"The more fool you,"said Mrs Jones,who was ashamed of having nothing to give."I've 'eard 'e's got a terrace of 'ouses,an'thousands in the bank.My cousin told me 'e sees 'im bankin''is money reg'lar in George Street every week."And then a conversation followed,with instances of immense fortunes made by organ-grinders,German bands,and street-singers--men who cadged in rags for a living,and could drive their carriage if they chose.The women lent a greedy ear to these romances,like a page out of their favourite novelettes.They were interrupted by an extraordinary noise from the French singer,who seemed suddenly to have gone mad.The Push had watched in ominous silence the approach of the Frenchman.But,as he passed them and finished a verse,a blood-curdling cry rose from the group.It was a perfect imitation of a dog baying the moon in agony.
The singer stopped and scowled at the group,but the Push seemed to be unaware of his existence.He moved on,and began another verse.As he stopped to take breath the cry went up again,the agonized wail of a cur whose feelings are harrowed by music.The singer stopped,choking with rage,bewildered by the novelty of the attack.The Push seemed lost in thought.Again he turned to go,when a stone,jerked as if from a catapult,struck him on the shoulder.As he turned,roaring like a bull,a piece of blue metal struck him above the eye,cutting the flesh to the bone.The blood began to trickle slowly down his cheek.
Still roaring,he hopped on his crutch with incredible speed towards the Push,who stood their ground for a minute and then,with the instinct of the cur,bolted.The sailor stopped,and shook his fist at their retreating forms,showering strange,foreign maledictions on the fleeing enemy.It was evident that he could swear better than he could sing.
"Them wretches is givin'Froggy beans,"said Mrs Swadling.
"Lucky fer 'im it's daylight,or they'd tickle 'is ribs with their boots,"said Mrs Jones.
"Jonah and Chook's at the bottom o'that,"said Mrs Swadling,looking hard at Mrs Yabsley.
"Ah,the devil an''is 'oof!"said Mrs Yabsley grimly,and was silent.
The sailor disappeared round the corner,and five minutes later the Push had slipped back,one by one,to their places under the veranda.
Mrs Jones was in the middle of a story:
"'Er breath was that strong,it nearly knocked me down,an'so I sez to 'er,'Mark my words,I'll pocket yer insults no longer,an'you in a temperance lodge.I'll make it my bizness to go to the sekertary this very day,an'tell 'im of yer goin's on.'An'she sez.w'y,there she is again,"cried Mrs Jones,as she caught the sound of a shrill voice,high-pitched and quarrelsome.The women craned their necks to look.
A woman of about forty,drunken,bedraggled,dressed in dingy black,was pacing up and down the pavement in front of the barber's.She blinked like a drunken owl,and stepped high on the level footpath as if it were mountainous.And without looking at anything,she threw a string of insults at the barber,hiding behind the partition in his shop.For seven years she had passed as his wife,and then,one day,sick of her drunken bouts,he had turned her out,and married Flash Kate,the ragpicker's daughter.Sloppy Mary had accepted her lot with resignation,and went out charring for a living;but whenever she had a drop too much she made for the barber's,forgetting by a curious lapse of memory that it was no longer her home.And as usual the barber's new wife had pushed her into the street,staggering,and now stood on guard at the door,her coarse,handsome features alive with contempt.
"Wotcher doin'in my 'ouse?"suddenly inquired Sloppy,blinking with suspicion at Flash Kate."Yous go 'ome,me fine lady,afore yer git yerself talked about."The woman at the door laughed loudly,and pretended to examine with keen interest a new wedding ring on her finger.
"Cum 'ere,an'I'll tear yer blasted eyes out,"cried the drunkard,turning on her furiously.
The ragpicker's daughter leaned forward,and inquired,"'Ow d'ye like yer eggs done?"At this simple inquiry the drunkard stamped her foot with rage,calling on her enemy to prepare for instant death.And the two women bombarded one another with insults,raking the gutter for adjectives,spitting like angry cats across the width of the pavement.
The Push gathered round,grinning from ear to ear,sooling the women on as if they were dogs.But just as a shove from behind threw Sloppy nearly into the arms of her enemy,the Push caught sight of a policeman,and walked away with an air of extreme nonchalance.At the same moment the drunkard saw the dreaded uniform,and,obeying the laws of Cardigan Street,pulled herself together and walked away,mumbling to herself.
The three women watched the performance without a word,critical as spectators at a play.When they saw there would be no scratching,they resumed their conversation.
"W'en a woman takes to drink,she's found a short cut to 'ell,an'lets everybody know it,"said Mrs Yabsley,briefly."But this won't git my work done,"and she tucked up her sleeves and went in.
The Push,bent on killing time,and despairing of any fresh diversion in the street,dispersed slowly,one by one,to meet again at night.
The Cardigan Street Push,composed of twenty or thirty young men of the neighbourhood,was a social wart of a kind familiar to the streets of Sydney.Originally banded together to amuse themselves at other people's expenses,the Push found new cares and duties thrust upon them,the chief of which was chastising anyone who interfered with their pleasures.
Their feats ranged from kicking an enemy senseless,and leaving him for dead,to wrecking hotel windows with blue metal,if the landlord had contrived to offend them.Another of their duties was to check ungodly pride in the rival Pushes by battering them out of shape with fists and blue metal at regular intervals.
