"It must 'ave bin a fire by the way I see yer run.W'y was yer runnin'so 'ard?"Then his face darkened."I wonder 'ow the poor bloke feels,that fell down an''urt 'imself?""D'ye think 'e knows enough ter give us away?"asked Chook,anxiously.
"No fear,"said Jonah."I make the Ivy Street Push a present of that little lot.""Well,I s'pose a sleep's the next best thing,"replied Chook,and in a minute was snoring.
Jonah finished undressing slowly.As he unlaced his boots,he noticed a dark patch on one toe.It looked as if he had kicked something wet.
He examined the stain without repugnance,and thought of the bricklayer.
"Serve the cow right,"he thought."'Ope it stiffens 'im!"Again he examined the patch of blood attentively,wondering if it would leave a mark on his tan boots,of which he was very proud.Dipping a piece of rag in water,he washed it off carefully.And,as he rubbed,the whole scenes passed through his brain in rapid succession--the Angel,bright and alluring with the sinister gleam of its powerful lamps,the swaying man in the midst of the Push,the wild-beast chase,and the fallen body that ceased to struggle as they kicked.
He lit a cigarette and stared at the candle,smiling with the pride of a good workman at the thought of his plan that had worked so neatly.The Push was secure,and the blame would fall on the Ivy Street gang,the terror of Darlington.For a moment he regretted the active part he had taken in the stoushing,as his hunchback made him conspicuous.He wondered carelessly what had happened after the Push bolted.These affairs were so uncertain.Sometimes the victim could limp home,mottled with bruises;just as often he was taken to the hospital in a cab,and a magistrate was called in to take down his dying words.In this case the chances were in favour of the victim recovering,as the Push had been interrupted in dealing it out through Jonah's excessive caution.Still,they had no intention of killing the man;they merely wished to teach him a lesson.
True,the lesson sometimes went too far;and he thought with anxiety of the Surry Hills affair,in which,through an accident,a neighbouring push had disappeared like rats into a hole,branded with murder.The ugly word hung on his tongue and paralysed his thoughts.His mind recoiled with terror as he saw where his lawless ways had carried him,feeling already branded with the mark of Cain,which the instinct of the people has singled out as the unpardonable crime,destroying the life that cannot be renewed.And suddenly he began to persuade himself that the man's injuries were not serious,that he would soon recover;for it was wonderful the knocking about a man could stand.
He turned on himself with amazement.Why was he twittering like an old woman?Quarrels,fights,and bloodshed were as familiar to him as his daily bread.With a sudden cry of astonishment he remembered the baby.
The affair of the bricklayer had driven it completely out of his mind.
His thoughts returned to Cardigan Street.He remembered the quiet room dimly lit with a candle,the dolorous cry of the infant,and the intoxicating touch of its frail body in his arms.
His amazement increased.What had possessed him to take the brat in his arms and nurse it?His lips contracted in a cynical grin as he remembered the figure he cut when Chook appeared.He decided to look on the affair as a joke.But again his thoughts returned to the child,and he was surprised with a vibration of tenderness sweet as honey in his veins.
A strange yearning came over him like a physical weakness for the touch of his son's body.
His eye caught his shadow on the wall,grotesque and forbidding;the large head,bunched beneath the square shoulders,thrust outwards in a hideous lump.Monster and outcast was he?Well,he would show them that only an accident separated the hunchback from his fellows.He thought with a fierce joy of his son's straight back and shapely limbs.This was his child,that he could claim and exhibit to the world.Then his delight changed to a vague terror--the fear of an animal that dreads a trap,and finds itself caught.He blew out the candle and fell asleep,to dream of enemies that fled and mocked at him,embarrassed with an infant that hung like a millstone round his neck.
Within a month the affair of the bricklayer had blown over.The police made inquiries,and arrested some of the Ivy Street Push,but released them for want of evidence.In the hospital the bricklayer professed a complete ignorance of his assailants and their motive.It was understood that he was too drunk to recognize anyone.
But it was his knowledge of Push methods that sealed his tongue.No one would risk his skin by giving evidence.If the police had brought the offenders to book,the magistrates,who seemed to regard these outrages as the playful excesses of wanton blood,would have let them off with a light punishment,and the streets would never have been safe for him again.So he held his tongue,thankful to have escaped so easily.
But burnt on his brain was the vision of a misshapen devil who struck at him,with snarling lips,and a desperate flight through avenues of silent,impassive streets that heard with indifference his cry for help.In six weeks he was back at work,with no mark of his misadventure but a broken nose,caused by a clumsy boot.
So the Push took to the streets again,and Jonah resumed his visits to Cardigan Street on Saturday nights.He had concealed his adventure with the baby from Ada and her mother,feeling ashamed,as if he had discovered an unmanly taste for mud pies and dolls.But the imperious instinct was aroused,and he gratified it in secret,caressing the child by stealth as a miser runs to his hoard.In the women's presence he ignored its existence,but he soon discovered that Ada shared none of his novel sensations.And he grew indignant at her indifference,feeling that his child was neglected.
