a tall raking wall at one side of a sparsely-lit road that was empty at night, and a lower wall at the other. The road reached by a flight of steps rising from the street and a gateway in the low wall. Well, what is it now? Mr. Butson asked suspiciously. Is Johnny stopped under a gas lamp and looked right and left along the deserted road? Only just this, Johnny replied with simple distinctness. You wanted mother to give you my money every week, though in fact, she's been letting me keep it. Well, here is my last week's money. He shook it in his hand, and I'll give it you if you'll stand up here and fight me. What? Fight you? You? Mr. Butson laughed, but he felt a secret uneasiness. Yes, me. You'd rather fight a woman, no doubt, or a lame girl, but I'm going to give you a change and make you fight me here. Johnny flung his jacket on the ground and his hat on it. You'll be such a young fool, both Mr. Butson loftily, put on your jacket and come home. Yes, presently, Johnny replied grimly, presently I'll go home and take you with me. Come, you're ready enough to punch my mother without being asked, or my sister. Come and punch me and take pay for it. Mr. Butson was a little uncomfortable. I suppose, he sneered. You've got a knife or a poker or something about you, like what you threatened me with before. I haven't even brought a stick. You're the sort of coward I expected, though you're bigger than me and heavier. Come, he struck the man a heavy smack on the mouth. Now, fight. Butson snarled and cut at the lad's head with the handle of his walking stick, but Johnny's arm straightened like a flash and Butson rolled over. What I thought you'd do, remarked Johnny, seizing his wrist and twisting the stick away. Now get up. Come on. Mr. Butson sat and gasped. He fingered his nose gently and found it very tender and bleeding. He seemed to have met a thunderbolt in the dark. He turned slowly over on his knees and so got on his feet. Hit me. Come, hit me, called Johnny, sparring at him. Nancy, I'm only my mother, you cur. Come, I'm hitting you. See? So. He seized the man by the ear, twisted it and wrapped him about the face. The treatment would have roused his sheep. Butson sprang at Johnny, grappled with him, and for a moment bore him back. Johnny asked nothing better. He broke ground, checked the rush with half-arm hits, and stopped it with a quick double left, flush in the face. It was mere slaughter. Johnny was too hard, too scientific, too full of cool hatred. The wretched Butson, bigger and heavier as he might be, was flaccid from soft living, and science he had none. But he fought like a rat in a corner, wreaking nothing of rule, but kicking, biting, striking, wrestling madly. Though to small purpose, for his enemy deadly calm and deadly quick, saw every movement ere it was made, and battered with savage precision. Whenever you've had enough, said Johnny, his Butson staggered and leaned against the wall. You can stop it, you know, by calling the police. You like the police. There's always one of them in the next street, and you've only to shout. I shall hammer you till you do. And he hammered. A blow on the ear drove Butson's head against the wall, and a swing from the other fist brought it away again. He flung himself on the ground. Get up, cried Johnny. Get up. What you won't. All right, you went down by yourself, you know. Sosed to be led alone. But I'm coming down, too. And with that, he laid beside Butson, and struck once more, and struck again. Chuck it, groaned Butson. I'm done. Oh, leave me alone. Leave you alone, answered Johnny, rising and reaching for his jacket. Not I. You didn't leave my mother alone as soon as she asked you, did you? I'll never pass you again without clouding your head. Come home. He hauled the bruised ranch up by the collar, crammed his hat on his head, and cut him across the cabs with his own walking stick. Go on, march. Can't you leave me alone now? Wine Butson, you've done enough, ain't you? No, not near enough. And you'll have a lot more if you don't do as I tell you. I said I'd take you home, and I will. Go on. Two or three dark streets led to Harbor Lane, but they were short. It was past closing time, and when they reached the shop, the lights were turned down, and the door shut. Nan opened to Johnny's knock, and he thrust Butson in before him. Here he is, said Johnny, not thrashed half enough. Dusty and bleeding, his face nigh unrecognizable, under cuts and bruises. Butson sat on a box, a figure of shame. Nan screamed and ran to him. I did it where the neighbors wouldn't hear, Johnny explained. And if he'd been a man, he'd have drowned himself rather than come here, after the way I've treated him. He's a poor cur, and I'll buy a whip for him. There's the money I promised you. He went on, putting it on the box. It's the first you've earned for years, and the last you'll have here, if I can manage it. But Nan was crying over that dishonorable head and wiping it with her handkerchief. CHAPTER