Tales of Mean Streets

s leading spirit appears no more among his devot

oor in an alley; a compartment uninvaded and almost undiscovered by any but themselves, where night after night they drank their beer and smoked their pipes, sunk in a stagnant ignorance of their manifold wrongs. During the day Old Baker remained to garrison the stronghold. He was a long-bankrupt tradesman, with invisible resources and no occupation but this, and no known lodging but the Red Cow snuggery. There he remained all day and every day, “holding the fort,” as he put it, with his nose, a fier

ounts were kept, and their references to pecuniary matters were always stated, in terms of liquid measure. Thus, fourpence was never spoken of in t

dinary and unheard of places in his daily quest of quarts, and he had met Sotcher in a loft at the top of a house in Berners Street, Shadwell. It was a loft where the elect of anarchism congregated nightly, and where everybody lectured all the others. Sotcher was a v

of long features, and on his hands there was a murky deposit that looked like scales. He wore, in all weathers, a long black coat with a rectangular rent in the skirt, and his throat he clipped in a brown neckerchief that on a time had been of the right anarchist red. But no want of welcome could abash him. Here, indeed, he

rse was a repetition of the one before. Slowly the Red Cow group came round. Plainly other people were better o

collection. “I ask you straight, wy are we pore? Why is it, my frien’s, that awften and awften you find you ain’t got a penny i

” which encouraged Gunno Polson to suggest. “Backers all stonybroke.” Jerry Shand said nothing,

nothing upper classes, as they call ‘emselves, to reap all the benefits o’ your toil wile you slave an’ slave t

ooked at his friends one after another,

’ the paid myrmidons armed an’ kep’ to make slaves o’ the people. Becos o’ the magistrates an’ p’lice.

He was a mere groundling, and persisted in regarding the proceedings as sim

t, nor parliament, nor monarchy, nor county council, nor nothink. Make a clean sweep of ’em. Blow ’em up. Then you’ll ‘ave yer rights. The time’s comin’, I tell you. It

e alarmed, and for a mom

f the group gave a lickerish look across the bar. “No a’thority, no gover’ment, no privilege, a

d Jerry Shand, who wa

ents with ‘is feller-men ‘e likes for to carry on the business of life, bu

horizontally before him to stir the beer; “that ‘

tenham Court Road and at another in Dean Street, Soho, that at last a comrade had secured an excellent footing with a party of the proletariat of East London, hitherto looked on as

and twice as much sulphuric acid. The shops where they sold photographic materials were best and cheapest for these things, and no questions were asked. They should mix the acids, and then add gently, drop by drop, the best glycerine, taking care to keep everything cool. After which the whole lot must be poured into water, to stand for an hour. Then

ing half-way on its passage mouthward. Then Jerry Shand wanted

ioneers that goes to show the way for the active workers like you. I on’y come to explain the principles an’

arose. However, one thing must be remembered. If the group operated, each man must be watchful of the rest; there must be no half measures, no timorousness; any comrade wavering, temporizing, or behaving in any way suspiciously, must be straightway suppressed. There must be no mi

Whitehall, say. Or a bank — nobody seemed to have tried a bank; he offered the suggestion now. Of course there were not many public buildings in the East End, but possibly the group would like to act in their own neighborhood: it would be a novelty, and would attract notice; the question was one for their own decision, independent freedom of judgment being the right t

ed in the balance against the glorious consummation of the social upheaval. He repeated his contention, when some weaker comrade spoke of the chance of danger to the operator, and repeated it with a proper scorn of the soft-han

s the name of the stuff agin,” broke out Gunno Polson, resolutely,

with much spelling. “Thick, yuller, oily

n’ keep

solute, and Sotcher strode to hi

ittle chemical experiment was going on well, Gunno Polson reported, with confident nods and winks. Sotcher repeated his discourse, as a matter of routine, to maintain the general ardor, which had, however,

mouth and putting down his pipe; “taint

ness of striking a mighty blow at this, and that, and the other;

t all you blokes always got some

on, and things of that kind. For a little, the comrades looked at one another awkwardly, but they soon regained thei

ed, “’ere you are at last. We’ve ‘ad to do important business without you. See,” he added in a lower

about the group, and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “I— I thought you’d git the job over soon as the stuff was ready. . . . ‘Ere, my Gawd!” he squeaked under his breath, “don’t put it down ‘ard on the table like tha

acca canister, an’ some wire, an’ a big cracker with a long touch-paper, so as to stick out o’ the canister-lid. That ought t

error. “You — you dunno wot awful stuff it is — s’elp me, you don’t. You — you’ll blow

verers nor blokes wot want to clear out in the middle of it, and p’r’aps to go an’ tell the p’lice. Them sort we ‘as to suppress, see?

d a yellower pallor and a

you come. We voted it — by ballot, all square. If y

ly. “I won’t, I won’t!” he gasped. “Lemme go

re. It’s pretty plain we can’t depend on you, an’ you know wot that means — eh? Doncher? You’re one o’ the sort as to be suppressed, that’s wot it means. ‘Ere,

corner — the furthest from the table where Gunno Polson was p

, with a screen standing above it — and conceived a wild notion of escape by scr

im in the corner. An’ if ‘e won’t dri

ly, and the bedraggled Sotcher, cowed fr

id: “I s’pose it’s no good askin’

an’— I’m a — a teacher — a speaker; not the active branch, se’lp me. Put it auf —

s only one physic for that, ain’t there, in the rules? You’re got to be suppressed. Question is ‘ow. We’ll ‘ave to kill ’im quiet somehow,” he proceede

was forced back into the corner. One suggested a clasp-knife at the throat, another a stick in his neckerchief, twisted to throttling-point. But in the

eenwich, ‘ow ‘is things was blowed away. ‘Ullo! ’ere’s two ‘arfcrowns an’ some tanners. Seven an’thrippence altogether, with the browns. This is the bloke wot ‘adn’t got no funds. This’ll be divided on free an’ equal principles to ‘elp pay for that beer you’re wasted. ‘Old up, ol’ man! Think o’ the glory. P’r’aps you’re all right, but it’s best to be on the saf

case he might sufficiently recover his powers to call for help. But he did not, and there in the shadow, at the foot of the great gasometer, they flung him down with a parting kick and a barbarous knock on the head, to keep him quiet for those few necessary moments. Then the murderous canister, boun

er nearby where he lay. The divisional surgeon stated that he was called to the prisoner, and found him tearful and incoherent, and smelling strongly of drink. He complained of having been assaulted in a public-house, but could give no intelligible account of himself. A c