# A Breaker of Laws/Chapter 8

pp. 124-140.

### CHAPTER VIII

The White Horse in High Street, Deptford, and a busy evening. In the large club-room that looked out on two streets a smoking concert, given by the men of Barraclough and Co., in honour of Alfred Bateson, 'who has recently,' so the cheaply printed cards of invitation ran, 'who has recently emerged triumphant from an unfounded charge brought against him on no grounds whatsoever.' Smoke, which made some of the ladies cough, filled the large room, hurrying to escape when a window opened slightly, in the certain knowledge that it would be promptly deprived of this means of exit: 'for if we are to be choked,' said the ladies beneath the window, 'or else have our heads jolly well blown off with cold air, why, let us be choked.' So the windows closed again and tears trickled down the panes. In a large chair near to the pianoforte at the end of the room young Mr. Barraclough made a well-intentioned effort to enter into the spirit of the evening, endeavouring to show geniality to all, with special attention to Alfred and to Caroline, who, at a table in the front row, received, between songs, congratulations from the others. Baby had been left at home in charge of the ground-floor lady, and Caroline's only regret this happy evening was that she had not brought him to share the honours paid to her husband and herself.
'My friends,' said young Barraclough, rising and adjusting his pince-nez, 'the next item will be a song by one of our excellent colleagues, a foreman in the works who is universally respected and revered. He will sing "The Honest Heart of an Honest Man."'
The white-waistcoated foreman left the table, having first given his half-smoked cigar into the charge of his little wife, and advanced with great importance to the platform, where he held consultation with the smooth-haired youth at the piano, growling the air that he proposed to sing until the smooth-haired lad had gained something of its intent, upon which the foreman took up his position on the edge of the platform and stilled the room with an awful glance.
'Memory permitting,' said the foreman, 'I'll give you a song, friends, and I shall be glad of your kind additionality in the chorus.'
A lengthy song with at least half a dozen verses, full of the most unimpeachable sentiments, and arguing in a deliberate, insistent way that whilst there might be some who valued gold, or deeds of our forefathers brave and old, and admired the valour of soldiers true, who went forth to battle, to die or do, yet when you came to review the whole matter and weigh up impartially the precise value of all virtues and appraise them justly you had to confess (in the chorus) that the noblest thing on earth, my boys, deny it now who can, is the sterling worth of an honest heart, of an upright, honest man. The foreman after each verse bowed to the table at which Alfred and Caroline were seated, and Alfred, amused by the preposterous gravity of his former opponent, had no trouble to forget the real irony of the compliment. Indeed, Alfred, in his buoyant, careless way, was, under the influence of compliment and beer, becoming convinced that he had an admirable grievance against the world, and that his past left nothing to be desired. He rather enjoyed the acting of the whole scene; he especially valued the sincere admiration that sparkled in Caroline's eyes. One or two of the coughing married ladies in the smoky room noticed this affectionate and almost reverential attitude that the good Caroline was too honest to hide, and between themselves reproved her.
'That ain't the way to treat a man,' said the married ladies severely.
'I have another appointment,' said young Barraclough in his high voice from the platform; 'and if you will allow me to interrupt the—er—flow of harmony, so to speak, I should be glad if you would permit me to say a few brief words.'
A large infant at the back of the room screamed aloud at this, and struggled with its mother, evidently wishful to get at the tall young man with the head voice and to stop him from carrying out this threat.
'You are assembled here to-night,' went on the tall young man, when the large baby had been danced out of its rage, 'to do honour, if I may say so, to one who has been wrongfully accused; to one who is your fellow-workman, and who has—er—returned to the position which he occupied in our firm, little the worse, I trust, for his residence in what is, I believe, called,' here young Barraclough referred to his notes, 'called "quod."'
The large smoky room cheered at this, and laughed also, because it seemed clear that the use of slang was an effort at humour.