XXXXV Why, what's that? Said Long Hicks on the way to work in the morning, got cuts all over your hands. Yes, Johnny answered leconically, fighting. Fighting? Long Hicks looked mighty reproachful. Just you be careful what company you're getting into, he said severely. You're neglecting your drawn and everything lately. And now fighting? I ain't ashamed of it, Johnny replied gloomily. And I've got other things to think about now, besides drawing. Hicks stared, stuttered a little, and rubbed his cap over his head. He wondered whether, or not, he ought to ask questions. They went a little way in silence, and then Johnny said, It's him, Butson. No, exclaimed Hicks, checking in his stride and staring at Johnny again. What, been fighting Butson? Johnny poured out the whole story. And as he told, Hicks' eyes widened, his face flushed and paled, his hands opened and closed convulsively. And again and again he blew and stuttered incomprehensibly. Job is to drive the brute away, Johnny concluded wearily. He'll stop as long as he's fed. And Mother thinks it's a disgrace to get a separation going before a magistrate in awe. I'm only telling you because I know you won't jaw about it among the neighbors. That day, long Hicks got leave of absence for the rest of the week, mightily astonishing Mr. Cottom by the application, for Hicks had never been known to take a holiday before. All right, the gaffer growled, seen as we're slack. There's one or two standing off a bit already. But what's up with you wanting time off? Getting frisky? Running out of the girls? An indeed long Hicks spent his holiday much like a man who is running after something or somebody. He took a walking tour of intricate plan, winding and turning among the small streets, up street and down, but tending northward, toward Bromley, bull and old Ford, and so toward Homerton and the Marshes. Meantime, Johnny walked to and from his work alone and brooded. He could not altogether understand his mother's attitude toward Butson. She had been willing, even anxious, to get rid of him by any process that would involve no disgrace among the neighbors, and no peril to the trade of the shop. He had made his life miserable. Yet now she tended the broods cuts and bumps, as though he didn't deserve them, and she cried more than ever. As for Johnny himself, he spared Butson nothing. Rather he drew a hideous solace from any torture wherewith he might afflict him. When are you going to clear out, he would say? You'd rather be kept than work, but you don't like being thrashed, do you? Thrashed by a boy, eh? You'll enjoy work a deal better than the life I'll lead you here, I can tell you. Make you glad to drown yourself mean funk as you are before I'm done with you. Don't be too careful with that eye. The sooner it's well, the sooner I'll bung it up again. Bessie marbled at this development of morose savagery on her brother's part. With her, though he spoke little, he was kinder than ever. But it was his pastime to bully Butson, who sculpted miserably in the house, being in no fit state for public exhibition. As to his search for Nora Sansom, Johnny was vaguely surprised to find himself almost indifferent. It would have been useless to worry his mother about it now. And though he spent an hour or two in aimless tramping about the streets, it was with the uppermost feeling that he should rather be at home bullying Butson. He had no notion why, being little given to introspection, and he was, as it were, unconscious of his inner conviction that, after all, Nora could not be entirely lost. While Butson's punishment was the immediate concern, and, as the thing stood, the creature seemed scarce to have been punished at all. End of Chapter 30, Recording by John Brandon Chapter 31 of To London Town This is a LibriVox Recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by John Brandon. To London Town by Arthur Morrison Chapter 31 Long Hick's holiday had lasted three days, and Mr. Butson's minor bruises were turning green. It was at the stroke of five in the afternoon, and Bessie was minding shop. From the shipyard opposite, a score or so of men came in dirty dungaree, for it was Friday. Vanguard of the tramping hundreds that issued each day, regular as the clock before the timekeeper's box. Bessie rose on her crutch, and peeped between a cheese and a packet of candles out of window. Friday was not a day when many men came in on their way home, because by that time the week's money was run low, and luxuries were barred. Bessie's scarce expected a customer, and it would seem that none was coming. Peeping so, she grew aware of a stout red-faced woman approaching at a rapid scuttle. And then, almost as the woman reached the door, she saw Hick's at her heels, his face a long figure of dismay. The woman burst into the shop with a rasping shriek. I want my husband, she screamed. Where's my husband? Come away, called Hick's deadly pale, and nervously snatching at her shoulder. Come away, you know