The Lamps of Limehouse

The Third of a New Series of Limehouse Sketches. The Pariah

THOMAS BURKE

PIECES of silver passed from the policesergeant to Nobby Jenkins, as they stood together in the bar of the Blue Lantern. "That's what we arranged, ain't it?" said the sergeant.

" 'At's right," replied Nobby. "I 'ope 'e don't git much of a stretch, though. 'E's a good feller. Not more'n twelve munce, I s'pose?"

The sergeant passed his hand across his mouth, as one wiping away an offensive taste. "Perhaps, and perhaps not. But now we get 'im, let me tell you, Nobby Jenkins, that I thing you're the dirtiest, crawliest, smelliest little skunk I ever met in my fifteen years in the Y Division. And you know as well as I do that that means something."

"Skunk?" piped Nobby. "Skunk? Wodyeh mean? Who yeh talkin' to?"

"Talkin' to you, me boy. And I don't want none o' your back answers. Else you'll be in trouble. There's some 'ere that's always in trouble. There's Dick the Duke—gives us more trouble than all the rest of the boys put together. There's Spiv Bagster, who's done nearly everything. There's Robin Redbreast, who ain't stopped at murder. They're bad men—all of 'em. Very little they won't do. But there's one thing none of 'em's done yet, and never would do. Not one of those boys would sell 'is pal. They're bad men, but they draw the line there. That's why 1 say you're a skunk. You ain't a bad man. You ain't got pluck enough for that. All you can do is to sell better men than yourself, and men who've been a pal to you. You're just a skunk. Now bung off, quick, before you poison the air o' this bar. You've sold yer pal to me, and you've got yer price."

" 'Ere, but—I mean—look 'ere, sergeant— I—"

THE sergeant took one step towards him, and the man shot through the swing doors into the East India Dock Road. He stood for a moment on the kerb, writhing in his clothes, as though to shake off the lashes that the sergeant's tongue had laid upon his back. His thin mouth curled. His wavering eyes essayed a chill brightness. Smart boys passed him with smiling girls. Chinks wandered in couples. Groups stood about, debating their recreation. Limehouse was opening to the evening, as heavily-scented flowers open to the dusk. Fiddles began to scream, organs to jangle. Voices silent through the day lent their light noise to the street. It was as though imprisoned petals were released to the blue air.

Nobby Jenkins looked round for company, and saw none. In irritation he made for a bar, where he might find acquaintance and wash away the sergeant's impudence in drink. Him and his sermonising—blast him! Coppers getting straight-laced! He sniggered at the idea. After all, Old Fred was nothing to him. They may have had drinks together, and gone about together, and all that—but was that any reason why he shouldn't be given up to the police after he'd done a burglary? Wasn't it a chap's duty to give criminals up to the police? How would the police go on if it wasn't for chaps like him, Nobby, to help them now and again? What if him and Fred had known one another for years, and shared money and festivities? A crime was a crime. As for the money—well, hadn't he been put to a lot of expense in the matter? And hadn't the police offered the money ? Bah! He spattered oaths to the pavement about his feet as he moved towards the Yellow Dragon.

He entered the saloon bar, and slapped to the counter a piece of the silver he had just received. In the snug corner stood two or three men whom he knew\ He took his glass and went to them, with his usual crooked smile. In a concerted movement each man of the group grabbed his glass and moved to the far corner of the bar away from him. He felt his face, grow pale, his knees turn to water. He cocked his head and glared at the ceiling, but the physical strain of holding his head erect was more than he could long endure, and the effort of looking unconcerned brought a pain to his eyes. He drank up and slouched away with an attempted dignity of bearing that hurt even those who had avoided him.

HE turned towards his back room in Poplar High Street. There he knew he would find comfort, and in that retreat could snap his fingers at the scorn of those others. On the way, various acquaintances, washed and garbed for their evening stroll, passed him or overtook him. Those who were alone looked the other way; those in couples looked at one another, and words passed between them that twisted their lips.

At last, with aching faculties, he reached his room, slammed the door behind him and locked it. From a battered tin box he took an opium lay-out; then shuffled to his pallet bed, cooked a portion of the precious maker of dreams, filled his pipe, and sucked heavily at it. Tranquil he lay, but not pretty to look upon. He was a skunk. So men thought of him; but his pipe many times had told him that he was a hero, a king of men, a great fellow. To the pipe he looked this time to reverse the sergeant's judgment. When the first pellet was finished, he took another; then a third and a fourth. Soon his eyes closed, a cloud gathered about his being, and his animal self was lost, and he was gathered into the kingdom of the white poppy.

A low, sharp cry cut into the silence that enveloped him, and shocked him into consciousness. Someone was urging him to lead on, and he found himself walking in a star-lit darkness across a waste place, while about him were many vague figures carrying swords and staves, and one with a rude iron lantern. He peered about him in the gloom, and'found that he wore strange clothes, and that his companions also were clad in queer garments of a kind unknown to him. For a moment he hesitated; then he came sharply to himself, and remembered where he was and what he was about to do. He turned to those around him with upraised hand to enjoin stealth and discretion. With slow steps he led the way through a green thicket, and evenstep seemed familiar to him. As he went, his mind gloated upon what was to come when the business in hand was accomplished. The brambles fastened sharp fingers upon his garment, but he heeded them not, and pushed through them, while the lantern held by one behind him, threw globes of light upon the stony ground about him. Suddenly, he turned and spoke clearly in a tongue that came easily to him:

"Lo, we are upon them."