'Alfred Bateson will be able to interest his children, from the eldest to the youngest'—a female voice from the back of the room called out that they had but one, and Barraclough replied with much readiness that he was aware that there was only one at present, an emphasis which gave to the matrons great amusement as they repeated the repartee to each other, causing them to rock to and fro with enjoyment—'with his experience in "quod." And bitter as the experience was at the moment, and acute as his resentment may have been since, the time will come, I hope, when he will forget the pain and remember only the happiness of this evening.' Alfred Bateson, being thus appealed to, said '’Ear, 'ear!' and Caroline wept quietly. 'For I take it that you have organized this admirable concert in order to show that you have never lost confidence in him' (cheers), 'that you sympathize with him in his past troubles' (cheers), 'and that you welcome him heartily, and with all sincerity, back to freedom after his unfortunate and wholly undeserved detention in'—here young Barraclough again referred to his notes—'"quod."' (Cheers and laughter.) 'We of Barraclough's are, as I need scarcely say, all on the side of law and order, and—er—resolved to uphold that standard in order to insure the well-being of our country; at the same time, when the guardians of law and order make a lamentable error, as they have done in this case, then our sympathy goes out to the individual, no matter who he may be, who has so undeservedly endured—er—"quod." Ladies and gentlemen, before I leave you continuing this pleasant concert, let me ask you to drink at my expense the health of Alfred Bateson!'
The windows of the clubroom shook with applause, the floor trembled. Nothing could have been more popular than the concluding remark of young Barraclough, and as white-sleeved waiters hurried from one table to another taking orders, the men and women felt dazed at being suddenly called upon to name a beverage suitable to the occasion. One of the wives, who had been in earlier years acquainted with good society, said promptly, 'Sherry wine,' whilst others, unable to make up their minds, failed to give their orders before the busy waiters hurried away. Glasses being served, young Barraclough called upon all to stand up and drink the toast. Caroline was rising with the rest when a lady of experience near her whispered commandingly, 'Keep your seat.' Caroline obeyed, and as the room sang 'For he's a jolly good fellow' she held her hand at her white throat, and wished again that she had brought baby. When the noise finished she saw Alfred mistily as he rose and stepped up on the platform—Alfred very pale, his forehead damp.
'Fellow -workers,' said Alfred, 'and fellow-workers' wives and fellow-workers' sweet'earts! I—I never did the thing what they accused me of. I don't pretend I'm perfect, but I never did that.' (Cheers.) 'If it's the last words I utter on this earth, I never did what they charged me with—straight, I didn't.' He stopped and looked around the smoky room; one hand felt the buttons of his waistcoat nervously. 'I challenge anybody to get up in this place and point a finger at me, and say that I did what they accused me of.'
The room seemed to protest against this needless declaration of innocence, and a murmur came to signify this. A tall woman, with a grim face, seated at one of the distant smoke-hidden tables, rose and came slowly up by the side of the wall. When she reached the circle of light made by a cluster of bare gas-jets, she waited.
'I go further,' said Alfred, raising his voice, and now more at his ease. 'I challenge anybody in this room to stand forth and say that I've ever done anything of any kind whatsoever that could be termed a breaking of them laws to which you, sir, have so kindly referred. My wife,' here he glanced proudly at the tearful Caroline, 'has got confidence in me' (cheers); 'you, my fellow-workmen, 'ave got confidence in me' (cheers again), 'and what I say to-night is that you'll never 'ave cause to regret it. You take that from me. This night means a kind of a Clapham Junction for me, it does. If ever I've been a bit careless in me past, a bit thoughtless in me behaviour, I change here, I do, and I take the train that's got "Honesty" marked on it.'
Young Barraclough, from the chair, said 'Heah, heah!' the room banged the tables. When the applause had finished the woman standing in the circle of light near the wall looked up and spoke. It was Miss Ladd.
'Got your ticket for the journey?' she asked quietly.
The room shouted indignantly, 'Shut your 'ead!' and 'Leave off interrupting can't you!' Miss Ladd smiled, and taking from her pocket a silver-mounted vinaigrette, sniffed at it with great composure and elegance. Alfred watched her vacantly, his hair dank upon his forehead, until the room, impatient, begged him to go on. He turned stupidly to young Barraclough, and Barraclough, in a whisper, advised him to finish.
'I 'aven't said what—what I wanted to say,' remarked Alfred to the room, 'but—many thanks, fellow-workers, for all your kindness. Me and my wife will never forget it Thank ye.'