what you promised? Take your hand off me, you long fool. Where's my husband? Is it you, what got him? She turned on Bessie and bawled the words in her face. No, no, it ain't. Cried Hick's, near beside himself. Come away, and we'll talk about it outside. Talk? Oh, yos, I'll give him talk. The woman's every syllable was a harsh yell, racking to the brain, and already it had drawn a group about the door. I'll give him talk, and air too? Would anyone believe? She went on, turning toward the door, and haranguing the crowd that grew at every word. Is our woman calling herself respectable, and keeping her shop like any lady, or take away a respectable woman's husband? A lazy good-for-nothing scoundrel has run away and left me thirteen years ago last witson. Voice sprang from everywhere, and pelted in to swell the crowd, drawn by the increasing screams. Many of the men who knew the shop so well stopped to learn what the trouble was, and soon every window in Harbour Lane displayed a woman's head or two. My husband, where's my husband? Show me the woman has took my husband. Nan came and stood in the back parlor doorway, frightened but uncomprehending. The woman turned. You, you is it, she shrieked, oversetting a pile of tins and boxes and clawing the air above her. Give me back my husband, you shameless creature. Where you got him? Where's my husband? Hicks put his arm around the woman's waist, and swung her back. He was angry now. Get out, he said. I don't bring you to make a row like that. You swore you wouldn't. Finding his arm too strong for her, the woman turned on Hicks and sat to clawing at his face, never ceasing to scream for her husband, and then Johnny came pushing in at the door, having run from the far street corner at sight of the crowd. Hicks, as well as he could for dodging and catching at the woman's wrists, made violent facial signals to Johnny, who stared, understanding none of them. But he heard the woman's howls for her husband, and he caught at her arm. Who is your husband, he said? What's his name? What's his name? Why Butson? Henry Butson is name. Give me my husband, my husband. Let me go, you villain. It was like an unexpected blow on the head to Johnny. But save for a moment it stunned not at all, rather roused him. I'll fetch him, he cried, and sprang into the house. Here was release. The man had another wife. He would drag the wretch down to her, and then give him to the police. No wonder he feared the police. The load was lifted at last. Butson's punishment was come indeed. Fiercely glad and thinking of nothing but this, Johnny swung into each room in turn. But there was no Butson. His pipe lay broken on the front bedroom fender, and his coat hung behind the door. But there was no other sign. Johnny dashed into the backyard, that too was empty. But in the yard behind, the old lighterman, paint pot in one hand and brush in the other, just as he had broken off in the touching up of his mast, stood and blinked and stared with his mouth open. His house doors back and front stood wide, because of wet paint. And one could see through to the next street. It was by those doorways that Mr. Butson had vanished a minute ago, after scrambling over the wall, hatless, and in his shirt sleeves. And the old lighterman thought it a great liberty and told Johnny so with some dignity. Johnny rushed back to the shop. Gone, he cried. Bolted out the back. He might have offered chase, but his mother lay in a swoon, and Bessie hung over her hysterical. Shove that woman out, he said, and he and Hicks between them thrust the balling termigant into the street and closed the door. Without, she raged still and grew hoarser till a policeman came to quiet her. And in the end, she marched off with him, talking at a loud scream all the way. And Harbour Lane flamed with the news of Nan's shameless bigamy. Long Hicks raved and toured his hair, striding about the shop and cursing himself with whatever words he could find. Johnny was excited still, but he grew thoughtful. There was more in this business, he saw now, than the mere happy riddance of Butson. What of the future? His mother was prostrated and lay moaning on her bed. No one was there to tend her but Bessie, and there was no likelihood of help. They had no intimacy with neighbours, and indeed the stark morality of Harbour Lane womankind would have cut it off if they had. For already poor Nan was tried and condemned, as was the expeditious manner of Harbour Lane in such a matter, and no woman could dare so much as brush skirts with her. It's my fault, all of it, said the unhappy Hicks. I shouldn't have been such a fool. But how was I to know she'd go on like that? After what she'd agreed to, oh damn me, I shouldn't have meddled. Johnny calmed him as well as he might, pulled him into a chair in the shop harler, and sought to know the meaning of his self-reproaches. Why not meddle, Johnny asked, when you found her kicking up that row. Ah, but I didn't. I didn't, protested Hicks, rolling