The Best British Short Stories of 1922 | Page 2

polishing a tap. He looked up.
"Wych Street? Yus, of course I knoo Wych Street. Used to go there
with some of the boys--when I was Covent Garden way. It was at right
angles to the Strand, just east of Wellington Street."
"No, it warn't. It were alongside the Strand, before yer come to
Wellington Street."

The coloured man took no part in the discussion, one street and one city
being alike to him, provided he could obtain the material comforts dear
to his heart; but the others carried it on with a certain amount of
acerbity.
Before any agreement had been arrived at three other men entered the
bar. The quick eye of Meadows recognized them at once as three of
what was known at that time as "The Gallows Ring." Every member of
"The Gallows Ring" had done time, but they still carried on a lucrative
industry devoted to blackmail, intimidation, shoplifting, and some of
the clumsier recreations. Their leader, Ben Orming, had served seven
years for bashing a Chinaman down at Rotherhithe.
"The Gallows Ring" was not popular in Wapping, for the reason that
many of their depredations had been inflicted upon their own class.
When Meadows and Harry Jones took it into their heads to do a little
wild prancing they took the trouble to go up into the West-end. They
considered "The Gallows Ring" an ungentlemanly set; nevertheless,
they always treated them with a certain external deference--an
unpleasant crowd to quarrel with.
Ben Orming ordered beer for the three of them, and they leant against
the bar and whispered in sullen accents. Something had evidently
miscarried with the Ring. Mrs. Dawes continued to whine above the
general drone of the bar. Suddenly she said:
"Ben, you're a hot old devil, you are. We was just 'aving a discussion
like. Where was Wych Street?"
Ben scowled at her, and she continued:
"Some sez it was one place, some sez it was another. I know where it
was, 'cors my aunt what died from blood p'ison, after eatin' tinned
lobster, used to work at a corset shop------"
"Yus," barked Ben, emphatically. "I know where Wych Street was--it
was just sarth of the river, afore yer come to Waterloo Station."

It was then that the coloured man, who up to that point had taken no
part in the discussion, thought fit to intervene.
"Nope. You's all wrong, cap'n. Wych Street were alongside de church,
way over where the Strand takes a side-line up west."
Ben turned on him fiercely.
"What the blazes does a blanketty nigger know abaht it? I've told yer
where Wych Street was."
"Yus, and I know where it was," interposed Meadows.
"Yer both wrong. Wych Street was a turning running from Long Acre
into Wellington Street."
"I didn't ask yer what you thought," growled Ben.
"Well, I suppose I've a right to an opinion?"
"You always think you know everything, you do."
"You can just keep yer mouth shut."
"It 'ud take more'n you to shut it."
Mr. Booth thought it advisable at this juncture to bawl across the bar:
"Now, gentlemen, no quarrelling--please."
The affair might have been subsided at that point, but for Mrs. Dawes.
Her emotions over the death of the old lady in the street had been so
stirred that she had been, almost unconsciously, drinking too much gin.
She suddenly screamed out:
"Don't you take no lip from 'im, Mr. Medders. The dirty, thieving devil,
'e always thinks 'e's goin' to come it over every one."
She stood up threateningly, and one of Ben's supporters gave her a

gentle push backwards. In three minutes the bar was in a complete state
of pandemonium. The three members of "The Gallows Ring" fought
two men and a woman, for Mr. Dawes merely stood in a corner and
screamed out:
"Don't! Don't!"
Mrs. Dawes stabbed the man who had pushed her through the wrist
with a hatpin. Meadows and Ben Orm-ing closed on each other and
fought savagely with the naked fists. A lucky blow early in the
encounter sent Meadows reeling against the wall, with blood streaming
down his temple. Then the coloured man hurled a pewter tankard
straight at Ben and it hit him on the knuckles. The pain maddened him
to a frenzy. His other supporter had immediately got to grips with
Harry Jones, and picked up one of the high stools and, seizing an
opportunity, brought it down crash on to the coloured man's skull.
The whole affair was a matter of minutes. Mr. Booth was bawling out
in the street. A whistle sounded. People were running in all directions.
"Beat it! Beat it for God's sake!" called the man who had been stabbed
through the wrist. His face was very white, and he was obviously about
to faint.
Ben and