He stumbled down from the platform, and seemed to feel his way to the table where Caroline was sitting; the room cheered again, mainly because speeches were over and the way clear for more songs. Young Barraclough, coming down and shaking hands with Caroline, found himself pushed aside by Miss Ladd, striding her way to the platform. Alfred watched her with fearfulness, and leaning forward, caught at her dress.
'I'd like to say a few words, sir,' said Miss Ladd with respect to Mr. Barraclough, 'as an old friend of the family.'
'Is it necessary?' asked the tall youth, looking round.
'I say,' interrupted Alfred, moistening his dry lips with his tongue.
'Speaking to me?' asked the lady with reserve.
'Why don't you—why don't you come to our place next Sunday and 'ave tea and see the baby?'
'Do,' added Caroline.
'If you'd rather I didn't speak, sir,' said Miss Ladd to young Barraclough, 'I won't.'
'Don't think it would be wise to trouble them with any more.'
'Very well, then,' said Miss Ladd, seating herself at the table near to Alfred and Caroline, 'I'll keep me mouth shut.'
Young Barraclough shook hands with Alfred, and went down the gangway of the smoke-filled room, nodding a cheerful good-night to the men, and feeling, no doubt, well content to exchange the atmosphere for the rarer and purer air without. His departure meant a release of the skid; the youth at the pianoforte started a medley of humorous songs, and the room sang the choruses noisily. Miss Ladd leaned forward and asked for Finnis.
'I miss William,' remarked Alfred, still trembling. 'He's on the sick-list, and he don't dare be seen out after eight.'
'We won't be late getting 'ome,' urged Caroline.
'I'm ready to start when you are,' said Miss Ladd in the friendliest way. 'My brother's gone out Dulwich way on business, and I'm me own master.'
'Gets a lot of night work, doesn't he?' asked Caroline.
'You 'ave to work night and day,' replied Miss Ladd serenely, 'in the greengrocery line.'
'I was surprised to see you come in,' said Caroline. 'I thought we was never going to see you again.'
'I didn't,' remarked the elder woman.
'If you go out first,' suggested Alfred, 'I'll be down in about two twos, and they won't notice it so much. Can you look after the wife?'
'Yes,' said Miss Ladd, looking at him, 'I can.'
Some delay occurred before Alfred found himself able to leave the room, because one of the workmen's wives, having announced her willingness to sing, and being thereupon begged to go on the platform, refused flatly to do this, declaring that she had never been one of your saucy minxes (which was, indeed, not a title that one could have applied to her appropriately), and being still urged to comply with the usual procedure, suddenly changed her mind and decided not to sing at all, but to sulk instead. Then, when a lady had been found to go on the platform, it unfortunately proved to be somebody's daughter with no song, but a temperance recitation, beginning:
'Oh, wine it is a mocking thing,
It steals away the brine,
Against it I would wish to preach,
And not, I trust, in vine;'
an exhortation received by the room stolidly, because it seemed clear that the argument only applied to, say, claret, and not to beer or to whisky. When Alfred had managed to get away from the room, and had made his way downstairs, he found his young wife and Miss Ladd seated in the private bar, with lemonade before them.
It shocked him oddly to encounter this well-expected picture. He had made up his mind to cut away from the old set, and to keep Caroline apart from them, yet here at the first suggestion of a threat he had allowed Miss Ladd to resume companionship. Only for the moment self-reproach nipped him; the next moment he was assuring himself that he had pursued a judicious course, and in his optimistic way he hoped that the convenient thing would be also the wisest. One definite plan of action was at any rate decided upon—that under no circumstances would he run any more risks. There should be no more companionship with Ladd, no more association with crime. It was unfair to Caroline, unfair to the boy; besides, he remembered Holloway. It seemed that Miss Ladd was listening partly to Caroline's proud chatter about the baby and partly to a red-faced lad near the bar, bragging loudly to a respectful circle of the importance of his daily duties. Alfred, drinking at the urgent request of Caroline her glass of sleepy lemonade, also listened, and, going over to the group, asked for a light.