his head despairingly and punching his thigh. I brought her here. It's all my fault. I thought I was doing something clever and I was silly fool. Oh, I'd like to shoot myself. Brought her here? Well, tell us about it. No good punching yourself. When did you find out he was married? Knew it years ago. Didn't know the woman was alive, though. Thought she must have been dead when you told me he'd married your mother. Some light broke on Johnny. And you took these days off to look for her? Was that it? That's it. And I was a fool, made things worse, instead of better. Never mind about that. Anything's better than having that brute here. What changed your mind about her being dead? Oh, I don't know. I'll tell you all there is to it. Long time ago, when I was working at bishops and lodging and limus, the landlady she knew Butson and his wife, too, and she told me that they let a pretty cat and dog life. One day, Butson hops the twig. Well, his Mrs. wasn't sorry to lose him, and she sets to wash and iron and to keep herself and the kid. But when Butson gets out of a job, he was never in one long. He goes sniveling round to her and wants to go back and be kept. Well, the Mrs. makes it pretty odd for him, you may guess, but she stands him for a week or two, giving it him pretty thick all the time till Butson he cuts away again, never comes back. His Mrs. never bothered about him. Said she was well quit. This was all before I went to live at limus. But she used to be pals with my landlady. I kept a bottle of whiskey then, case of a friend coming, and them, too, give it what for between them on the quiet. And did you know her then, his wife? Only by sight, and not to say to speak to, me being a quiet sort. I knew Butson since, in the shops, most took him for a bachelor. Well, I wasn't at limus very long. I came away to this part and see no more of her, though of course I see him often. When you told me he'd married your mother, it took me a back a bit at first. But then thinks I. I expect the first one's dead, must be. But after that the other day, when you told me what a right downed baton he was, I begun to think was of him. I knew he'd been living idle, but I didn't guess he treated her so bad. And when you talked of wanting to get rid of him, I got a notion. If he's bad enough for what he's done, thinks I, he's bad enough for anything. Perhaps his first wife's alive after all. And if she is, why the job's done. Anyway, I puts it, I'll risk a day or two off on it. And I did. And here's a nice old bloomin' mess I made. Oh, I ought to be pole-axed. Well, of course there's been a row, Johnny said gloomily, and I expect it'll knock tree to pieces here. And half kill mother. But you couldn't very well help a row in a thing like this. I've been three days finding her. My old landlady's dead. I had to try and find her sister. Nobody knew where the sister was, but after a lot of bother, an old woman sends me to a cousin in the workers. Cousin in the workers thinks the sister's dead too. But tells me to go and ask at a newspaper shop in Bromley. Newspapers shop shut up, people gone. Find the man as moved him. And he sends me to Bow, another newspaper shop. People there send me back to Poplar. Party of the name of Bushel. Party of the name of Bushel very friendly and sends me to Old Ford. Then I went to Bow again. And so I dodged about up and down till I run across Mrs. Butson up on Olmerton Marsh's Keepin' a Laundry. That was today, that was. Well, she took it mighty cool at first. When I told her I knew where her husband was, she told me I might keep my knowledge to myself. For she didn't want them. Very cool she was. Till I told her he'd married again. And at that she shot her jaw with a snap and glared at me. So I just told her what I knew, and now it would be a charity to give him a scare on the quiet and send him away from here and, all right, she says, just you show me where they live, she says. I'll give him a scare. Right, says I. But I made conditions. She was to wait at the street corner and I was to send in a message for him to come out. And we was to give him ten minutes to go and get his clothes if he wanted any, make any excuse he liked, and clear out. So as to do it all quiet and peaceable, nobody the wiser. All right, she says, just you show me the place, that's all. So I brought her. But when we got to the corner and I told her which house, off she went at a bolt and, and set up all that row for I could stop her. Who'd have thought of her act in contradictory like that? It was not altogether so dense a mystery to Johnny as it was to the simpler Hicks, twice his age, though more a boy than himself. But he assured Hicks that after all he had done a good turn, and no price was too high for riddance of Butson. Mother will be grateful to you too, when she's a bit quieter and knows about it, he said. And presently he added thoughtfully, I think I ought to have guessed something of the sort, with his sneaking in and out