“Not a shilling!”
“What? Wasn’t it I that gave the information? Where would you have been if I had not given you the office?”
“If there had been a fine we might have allowed you something. We would have got something, too. Mr. Melrose sent him to gaol. There is nothing for anybody.”
“So say you. I’m damned sure you and those two women got something out of it. Why the hell should I give away my own brother for the sake of the likes of you? You’ll find your own bird next time.”
Murphy was a choleric man with a sense of his own importance. He was not to be bearded thus in his own seat of office. He rose with a very red face.
“I’ll tell you what, Silas Linden, I could find my own bird and never move out of this room. You had best get out of this quick, or you may chance to stay here longer than you like. We’ve had complaints of your treatment of those two children of yours, and the children’s protection folk are taking an interest. Look out that we don’t take an interest, too.”
Silas Linden flung out of the room with his temper hotter than ever, and a couple of rum-and-waters on his way home did not help to appease him. On the contrary, he had always been a man who grew more dangerous in his cups. There were many of his trade who refused to drink with him.
Silas lived in one of a row of small brick houses named Bolton’s Court, lying at the back of Tottenham Court Road. His was the end house of a cul-de-sac, with the side wall of a huge brewery beyond. These dwellings were very small, which was probably the reason why the inhabitants, both adults and children, spent most of their time in the street. Several of the elders were out now, and as Silas passed under the solitary lamp-post, they scowled at his thick-set figure, for though the morality of Bolton’s Court was of no high order, it was none the less graduated and Silas was at zero. A tall Jewish woman, Rebecca Levi, thin, aquiline and fierce-eyed, lived next to the prizefighter. She was standing at her door now, with a child holding her apron.
“Mr. Linden,” she said as he passed, “them children of yours want more care than they get. Little Margery was in here to-day. That child don’t get enough to eat.”
“You mind your own business, curse you!” growled Silas. “I’ve told you before now not to push that long, sheeny beak of yours into my affairs. If you was a man I’d know better how to speak to you.”
“If I was a man maybe you wouldn’t dare to speak to me so. I say it’s a shame, Silas Linden, the way them children is treated. If it’s a police-court case, I’ll know what to say.”
“Oh, go to hell!” said Silas, and kicked open his own unlatched door. A big, frowsy woman with a shock of dyed hair and some remains of a florid beauty, now long over-ripe, looked out from the sitting-room door.
“Oh, it’s you, is it?” said she.
“Who did you think it was? The Dook of Wellington?”
“I thought it was a mad bullock maybe got strayin’ down the lane, and buttin’ down our door.”
“Funny, ain’t you?”
“Maybe I am, but I hain’t got much to be funny about. Not a shilling in the ‘ouse, nor so much as a pint o’ beer, and these damned children of yours for ever up
settin’ me.”
“What have they been a-doin’ of?” asked Silas with a scowl. When this worthy pair could get no change out of each other, they usually united their forces against the children. He had entered the sitting-room and flung himself down in the wooden armchair.
“They’ve been seein’ Number One again.”
“How d’ye know that?”
“I ‘eard ‘im say somethin’ to ‘er about it. ‘Mother was there,’ ‘e says. Then afterwards ‘e ‘ad one ‘o them sleepy fits.”
“It’s in the family.”
“Yes, it is,” retorted the woman. “If you ‘adn’t sleepy fits you’d get some work to do, like other men.”
“Oh, shut it, woman! What I mean is, that my brother Tom gets them fits, and this lad o’ mine is said to be the livin’ image of his uncle. So he had a trance, had he? What did you do?”
The woman gave an evil grin.
“I did what you did.”
“What, the sealin’-wax again?”
“Not much of it. Just enough to wake ‘im. It’s the only way to break ‘im of it.”
Silas shrugged his shoulders.