A Breaker of Laws/Chapter 4

is a letter posted (after being kissed) by Caroline at the scarlet pillar box in Trafalgar Road. It is headed importantly 'Exmouth Terrace, Greenwich,' and begins:

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Much of truth in the contented young woman's letter to Barnstaple; it is necessary to state also that there was something of exaggeration. Exmouth Terrace as an address sounded well, and did indeed carry conviction to the two sisters in Devonshire, whose idea of a terrace was an imposing row of good-sized castles; in point of fact, Exmouth Terrace happened to be a set of small cottages in a narrow road called East Street that led to a boat-house; the inhabitants had for the most part some vague and not always clearly defined work in connection with the river.

The husband of Caroline's neighbour, for instance, was a weedy man, with no chin worth mentioning, who had once been a cornet-player on the London Bridge boats, and whose only occupation now was to go and look at the river, and, that duty completed, to go to the Waterman's Arms and have a drink; the drink finished, to say, with the sigh of an overworked man, 'Well, I s'pose I'd better 'ave another look round and see what's going on,' and having looked round, to return to the Waterman's Arms. Others in East Street had occupation of a more settled and valuable character, and were absent all day, thus leaving their wives free to discuss topics in the open without restraint.

To the intense annoyance of East Street, Caroline did not join this debating society, with the result that her clean window-curtains and her bright sunshiny self became sources of great annoyance to East Street, and chattering matrons, with bare scarlet arms rolled in aprons, and ropes of hair that were always coming untied, whilst disagreeing on most topics, agreed that Caroline was not the only married woman in Greenwich; that her husband was, perhaps, no better than he should be; that people who lived in part of a house had no excuse for holding their heads high; they added finally and conclusively, as settling the whole question, 'Pride goeth before a fall.' The hint in Caroline's letter that Alfred's departure to work lacked something of despatch might well have been stated with more of emphasis. He lost many a 'quarter' by his late arrival at the works; had it not been for the bustling, active young wife, who from her work in the front room called to him without ceasing, he would have frequently stopped in bed from sheer laziness all the morning. It is fair to Alfred to say that, once he detected in her tones a suggestion of regret at his inattention, he was out and away to Barraclough's with amazing speed.

Later in the morning, work being over, Caroline descended to the ground-floor, and, the ex-cornet-player having slouched off to see what was going on, craved permission to bath and dress the ground-floor baby; permission graciously accorded by that young gentleman's mother, a languid woman, clothed generally in a loose blue blouse, a striped petticoat, and apparently little else, a great patroness of literature, but only of that form of literature which treats of imperfect countesses, earnest artists, revengeful dukes and admirable country maids, at one penny per number. Between twelve and one East Street filled with children released from the Board School, and Caroline watched the small girls play at shops and the boys engage in naval warfare (a mulatto boy in these games impersonated a torpedo-boat, and Nelson, who took care to pin one sleeve across his breast, always won the fights); and then the young woman had her modest dinner. By this time it seemed clear to her that everything in the spotless rooms had become covered with thick dust; that the correct, impeccable furniture had, through sheer inattention on her part, gone to rack and ruin. After dinner, therefore, everything in the room was swept and dusted, and rubbed until it almost wailed for peace.

Then, the day being fine, Caroline proceeded to dress in her outdoor gown, laughing to think that in four hours Alf would be home; the kitten coming daringly into the bedroom at the sound of this, they had rare games together, the kitten being a sportive little bundle of white fur with an ungovernable desire to hunt balls of cotton and a trick of jumping on Caroline's bare shoulder in the middle of her toilet, and blinking at the young woman's reflection in the small mirror, watching the stages of dressing with a rude, but perhaps excusable interest. The ground-floor baby, borrowed from its complaisant mother, who brought herself from the conservatory of some ducal mansion with an effort, jumped about with so much ecstasy at the mere sentence, 'Baby go ta-ta?' that clothes had to be thrown upon his plunging little limbs with a good deal of dexterity, whilst slippers were fixed on his restless feet by a series of lucky accidents.

They usually strolled out towards Park Street first, where Caroline taught the ground-floor baby to simulate great terror at the violet lamp over the police-station, and it was this part of the stroll that brought perturbation, because matrons of East Street came hurriedly to their doors, exchanging caustic remarks in voices that were intended to reach Caroline's hot little ears.

'Like to know where she got that dress from.'