so quiet and being afraid of the police. There's lots of things I see through now that I ought to have seen through before, not wanting the new name over the door for one, till the shutters were up that night and the door well bolted, Nann May was urgent that that horrible woman must be kept out. And when at last she slept in mere exhaustion, she awoke in a fit of trembling and choking, beseeching somebody to take that woman away. Bessie, like Johnny, had a sense of relief, though she slept not at all and dreaded vaguely. But with all she was conscious of some intangible remembrance of that red-faced woman with the harsh voice. And it was long days ere it returned to her that she had heard the voice high above the shouts of the bean-feasters in the forest, on the day when Uncle Isaac had brought Butson to the Mr. Duncan's notice to quit arrived early the next morning. The service that notice was a duty owed to society, morality, conscience, virtue, propriety, religion, and several other things which he enumerated without hesitation. He could not have sat in his pew the next day with any comfort, knowing that such a duty remained unperformed. He would have felt a hypocrite. The notice might have come before, for the trade had been good and steady. But Mr. Duncan also had heard the whispers that the shipyard might be shut, and he had hesitated long. Now, however, there was no alternative. If Mrs. May were left to flaunt her infamy, the trade must decline under the scandal, and the place fall worthless again. More her expulsion at this time would seem less a seizure of the new branch than a popular vindication of righteousness. Johnny was at home when the notice came. He had sent a message to Mr. Cotum, pleading urgent family matters. Might have expected it, Johnny said, giving the paper to Hicks, whom he had called into counsel. Anyway, mothers swear she can't show her face in the shop again. She seems almost afraid to come out of her bedroom, talks wild about disgracing her children, and wishes she was dead. She's pretty bad. And as to the shop, that's done up. Question is, what to do now? Then Hicks rose to his feet and met the occasion, face to face. We'll do this thing between us, he said, and damn everybody. I ain't a man of business, not special. But I got you all into this ear mess, and I'll see you out of it, or I'll bust. Plus thing, this ear Mr. Duncan's games plain enough. Here's a very decent business going on, and he takes this excuse to collar it himself. You ain't took the shutters down yet, and we won't take them down. We'll stick up a big bill. Business come to an end, or such other words, and let the customers go where they like, and hope they won't come back. Then perhaps he'll come along in a day or two and offer to buy the stock, thinking he'll get it for next to nothing. You'll be in all at sixes and sevens. We won't sell it. Not one fart and candle. But we won't say so, no. We'll find Cochum. We'll ask him to think over it for another day or two, and see if he can't make it a quit or two more. He'll let it slide all the week, if we do it right, expecting to land us at the last minute and make us take anything. But we'll just be walking the stuff all away, very quiet in the evenings, in a baror, and then he'll come into an empty shop, unexpected, and he won't know what the customers is used to. And that'll give him fits for another week or two, see? But where shall we take this stuff? Take it? Lord anywhere, replied Hicks. With a sweep of the hand, there's plenty of empty shops ready to be took everywhere. Why the number I've seen these two or three days, would surprise you. Some ain't as good as others, perhaps, but that will settle in the week. It's just beginning again, that's all. Same as what you did three or four years back. Lord will do it, I tell you, do it flying. Long Hicks waved his arms enthusiastically. As to the haypence, he went on, perhaps your mother's got some, perhaps she ain't, don't worry either way. I'm a single man and been in good work years, and I got a bit in the savings bank, all right? I ain't gonna offer no favors, so don't sing out. Six minutes in the pounds all I get are the post office, and that ain't much. I'm open to make it a bit more, three percent. If you like, on loan, any security or none, there's plenty in the place in the forest, and the stock and all, have it your own way. Business aren't business. That's all it is. And now we'll clear decks. First, get your mother and sister out of this, somewhere out of Harbor Lane, where they ain't known, and where they'll quit fretting. Where? Hicks impetuously left Johnny's wits lagging. Temporary lodgings, needn't be fur, next parish is as good as fifty mile off in London. Better and by George. No, I think of it. I see the very place when I was going round. Party of the name of Buschel, in Poplar. Ours too big for him. Got a furnished bedroom to let, showed it me. Case I might know someone and send them them, haven't done