They halted for a moment. Then, in a body, they broke from the thicket into a small clearing, where stood a group of men; and he, in advance of the company, stepped smilingly towards One of them, his Friend and Master, and kissed him. And the soldiers he led sprang forward and bound his Friend, and led Him away.

His work was done. He turned again into the bushes, and, by a different path from that which the soldiers were following, made eagerly for the palace. There he told them of what was done, and they paid to him thirty pieces of silver. These he put into his purse, and they jangled pleasantly in his ear as he walked to his lodging, where he slept serenely.

HE was awakened in the morning by much tumult in the streets. He rose, arrayed himself in his rough garment, which, he promised himself, should soon be discarded for the fine linen he would buy with his store of silver, and went out to hear and see what was toward in the city. He went out jauntily, and soon was in the midst of a throng that cried aloud. At first he could not hear what they cried; then, very clearly his ears gathered the hideous refrain, the hard voice of the crowd; and his burden that his Friend must die the death of a malefactor.

As though at a blow, his jaunty bearing fell from him, and a sudden chill seized him; and earth and air grew gray and still. He retired from the throng, and leaned for a space against the walls of the Temple. Then, with an effort he braced himself, writhed in his robe, and went hurriedly toward the place where the merchants met. There he sought to ease his mind by examining the costly raiment they offered, and bargaining with them; but abruptly these things had lost their savour for him. He urged himself to master the disturbance that had fallen upon him; to dismiss weaknessand sentimentality. Yet the oppression remained, and he left the market-place without buying.

As the day rose to noon and declined to evening, the unrest grew in strength, and when the long shadows lay athwart the flat country, its bitterness was too keen to be borne. The jangle of the silver in his bag became a torment, so that he could have cried aloud. He told himself, in spoken words, that the jangle of the silver was musical; that he would make a brave figure in a robe of that Phoenician linen he had seen; that he was tired, and would be more himself on the morrow. But this availed nothing. Neither food nor wine could he touch that day; and at last, when night had sheathed the city and plain in the velvet darkness of the East, he hurried again to the palace. There he sought audience of those who had paid the money to him; and standing before them he told them of his sorrow, and handed them the purse. And they smiled grimly among themselves, and would not listen to him, saying that it was a matter that concerned himself alone.

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Whereupon he tore the purse from his girdle, and flung it at the feet of the mocking company, and gathered up his robes and ran into the night. As he ran he sobbed, so sharp was his anguish. Whither he ran he scarce knew or cared, but, as he reached the outer buildings of the city, and climbed the wall which enclosed it from the stony countryside, he knew that he ran in that direction for some purpose. Suddenly, in the midst of an untilled field, he saw a lonely tree, and he knew it was to that tree that he was running.

HIS mind ceased its functions, while, cumbrously, he climbed to the upper branches. With big movements he loosened the girdle from his waist. One end of it he made fast to a sturdy bough of the tree, looking keenly to the knot, as one making fast a sail. At its other end he fashioned a loop. This he placed about his neck. Two paces he made along the bough whereon he rested, when a long cry, the cry of the multitude, came to him from the city; and the field closed upon him, rushing towards the tree. He closed his eyes to receive the shock.

When he opened them he saw only four dim walls, and he found himself prone on the pallet bed in his Poplar lodging. The cry of the multitude had burst from his own throat, and he repeated it as he. leaped from the bed, knocked over the lay-out, and staggered to the window. He flung it open and gulped in the cool air that rushed from the river, tearing his clothes apart to receive its happy salutation. He turned then to the water in his enamel washbasin, buried his face in it, swallowed some mouthfuls of it, and collapsed, panting, on a rickety chair.

Slowly, sense and sanity came back to him, and the dream passed again in detail before him, and he remembered what had led to it. His hands dropped to his trousers pockets, and touched the pieces of silver. He snatched them back, and his fingers burned. From the deeps of misery he groaned aloud; and while his nerves yet shook he went out to the police-station and asked for the sergeant. He blustered, disheveled, into the station, and one stopped him.

"I want the sergeant," he babbled.

The sergeant was seated on a stool before the desk. "Well, what's the matter with you, me boy?"

"Sergeant, I bin thinkin' it over—our business. I see now it was a dirty trick. I dunno what made me do it, sergeant. 'E's always bin me pal. And I sold 'im. And I didn't ought to have done it. I couldn't ever do a thing like that again. And I want to put this right. I want to—"

But the sergeant was busy and not inclined to listen to Nobby's protestations. He lifted a half-glance from his desk.

"Oh, shut yer row and bung off."

"No, but, sergeant—I don't want this money. I didn't ought to 'ave 'ad it. Take it back, sergeant. It's dirty. I wish I'd never seen it. Ain't there nothing I can do for Old Fred ? Can't I take 'is place, sergeant? Gimme a cnance to put it right. I didn't ought to—"

The sergeant raised a weary head. "Oh, go and h. ng yourself, yeh little skunk," he drawled, impersonally, and continued entering up the charge sheet.

But Nobby Jenkins knew that his punishment would be deeper than that. He knew that the last expiation was not for him; he had not the courage for it.

And if your business occasions you to Poplar you will hear of this strange creature, who haunts public-houses, and, in return for drinks, tells, with parrotlike repetition, how, on a star-lit night two thousand years ago, he betrayed a Man in a garden to his enemies.