Jonah | Page 9

yous
fergit."
Chiefly by his own efforts the prisoner had become a disreputable
wreck. Hatless, with torn collar, his clothes covered with the dirt he
was rolling in, ten minutes' struggle with the policeman had
transformed him into a scarecrow.
"If there was any men about, they wouldn't see a decent young man
turned into a criminal under their very eyes," cried a virago, looking

round for a champion.
"If I was a man, I'd..."
She stopped as Sergeant Carmody arrived with a brisk air, and the
crowd fell back, silent before the official who knew every face in the
ring. In an instant the captive was lifted to his feet, his arms were
twisted behind his back till the sinews cracked, and the procession
moved off to the station. When Jonah reached the cottage, he stood
irresolute on the other side of the street. Already regretting his promise,
he turned to go, when Ada came to the door and saw him under the gas
lamp. He crossed the street, trying to show by his walk that his
presence was a mere accident.
"Cum in," cried Ada. "Mum won't eat yer."
Mrs Yabsley, who was ironing among a pile of shirts and collars,
looked up, with the iron in her hand.
"W'y, Joe, ye're quite a stranger!" she cried. "Sit down an' make yerself
at 'ome."
"'Ow do, missus?" said Jonah, looking round nervously for the child,
but it was not visible.
"I knowed yer wouldn't let them take the old woman's fowls," she
continued. "'Ere, Ada, go an' git a jug o' beer."
The room, which served for a laundry, was dimly lit with a candle. The
pile of white linen brought into relief the dirt and poverty of the interior.
The walls were stained with grease and patches of dirt, added slowly
through the years as a face gathers wrinkles. But Jonah saw nothing of
this. He was used to dirt.
He sat down, and, with a sudden attack of politeness, decided to take
off his hat, but, uncertain of his footing, pushed it on the back of his
head as a compromise. He lit a cigarette, and felt more at ease.

A faint odour of scorching reached his nostrils as Mrs Yabsley passed
the hot iron over the white fronts. The small black iron ran swiftly over
the clean surface, leaving a smooth, shining track behind it. And he
watched, with an idler's pleasure, the swift, mechanical movements.
When the beer came, Jonah gallantly offered it to Mrs Yabsley, whose
face was hot and red.
"Just leave a drop in the jug, an' I'll be thankful for it when I'm done,"
she replied, wiping her forehead on her sleeve. Jonah had risen in her
esteem.
After some awkward attempts at conversation, Jonah relapsed into
silence. He was glad that he had brought his mouth-organ, won in a
shilling raffle. He would give them a tune later on.
When she had finished the last shirt, Mrs Yabsley looked at the clock
with an exclamation. It was nearly ten. She had to deliver the shirts,
and then buy the week's supplies. For she did her shopping at the last
minute, in a panic. It had been her mother's way--to dash into the
butcher's as he swept the last bones together, to hammer at the grocer's
door as he turned out the lights. And she always forgot something
which she got on Sunday morning from the little shop at the corner.
As she was tying the shirts into bundles, she heard the tinkle of a bell in
the street, and a hoarse voice that cried:
"Peas an' pies, all 'ot, all 'ot!"
"'Ow'd yer like some peas, Joe?" she cried, dropping the shirts and
seizing a basin.
"I wouldn't mind," said Jonah.
"'Ere, Ada, run an' git threepenn'orth," she cried.
In a minute Ada returned with the basin full of green peas, boiled into a
squashy mass.

Mrs Yabsley went out with the shirts, and Jonah and Ada sat down to
the peas, which they ate with keen relish, after sprinkling them with
pepper and vinegar.
After the green peas, Ada noticed that Jonah was looking furtively
about the room and listening, as if he expected to hear something. She
guessed the cause, and decided to change his thoughts.
"Give us a tune, Joe," she cried.
Jonah took the mouth-organ from his pocket, and rubbed it carefully on
his sleeve. He was a famous performer on this instrument, and on
holiday nights the Push marched through the streets, with Jonah in the
lead, playing tunes that he learned at the "Tiv". He breathed slowly into
the tubes, running up and down the scale as a pianist runs his fingers
over the keyboard before playing, and then struck into a sentimental
ballad.
In five