me a turn, sending me to old Ford. What's more, there'll be two more rooms on furnished next week, tenant going out, young gal, a dressmaker. So we can take them too, if we get pushed, and run the sticks in there. There's luck to begin with, why things will go like clockwork. Hicks rushed off to make sure of the lodging, and in half an hour was back with a four-wheeled cab. Get him down and pop him in sharp, said Hicks. I've told the cabbie where to go. You go with him, and make him comfortable, and I'll wait here till you come back. Mind, people at the house only know she's in trouble cause her husband run away, and I pay the week in advance. Go on, I'll keep out of the way in the back till they're clear off. They don't want to see me. Nann and Bessie wore veils, and hurried into the cab while Johnny glowered fiercely at every face he could see turn toward them. To Johnny the street seemed unreasonably familiar as the cab jolted through them, unreasonably like what they were a day ago, before this blow fell and knocked the world out of shape. They went out through Black Wall Cross, by the High Street, and passed the Institute, where the familiar housekeeper, the housekeeper who had given him Nora's farewell letter, stood on the steps with a broom. Through the two streets and passed that corner where they had parted, it seemed years ago. As to when they might meet again and how, that was not to be thought of now. His head was too full already. End of Chapter 33, Recording by John Brandon By Alan Lawley Oh, give me some time to blow the man down! Roared Mr. Buschle, splashing and puffing, amid much yellow soap and cold water in the wash house, wither he had gone for a wash, oncoming home from his tug. The voice standard and rolled through the house, and on the first floor, strangers not used to it, grew muddled in their conversation. Blow the man down, bully blow the man down! To my eye, I blow the man down! Singapore harbour to Gay London town! Oh, give us some time to blow the man down! Upon the first floor landing, ah, poor dears, said Mrs. Buschle, fat and sympathetic, looking up at Johnny, with her head aside, and her hands clasped. Poor dears, no, nobody shall disturb him, nor how I do feel for him. And you too, Mr. May. Lucky you've grown up to be a comfort to your poor ma. There, I won't say nothing about your father, running away so disgraceful and all, but I can't think what parent is coming to. Some of them. There's the poor girl as leaving the other two rooms on Monday now. Such a quiet, well-behaved young lady. We wouldn't let him stop a week if it wasn't for a sake, being so hard to find a respectable lodgings with such a mother. But there, her mother worries the poor thing's life out, or with drinking. And now she's actually in gold for breaking a public house window. And I says, Public house window? Johnny's breath came short and thick. What's her name? Perhaps I shouldn't have mentioned it to a stranger. But, Lord, I don't suppose you know her, and it's sandsome. But where is she? Show me. In here? Is she in now? Johnny made dashes that dive his door handles with one hand, while Mrs. Bushall, confounded and scandalised, restrained him desperately by the opposite arm. It took some impatient moments to make it plain to the landlady that he intended no violent assault, nor, on consideration, even the rudeness of dashing into a lady's rooms unannounced. Whereupon Mrs. Bushall went to a door and knocked, Johnny close at her heels, close at her heels, and presently the door opened. Nora? Oh, Johnny, Johnny, I wish you hadn't, wish alone, but with that the words died on the breast of Johnny's coat. Mrs. Bushall's eyes opened round, and then her mouth, and then Mrs. Bushall went off very quietly downstairs, eyes and mouth and face all round, and out into the wash house, and blow the man down, stopped in the middle. Oh, but you know what I said, Johnny, we can't, you know we can't. Nonsense, I shan't let you go now, I've got a disreputable mother now, or so they say. Have you heard of yours since? She's in the infirmary, very bad. Something's been forming on her liver for years, the doctor says, and when she couldn't get anything to drink, she broke down at once. But what did you say about your mother? Johnny told her the tale, and now he added in the end, she's in there, worn out and broken down, and not a woman in the world to comfort her but my sister. Coming in help, and they went in together. End of Chapter 34, Chapter 35 of To London Town. This is a LibyVox recording, all LibyVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibyVox.org. Recording by Alan Lawley. At the end of the week, Long Hicks stood astonished at his own performances. At the end of the year, he was still astonished, unproud, inordinately. Until the end of his life, he will never forget the smallest particular of that week's exploits. The policeman who came with a wand for Butson. The young man from Mr. Duncan, who came about the