'Fancy taking anybody else's biby out! It don't seem natural, do it?'

'Don't we 'old our 'eads 'igh, though! Talk about the Princess of Wales!'

'Ain't we careful to lift our skirt, too, as we cross the road, too! My goodness! they'll 'ave to lay down scarlet cloth next, I s'pose.'

But once by the river-side, the fresh breeze coming up from Gravesend way soon restored to Caroline her equable temper; and when other young women, also taking the afternoon air, beamed upon her and the small, large-hatted baby, she took the manner of a very wise young matron indeed, giving the youth an enormous amount of good advice, advice which he received with less enthusiasm, perhaps, than that with which he greeted his share of a glass of milk near the landing-pier.

Once a month, on a Sunday, William Finnis received invitation to Exmouth Terrace for tea and supper. Mr. Finnis usually brought what he called a relish, which might consist of a head of celery, or a bag of shrimps, or a bag of crumpets; and having handed this offering to Caroline, 'With compliments, ma'am,' he would take a chair in the corner and look on at the happiness of the young couple. William Finnis had ascertained that Mr. Ladd had disappeared from Deptford Green for a time, leaving the fruiterer's business to be carried on by Miss Ladd; and Finnis, much gratified at this fortunate ordering of events, in private smiled and slapped his knee and nearly danced. He saw his friend Alfred Bateson settling down—with some hesitation, it was true—into a solid working man; if Alf would but take his advice on one point, he would be quite content.

'Don't chip 'em so,' urged William Finnis.

'Chip?' echoed Alfred innocently.

'I said chip,' repeated Finnis. 'You've got a sarcaustic way with you. Elf, that'll get you into hot water some day.'

'Once I put my little foot into that,' said Alfred confidently, 'I shall jolly quick hop out. Don't you worry about me.'

'Someone must. You've never worried about yourself.'

'I'm beginnin',' said Alfred. 'I've got something to live for now. You saw me fling those little jokers away at Barnstaple, didn't you?'

'I did so.'

'Very well, then,' said Alfred triumphantly. 'What more d'you want?'

It was in consequence of Alfred's inability to refrain from the sport of chipping that the first serious disturbance occurred at Barraclough's works. A good chipper selects his butt with care; it is annoying to find shafts of satire returned upon one, and those who can themselves play the game are therefore safe. Perhaps the most admirable target of all was the foreman who in white waistcoat had been the active man at the beanfeast. He had the large, important manner that invites sarcasm. When he desired to be impressive he used words that were long, but had no other virtue, being, indeed, words occurring to the foreman at the moment and adopted by him without sufficient consideration.

A fog from the river floated over the works one morning, a river fog that brought with it ill-temper, which it soaked into everybody. Alfred had started badly that morning. Leaving his young wife in sunshine, and seeing her wave of the hand before he turned the corner (Exmouth Terrace declared that these signs of domestic happiness were enough to make them blush), he had entered the wall of fog in crossing Creek Bridge. Outside the works in waiting for the bell, a surly man offered to tip his nose for a pint; and the surly man, losing the encounter, lost also his temper, and there ensued an absurdly unnecessary scramble between the two. Later in the heavy misty morning the important foreman came to Alfred's bench and reproved him.

'What's the matter with you?' asked Alfred curiously.

'There was a unseemly rough-and-tumble outside the gates this morning,' said the foreman oracularly, 'and you was in it. Such conduct is altogether promiscuous, and I won't 'ave it.'

'Come off the roof,' said Alfred; 'you talk with as much sense as a lump of coal.' He winked at the other men in the workshop. 'Fact o' the matter is, there's too much profusiality about you.'

'I take that,' said the foreman, 'as a 'ighly insulting remark on your part.'

'And whilst I'm on the subject,' continued Alfred, 'I may also add'

'Keep cool,' whispered William Finnis as he passed by.

'I may also add that I consider you to be nothing more nor less than a locus standi.'

'Be careful,' said the foreman, trembling with annoyance; 'don't you go too far, my lad. A certain amount I can understand, but once you overstep the mark, off I go to see Mr. Barraclough. You snaked your way in here, and'

'Consider that I've overstepped the mark, then,' said Alfred heatedly, 'and go to the!'

Now, said the foreman, with undisguised satisfaction—'now you've made my course clear. I've been waiting for you ever since I caught you imitatin' of me instead of doing your work. I've been keeping myself very dark'

'And dirty,' said Alfred.

