Cups,saucers,plates,and basins were pressed into service until Mrs Yabsley's stock ran out;the last served were forced to hold their delicacy wrapped in a scrap of paper in their hands,the hot grease sweating through the thin covering on to their fingers.The ladies hesitated,fearful of being thought vulgar if they ate in their usual manner;but Mrs Yabsley seeing their embarrassment,cried out that fingers were made before forks,and bit a huge piece out of her pie.
Then the feast began in silence,except for the sound of chewing.Joey had surpassed himself.The peas melted in your mouth,the piecrusts were a marvel,and the saveloys were done to a turn.And they ate with solemn,serious faces,for it was not every day the chance came to fill their bellies with such dainties.Joey,with an eye to business,decided to stay in the street on the chance of selling out,for the crowd had now reached to the gutter.He rattled the shining lids of the hot cans from time to time to attract attention as his cracked voice chanted his familiar cry,"Peas an'pies,all 'ot,all 'ot!"And he drove a brisk trade among the uninvited guests,who paid for their own.Inside,they drank the health of the married couple;but the dozen of beer barely wet their throats.Jonah and Chook went to the "Woolpack"with jugs,and the company settled down to the spree.At intervals the men offered to shout for a few friends,and,borrowing a dead marine from the heap of empty bottles,shuffled off to the hotel to get it filled.
The noise grew to an uproar--a babel of tongues,sudden explosions of laughter,and the shuffling of feet.
Suddenly Mrs Yabsley looked at the clock.
"Good Gawd!"she cried."to-morrer's Sunday,an'there ain't a bite or sup in the blessed 'ouse!"In the excitement of the wedding she had forgotten her weekly shopping.
It was a catastrophe.But Chook had an idea.
"Cum on,blokes,"he cried,"'oo'll cum down the road wi'Mother,an''elp carry the tucker?Blimey,I reckon it's 'er night out!"A dozen volunteered,with a shout of applause.Jonah and Ada were left to entertain the guests,and the party set out.The grocer was going to bed,and the shop was in darkness,but they banged so fiercely on the door that he leaned over the balcony in his shirt,convinced that the Push had come to wreck his shop.Yet he came down,distressed in his shopkeeper's soul at the thought of losing his profit.He served her in haste,terrified by the boisterous noise of her escort.
Then they walked up the Road,shrieking with laughter,bumping against the passengers,who hurried past with scared looks.It was a triumphal procession to the butcher's and the greengrocer's Mrs Yabsley,radiant with beer,gave her orders royally,her bodyguard,seizing on every purchase,fighting for the privilege of carrying it.The procession turned into Cardigan Street again,laden with provisions,yelling scraps of song,rousing the street with ungodly clamour.
Old Dad met them at the corner of Cooper Street.He stood for a moment,lurching with unpremeditated steps to the front and rear,astonished by the noise and the crowd.Then he recognized Mrs Yabsley,and became suddenly excited,under the impression that she was being taken to the lock-up by the police.He lurched gallantly into the throng,calling on his friends to rescue the old girl from her captors.When he learned that she was in no danger,he grew enthusiastic,and insisted on helping to carry the provisions.
"'Ere,Dad,yer've lost yer 'ead.Take this,"said Chook,offering him a cabbage.
"Keep it,sonny--keep it;you want it more than I do,"cried Dad,scornfully.
So saying,he tore a shoulder of mutton out of Waxy's hands,and,carrying it in his arms as a woman carries a child,joined the procession with sudden,zigzag steps.When the party reached the cottage,it was met with a howl of welcome from the crowd,which now reached to the opposite footpath.Barney Ryan,seized with an inspiration,broke suddenly into "Mother Shipton".The chorus was taken up with a roar of discordant voices:
Good old Mother has come again to prophesy Things that will surely occur as the days go rolling by,So listen to me if you wish to know,For I'll let you into the know,you know,And tell you some wonders before I go To home,sweet home.
Mrs Yabsley,delighted by the compliment,stood on her veranda,smiling and radiant,like Royalty receiving homage from its subjects.This set the ball rolling.Song followed song,the pick of the music-halls.
Jonah gave a selection on the mouth-organ.Then Barney,who was growing hoarse,winked maliciously at Jonah and Ada,and struck into his masterpiece,"Trinity Church".It was the success of the evening.
She told me her age was five-and-twenty,Cash in the bank of course she'd plenty,I like a lamb believed it all,I was an M.U.G.At Trinity Church I met my doom,Now we live in a top back room,Up to my eyes in debt for 'renty',That's what she's done for me.
The chorus rang out with a deafening roar.The guests,tickled by the words that fell so pat,twisted and squirmed with laughter,digging their fingers into their neighbours'ribs to emphasize the details.But Barney,in trying to imitate a stumpy man with an umbrella,as the song demanded,tripped and lay where he fell,too fatigued to rise.
Then,saddened by the beer they had drunk,they grew sentimental.
Mrs Swadling,who never let herself be asked twice,for fear of being thought shy,led off with a pathetic ballad.She sang in a thin,quavering voice,staring into,vacancy with glassy eyes like the blind beggars at the corner,dragging the tune till it became a wail--a dirge for lost souls.
Some are gone from us for ever,Longer here they might not stay;They have reached a fairer region,Far away-ee,far away--They have reached a fairer region,Far away-ee,far away.