stock. The other young man that came the next time. He polished them all off, and half a dozen others, in the most dashing and business-like manner. He found a new shop. Found a score of shops, in fact, so that Nan Mae was feigned to rouse herself and choose. Least some hopeless sepulcher of trade were rented without her knowledge. And this was good, for it gave her work to do, and to think of, and once said going, she buckled to her task with all her old energy, and a world of riper experience. The shop was not so fortunately placed as that at Harper Lane, and trade was never quite so good as it had been there, when at its best. More, its place was in a dingy street, out of sight of the river and the ships. But it was a fairly busy thoroughfare, and things could be sold there, which was the main consideration. And it was Higgs's triumph to stock this shop with the stock from Harper Lane, conveyed secretly by night, on a truck with many chucklings, after cunning putting off of Mr Duncan, the tale whereof he would tell ever after, with bashful glee, together with the tale of the sad emptiness and disorganization of Mr Duncan's new branch at its opening on Monday morning. And Uncle Isaac, who found his niece's new shop here long, assured the listener by frequent proclamation that Mr Higgs was a gentleman of vast business ability, and a genius at enterprise. Yes, a genius, that's what I say, Mr Gotham, a genius of uncommon talent. It was a wet afternoon, when Gotham and Higgs had taken ten minutes' shelter in the roundhouse by the quayside. And presently were joined by Uncle Isaac, on his way across from the docks. Mr Gotham granted. He had met Uncle Isaac twice before. Lord! Uncle Isaac went on, gazing at the uneasy Higgs with steadfast admiration. Lord, if he was only ambitious, he might be anything. What an ornament he'd be to a diplomatic core. Talk about enterprise. While he had enterprise and any sort of circumventions, ease, ease. Why there, as I always say, he might be ambassador to Her Majesty's possessions. The shower flagged, and men came out on the keys. Mr Gotham rose from the coil he had been sitting on, took his gaze out of space, and fixed it on the wall over Uncle Isaac's head. Mr Mundy, he trumpeted, in the manner of a man beginning a speech to an expectant multitude, raising his forefinger to his shoulder and lowering it till it rested on Uncle Isaac's chest. Mr Mundy. Then he paused. And Uncle Isaac said, Yes, Mr Gotham. The pause in Jordan grew impressive. Till it last's performance faced relaxed. His gaze descended till it met Uncle Isaac's, and he chuckled aloud, stabbing him playfully with the forefinger. Why? What a windy orchidder you are, Mr Gotham, and stamped off along the key, croaking and chuckling all over. End of Chapter 35, Chapter 36 of To London Town. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Alan Lawley. So with the days and the months Nan Sorrows fell from her, and their harder shapes were lost in her remembrance, and the new days brought a new peace, perhaps even a new dullness. For this was a dull place, this street to flat walls, and grime, and anxious passengers. But what mattered mere dullness of externals, when she had hard work to do, and a son to take pride in. For Nora Sorrows, who shall speak? There was a hospital bed that she knew well. A pillar whereon a slaty face wasted and grew blank of meaning, and in the end, there was a day of driving wet in a clay-y cemetery, a day of loneliness, and wonder, and dull calm. But that day went with the others, and that year went. The streets grew sloppy with winter, dusty with summer, and smoky geraniums struggled into bloom on window sales, and died off. Miles away, the forest gowned itself anew in green, in brown, and in white. And in green, the exiles saw it once a year. But all its dresses were spread for Bessie still, in her dreams. Two years were gone, and Johnny was within five months of twenty-one, and the end of his apprenticeship, when, on a brave august day, he walked in the forest alone. There would be no forest excursion for him next year, for then, with good fortune, he would be upon the seas. For the firm had promised him the recommendation that would give him a year's foraging as fourth engineer. Bessie and Nora were sharing the holiday, but they were left to rest up to the rest of the year. Bob, Vast, Brown, and Leathery, was much as ever. He had seen Johnny and Bessie once each year, but not their mother, since, well, since he had gone to London to see his sister. He was not sure whether he should go to London again soon, or not. Meantime, he made tea for his visitors. They had climbed the hill to Grand Dad's grave, and they found it green and neat. They had seen another, fresh-closed beside it, and wondered who was buried there. They had gathered flowers in monk-wild, and they had seen a new one. They had seen another, fresh-closed beside it, and wondered who was buried there. They had gathered flowers in