'And now I'm going to out you from these works, I am, or else my name isn't what it is.'

'Spell it,' said Alfred chaffingly.

'Spell what?' demanded the foreman.

'Your name.'

This being a task notoriously outside the foreman's capabilities, he evaded the point; but Alfred, at once elated at being the leading figure in the scene, and irritated by the morning's disasters, pressed the demand.

'No, no,' said Alfred obstinately; 'never you mind about the way I do my work or the way I don't do my work. Never mind whether I'm a miker or whether I ain't a miker. Never mind whether in the past I've been seen about with a queer set in Deptford or whether I ain't been seen about with a queer set in Deptford. 'Ere's a pencil, 'ere's a piece of paper. You write your name down and you spell it properly, and I'll forfeit a tanner and apologize before all of 'em 'ere.'

The dispute became hot. Other men left their work and formed a ring, enjoying the contest between the alert, knowing young man and the furious superior official, handicapped by ignorance. One or two who had suffered from Alfred's raillery were on the side of the foreman; most were with Alfred. The foreman pushed his chin near to the other's face; his paper cap whirred instantly towards the roof. At that moment a tall, silk-hatted young man appeared at the doorway. On the sound of his high, plaintive voice the tumult ceased, the men hurried back to their places.

'What is happening, please?' asked young Barraclougb. 'Will someone kindly explain to me what'

The flushed and heated old foreman was allowed to give his version.

'Punched my 'ead,' gasped the foreman, 'used me with great brutalitiness, and another minute and I might have been drenched in human blood.'

'Do you mean to say that I struck you?' demanded Alfred.

'Most certainly.'

'Well, of all the'

'Now, now,' said young Barraclough. 'I will not have bad language; I will not have disturbances.'

'Nearly killed a man,' muttered the foreman, 'outside the gates this morning, he did, before he even started work.'

'I'll nearly kill you,' cried Alfred furiously, 'if you don't take something to keep you from telling lies.'

'Bateson,' said the tall young man pointedly, 'this is not the conduct I expected from you.' He drew a long breath, as one determined to take a resolute step. 'You had better go off for the rest of the day. See me at the office at ten to-morrow morning.'

'Do keep cool,' urged William Finnis in a loud whisper. 'Think of her.'

'I'm—' Alfred stopped and swallowed something in his throat—'very sorry, sir.' And walked.

'There,' said the foreman triumphantly, 'that proves it.'

The young man walked up High Street towards the Broadway, hot within and white without. He fed his indignation by talking fiercely to himself; when a joyful sailor pulled his arm, inviting him to dance, he pushed the seafaring man aside. The triangular Broadway slept, taking rest before entering upon its noisy labours later on, when claims would be staked out by long-haired pill merchants, tipsters with penny prophecies for the Derby, second-hand booksellers, and try-your-strength machines. He walked around the space, muttering under his breath, condemning everyone in the world excepting Caroline. He wished that he could think of some act that he could perpetrate now, and without a moment's delay, to express his bitter indignation. The morning fog had not disappeared, as is sometimes the discreet manner of morning fogs, but had thickened and hung over the Broadway like a blackened ceiling. A splay-footed man stopped in front of him to cough; a collision occurred.

'Now then, clumsy,' shouted Alfred angrily; 'bought the place?'

Mr. Ladd stopped in the middle of his fit of coughing.

'Well I'm dem'd!' said Mr. Ladd exhaustedly.

'Don't wonder at it,' said Alfred, recognising him and walking off hurriedly. 'So long!'

'’Ere,' cried Mr. Ladd, stamping after him. 'what's your 'urry, old boy? Don't go sloping off like that.'

'I'm busy.'

'Not so busy but what you can shake 'ands with a old comride,' urged Mr. Ladd. 'Come now, we was always good iron to each other.'

Alfred shook hands, and they stood at the back of a coffee stall decorated with violent texts.

'’Pon me sivvy,' declared Mr. Ladd generously, 'if I ain't glad to meet you. Me and her have talked about you time upon time the last few months. She says, "Leave him be," she says; "if he's decided to go in for a careful life," says she, "let him 'ave his chance and see how he likes it." Old gal was very strong on that. "Don't you go trackin' him down, Ladd," she says, "don't you go urgin' him to come back to the old gime, but jest let him 'ave his fling."'

