Home!--the word had no meaning for him.He had been thrown on the streets when a child by his parents,who had rid themselves of his unwelcome presence with as little emotion as they would have tossed an empty can out of doors.
A street-arab,he had picked a living from the gutters,hardened to exposure,taking food and shelter with the craft of an old soldier in hostile country.Until he was twelve he had sold newspapers,sleeping in sheds and empty cases,feeding on the broken victuals thrown out from the kitchens of hotels and restaurants,and then,drifting by chance to Waterloo,had found a haven of rest with Paasch as an errand-boy at five shillings a week.
His cigarette was finished,and there was no sign of Ada.He swore at himself for coming,picked up his hat,and turned to go.But,at that moment,from the corner of the room,came a thin,wailing cry.Jonah started violently,and then,as he recognized the sound,smiled grimly.
It was the baby,awakened by the light.He remembered that Mrs Yabsley often left it alone in the house.
But the infant,thoroughly aroused,gave out a querulous note,thin and sustained.Jonah stooped to blow out the candle,and then,with a sudden curiosity,walked over to the cradle.
It was a box on rough rollers,made out of a packing-case,grimy with dirt from the hands that had rocked it.Jonah pulled it out of the corner into the light,and the child,pacified by the sight of a face,stopped crying.
Fearful of observation,he looked round,and then stared intently at the baby.It was a meeting of strangers,for Mrs Yabsley,aware of his aversion from the child,had kept it out of the way.It was the first baby that he had seen at close quarters,for he had never lived in a house with one.And he looked at this with the curiosity with which one looks at a foreigner--surprised that he,too,is a man.
The child blinked feebly under the light of the candle,which Jonah was holding near.Its fingers moved with a mechanical,crab-like motion.
With an odd sensation Jonah remembered that this was his child--flesh of his flesh,bone of his bone--and,with a swift instinct,he searched its face for a sign of paternity.
The child's bulging forehead bore no likeness to Jonah's which sloped sharply from the eyebrows,and the nose was a mere dab of flesh;but its eyes were grey,like his own.His interest increased.Gently he stroked the fine silky down that covered its head,and then,growing bolder,touched its cheek.The delicate skin was smooth as satin under his rough finger.
The child,pleased with his touch,smiled and clutched his finger,holding it with the tenacity of a monkey.Jonah looked in wonder at that tiny hand,no bigger than a doll's.His own fist,rough with toil,seemed enormous beside it.
Flesh of his flesh,he thought,half incredulous,as he compared his red,hairy skin with that delicate texture;amazed by this miracle of life--the renewal of the flesh that perishes.
Then he remembered his deformity,and,with a sudden catch in his breath,lifted the child from the cradle,and felt its back,a passionate fear in his heart:it was straight as a die.He drew a long breath,and was silent,embarrassed for words before this mite,searching his mind in vain for the sweet jargon used by women.
"Sool 'im!"he cried at last,and poked his son in the ribs.The child crowed with delight.Jonah touched its mouth,and its teeth,like tiny pegs,closed tightly on his fingers.It lay contentedly on his knees,its eyes closed,already fatigued.And,as Jonah watched it,there suddenly vibrated in him a strange,new sensation--the sense of paternity,which Nature,crafty beyond man,has planted in him to fulfil her schemes,the imperious need to protect and rejoice in its young that preserves the race from extinction.
Jonah sat motionless,afraid to disturb the child,intoxicated by the first pure emotion of his life,his heart filled with an immense pity for this frail creature.Absorbed in his emotions,he was startled by a step on the veranda.
He rose swiftly to put the child in the cot,but it was too late,and he turned to the door with the child in his arms,ashamed and defiant,like a boy caught with the jam-pot.He expected Mrs Yabsley or Ada;it was Chook,breathless with haste.He stood in the doorway,dumb with amazement as his eye took in this strange picture;then his face relaxed in a grin.
"Well,Gawd strike me any colour 'E likes,pink for preference,"he cried,and shook with laughter.
Jonah stared at him with a deepening scowl,till chuckles died away.
"Garn!"he cried at last,and his voice was between a whine and a snarl;"yer needn't poke borak!"
THE PUSH DEALS IT OUT
It was near eleven,and the lights were dying out along the Road as the shopmen,fatigued by their weekly conflict with the people,fastened the shutters.At intervals trams and buses,choked with passengers from the city,laboured heavily past.Groups of men still loitered on the footpaths,careless of the late hour,for to-morrow was Sunday,the day of idleness,when they could lie a-bed and read the paper.And they gossiped tranquilly,no longer harassed by the thought of the relentless toil,the inexorable need for bread,that dragged them from their warm beds while the rest of the world lay asleep.
The Angel,standing at the corner,dazzled the eye with the glare from its powerful lamps,their rays reflected in immense mirrors fastened to the walls,advertising in frosted letters the popular brands of whisky.
And it stood alone in the darkening street,piercing the night with an unwinking stare like an evil spirit,offering its warm,comfortable bars to the passer-by,drawing men into its deadly embrace like a courtesan,to reject them afterwards babbling,reeling,staggering,to rouse the street with quarrels,or to snore in the gutters like swine.