monk-wild, and they had stayed long in Lawton Camp. They had come again to the cottage on the Glen's side, and Johnny had had to stoop to the door to save his hat. For indeed, he was within two inches as big as Bob's small piece himself. And now Johnny, being alone, took the path to Wormleton Pits. It was six years since he had gone that way last, and he might never go that way again. Mainly, his way lay as it had lain when he carried the basket of slows. That night, when his grandfather had hunted his last moth. Johnny had left charred his fantasies years behind him, and now the trees were trees merely one much as the rest, though green and cheerful in the sunlight. But even as on that night, his mind had run on London, the long-for-London that was his home now, and stale with familiarity. So now he turned over once more the mystery of the old man's cutting-off, and with his little-more knowledge of the next chances in life had for. Here branched the track by which he had made for Thaedon. There was the tree under which he had last seen the old man's lantern light, and then the slate opened, glorious with heather. Bramble's and bushes about the pits were changed, this grown higher and wider, that withered off. And the pits, the smaller pits at least, seemed shallow enough holes under the eyes of a man of near six feet. The deepest pit, the pit, was farthest, and Johnny could see a man whose figure seemed vaguely familiar, sitting on its edge. He picked his way across the broken ground, and came to the pit on the side opposite to the stranger. There was the hole where the old man had taken his death-blow. Perhaps the bottom had risen an inch or so because of gravel washings, but the big stone in the middle was still plain to see. The man opposite was trimming wooden pegs with a pocket-knife. He wore colder eyes of a cut that Johnny held in remembrance. Johnny watched for a few seconds, and then the man turned up a leathery brown face, and Johnny knew him. It was Amos Honeywell, notable as a poacher, and chief of a family of poachers. Amos put a peg into his pocket, and began on another. Well, Amos called Johnny across the pit. You don't know me. The man looked up and stared. No, he said, I don't. Johnny gave him his name. What? Answered Amos, putting away his peg unfinished. Johnny May. The boy who used to be a long old old May, the butterfly man, as died in an accident, in this air very pit. Yes, if it was an accident. Oh, it was that all right now. But why, you're twice as tall, and taunts along neither. Amos paused, staring mightily at Johnny, and slapped his thigh. Why, he said, it's the curious thing in nature seeing you now, and here too. Did you see her a funeral last Wednesday? Now, where? Up to church, where your grandfather's buried. But now, he aren't living here about now, of course. Well, it is the rarest conglomeration ever I see. Me seeing you here, at this air very pit, and in buried, only last Wednesday, and died in an accident too, fell off a rickety there, fell off a rickety there, and who was he? Cubasell Chappy was, Nemo Styles, lived here about six years, but of course, you wouldn't know about him, to a he as did the accident. Did the accident? What do you mean? Amos Honeywell got up from his seat, and jerked his thumb toward the pit-bottom. They say one is said, your grandfather. Do you mean he killed him? Don't much matter what you call it now, the chap's dead. But I wouldn't put it killed. Not meaning. Amos Honeywell came slouching along the pit-edge, talking as he came. See, he was a Cubasell chap. A new here, and no view. Well, he sees this here as a likely spot for a rabbit or so, and he puts up a few pegs and a wire or two, just after dark. You know? In the middle of it, he sees a strange odd chap, coming with a lantern, searching. Searching? What for? Why, for wires, he thinks, of course. He hides in some brambles, but the old chap gets nyer and nyer, and presently, Styles, he sees, is about caught. So he ups on a sudden, and knocks the old chap over, and grabs the wires, and then he bolts. Old chap goes over, into pits of a lump, and he falls, awkward. And, and well, there you are. And how long have you known this? Knowed it? Knowed it all time, same as others, and never said a word of it, nor told the police? Why no, Amos answered, with honest indignity. Wouldn't have us get the poor chap in trouble, would ye? And this was the mystery, nothing of wonder at all, nothing but a casual crossing of ways, just a chance from the hatful, like all the rest of it. And Amos? Well, he was right too, by such lights as he could see. Light was low behind the hills, and dust dimmed the keepers on his face, as he waved his friends goodbye. Yes, he would come to them in London, one of these days. Soon? Well then, soon. Soon. Together the three went down the scented lanes, where the white-ghost moths began to fly, and so into the world of new adventure. End of Chapter 36. End of To London Town, by Arthur Morrison.