'How is she?' asked Alfred, touched by the fairness of this attitude. 'Goin' well and strong?'

'So, so,' said Mr. Ladd. 'Always a prophesyin' what don't never come off. I've bin away for a bit up in the north.'

'What at?'

Mr. Ladd looked down at his out-turned boots, and then at Alfred's stout-made shoes. His eyes went up until they rested on Alfred's face and then he winked.

'No,' he said artfully.

'What d'ye mean?'

'I'm no jay,' said Mr. Ladd.

Alfred felt hurt at this want of confidence. The old interest in risky adventure revived in him; he desired to know nothing in the world so much as the details of Mr. Ladd's north-country trip.

'It wouldn't do,' declared that gentleman obstinately; 'you with your new-fangled notions might go and give the 'ole show away merely from some bloomin' idea of principle, or such like foolery.' The fog caught at his throat and made him cough again. 'I must 'ave a tonic,' he said, panting; 'let's stroll down Church Street into King Street.'

'I think I'd better be getting on.'

'Where to?'

'Well,' confessed Alfred uneasily, 'I'm 'anged if I know. I don't want to go 'ome to the wife jest yet, and I don't want to mouch about by meself.'

'Come on,' said Mr. Ladd with impatience. 'What's the use of so much argument?'

In a small low-ceilinged public-house in King Street, the walls of which were decorated by square photographs of fighting men all stripped to the waist and presenting enormous fists, Mr. Ladd in whispers told Alfred details of his last exploit, improving fact by invention, and making Alfred's eyes glisten with absorbed interest. One or two men drifted into the bar, old acquaintances who, without having been concerned in any expedition with Alfred, yet knew that he had been one of their battalion. Some excited talk occurred in reference to a race preceding the Derby and a forthcoming boxing contest in Bethnal Green Road. When Mr. Ladd had said the last words of his lengthy account of transfer of property, he and Alfred joined in the general discussion and, beer assisting, Alfred found himself talking loudly. By a beflowered mirror on the wall he saw that his face was scarlet.

Two bare-headed, impudent young women in petticoat skirts came to the bar and spoke to him. He stopped at once and went out of the bar into the foggy street.

'My idea,' said Mr. Ladd, 'is simply this.' He slouched along by Alfred's side, puffing at a cigar which had half unrolled its leaves. 'Everybody in this world must 'ave a 'obby. There's no reason on earth why, bein' as you say in respectable employ, you shouldn't work the two together and have your bit of excitement or whatever you like to call it, and make money by it, so that presently you could take a 'ole 'ouse and furnish it swellish.'

'There's the risk!'

'Risk?' echoed Mr. Ladd. 'I put it to you now. All the time you was working with me, did you ever find yourself in trouble? Eh?'

'You always said I was lucky.'

'And lucky you'll always be,' declared Mr. Ladd. ('This is the worst blooming tuppenny I've smoked this year.) Lucky you'll always be. With such luck as you've got it's burly flying in the face of Providence to go letting it remine idle. Waste it and you'll become in course o' time an old dodderer like that foreman you've been telling me about.'

'Think so?' asked Alfred doubtfully.

'Know so.'

'There may be something in what you say.'

'Something?' said Mr. Ladd. '’Ang it! there's everything.' He pulled at Alfred's arm. 'It's going to be a foggy afternoon. Come along o' me and make a fresh start.'

A pause.

'I'll wait for you,' said Alfred.

When the two men returned to Deptford Green they found Miss Ladd almost frantic with annoyance at finding that someone had opened the front window and had taken the family Bible, together with a set of wax fruit which had stood upon it undisturbed for years; Mr. Ladd became also full of indignation at this unwarrantable interference with the rights of property. Miss Ladd's annoyance went on hearing Alfred's voice, and she listened to him with quiet admiration. At about eight Alfred left for home.

Miss Ladd went out immediately afterwards on the excuse of getting something hot for supper, and, following him along to Creek Road in the fog, saw him eventually enter the house at Exmouth Terrace. On the blind upstairs she saw two shadows kissing each other. From a doorway the red head of Detective Dowton watched and listened. Dowton had followed her in the fog for some distance, and was now disappointed to find her preparing to return without taking action of any kind. Nevertheless, he felt partly compensated by a sentence which he caught as she passed by the doorway.

'I'll open her eyes for her!' muttered Miss Ladd.