Jonah | Page 8

pleasantly.
As she spoke she earnestly considered the large head, wedged between
the shoulders as if a giant's hand had pressed it down, the masterful
nose, the keen grey eyes, and the cynical lips; and in that moment
determined to make him Ada's husband. Yet he was the last man she
would have chosen for a son-in-law. A loafer and a vagabond, he spoke
of marriage with a grin. Half his time was spent under the veranda at
the corner with the Push. He worked at his trade by fits and starts,
earning enough to keep himself in cigarettes.
That was six months ago, and Ada had returned to the factory, where
her disaster created no stir. Such accidents were common. Mrs Yabsley
reared the child as she had reared her daughter, in a box-cradle near the
wash-tub or ironing-board, for Ada proved an indifferent mother.
Then, with a sudden change of front, she encouraged Jonah's intimacy

with Ada. She invited him to the house, which he avoided with an
animal craft and suspicion, meeting Ada in the streets. It was her
scheme to get him to live in the house; the rest, she thought, would be
easy. But Jonah feared dimly that if he ventured inside the house he
would bring himself under the law. So he grinned, and kept his distance,
like an animal that fears a trap.
But at last, his resistance worn to a thread by constant coaxing, he had
agreed to spend the night there on account of the fowls. He was
interested in these, for one pair was his gift to Ada, the fruit of some
midnight raid.
Jonah stood alone at the corner watching the crowd. Chook's reference
to the baby had shaken his resolution, and he decided to think it over.
And as he watched the moving procession with the pleasure of a
spectator at the play, he thought uneasily of women and marriage. As
he nodded from time to time to an acquaintance, a young man passed
him carrying a child in his arms. His wife, a slip of a girl, loaded with
bundles, gave Jonah a quick look of fear and scorn. The man stared
Jonah full in the face without a sign of recognition, and bent his head
over the child with a caressing movement. Jonah noted the look of
humble pride in his eyes, and marvelled. Twelve months ago he was
Jonah's rival in the Push, famous for his strength and audacity, and now
butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. Jonah called to mind other cases,
with a sudden fear in his heart at this mysterious ceremony before a
parson that affected men like a disease, robbing them of all a man
desired, and leaving them contented and happy. He turned into
Cardigan Street with the air of a man who is putting his neck in the
noose, resolving secretly to cut and run at the least hint of danger.
As he walked slowly up the street he became aware of a commotion at
the corner of George Street. He saw that a crowd had gathered, and
quickened his pace, for a crowd in Cardigan Street generally meant a
fight. Jonah elbowed his way through the ring, and found a young
policeman, new to this beat, struggling with an undersized man with
the face of a ferret. Jonah's first thought was to effect a rescue, as his
practised eye took in the details of the scene. Let them get away from

the light of the street lamp, and with a sudden rush the thing would be
done. He looked round for the Push and remembered that they were
scattered. Then he saw that the captive was a stranger, and decided to
look on quietly and note the policeman's methods for future use.
On finding that he was overmatched in strength, the prisoner had
dropped to the ground, and, with silent, cat-like movements baulked the
policeman's efforts. As Jonah looked on, the constable straightened his
back, wiped the sweat from his face, and then, suddenly desperate,
called on the nearest to help him. The men slipped behind the women,
who laughed in his face. It was his first arrest, and he looked in
astonishment at the grinning, hostile faces, too nervous to use his
strength, harassed by the hatred of the people.
"Take 'im yerself; do yer own dirty work."
"Wot's the poor bloke done?"
"Nuthin', yer may be sure."
"These Johns run a man in, an' swear his life away ter git a stripe on
their sleeve."
"They think they kin knock a man about as they like 'cause 'e's poor."
"They'd find plenty to do if they took the scoundrels that walk the
streets in a top 'at."
"It don't pay. They know which side their bread's buttered, don't