'I tell you,' said the red-faced lad loudly, and glancing round towards the two women, 'my people 'd trust me with untold gold if they had to carry such a thing. Every Monday morning down I goes to the station with my van, and I say, "Where's my cases?" and they loads me up with watches from a town called Swizzerland, and I don't mind telling you chaps—in confidence, mind—that there's sometimes four or five thousand pounds' worth in my van by the time I'm ready to start.'
'Nice little fairy story he's givin' you,' remarked Alfred to one of the circle.
'I beg your pardon,' said the boy carman, slipping from his stool and advancing to Alfred with threatening politeness. 'Did I catch your remark rightly?'
'How should I know?' demanded Alfred.
'Repeat it!' insisted the lad furiously. 'Go on! Repeat it! If you're a gen'leman, and know how to be'ave as such, you just repeat what you've said, and whatever it was, I'll make you eat your words. See?'
'What I 'inted was that a chap with a face like yours wouldn't be trusted with so much as a nose-bag, much more a 'orse and a van and a load of cases.'
'’Old my hat, someone!' commanded the infuriated lad. 'I don't take insults from nobody! If a genleman calls me a liar, I expect him to prove it!'
'Keep yer hat on,' urged his friends.
'’Elp me off with my jacket!' demanded the lad explosively. 'If there's a man amongst you, 'elp me to get my arm out of the tore lining of my jacket. When I'm quiet, I'm quiet; and when I'm roused, I'm roused.'
The red-faced lad, still in trouble with his jacket, found himself compelled by his friends to retire to the corner, where they formed a semicircle around him. Their well-meaning endeavour to pacify him only fanned the flame of his indignation. Caroline called to Alfred, but Alfred, begging her to be patient for a minute, went over to the hot-headed lad.
'I wonder at a grown-up man of your breedin' and education,' he said genially, 'forgetting hisself so in the presence of ladies. I should have thought that a man with a position like yours would 'a been the last to show hisself in his shirt-sleeves. How's that uncle of yours getting on?'
'You mean Uncle Tom down at Limehouse?' asked the youth, caught by the inquiry.
'Of course I mean Uncle Tom down at Limehouse,' replied Alfred promptly.
'Funny thing you should know him,' said the lad, blinking. 'Perhaps that accounts for your being so familiar and forcing your way into the conversation.'
'He only meant it as a pleasantry,' urged one of the semicircle soothingly.
'Did you mean it for pleasantry?' demanded the red-faced lad.
'Most certainly,' replied Alfred. 'Don't think I reely mean to throw any doubt on your statement, do you?'
Caroline and Miss Ladd, who had suspended their conversation during this brief quarrel, returned to the subject of baby. The boy carman looked across at Miss Ladd admiringly, and hiccoughed.
'A misun'erstanding,' he said. 'You'll pardon me if I'm a bit too keen in 'fence of the family honour.'
'Does ye credit, old man,' said Alfred, shaking hands. 'Shows you got eristocratic blood in your veins.'
'Think it does?' asked the lad feebly.
'There's no mistaking it.'
'My argument always is,' said the lad, with a slight tendency to return to his disputant manner, 'that a man's got a right to be treated as a man.'
'I never 'eard it put quite so well before,' confessed Alfred; 'but, 'pon me word, you've got the whole idea into a nutshell. What's yours?'
'Never drink with strangers.'
'He's knowed me this five minutes,' pointed out Alfred to the rest of the party, 'and yet he calls me a stranger.'
'Don't be so stand-offish in your manner,' urged the others.
'Look 'ere, me old university chum,' said Alfred. 'I'll 'ave a bit of a flutter with you. You preduce some paper or some way-bill, or some'ing to prove that what you've been bragging about is right, and I'll stand drinks round; fail to preduce any such document, and you stand drinks round.'
'Done with you,' said the scarlet-faced boy, with great artfulness. 'Boys, put all your money on me. Back me to win this journey.' Opening his coat, he found some papers and envelopes, and laid them on the wooden counter. Alfred crowded round with the others to see the result. 'There y'are,' said the young carman, with triumph, 'there's one of my delivery orders, signed by the firm, and all I 'ave to do is to fill in the date.'
'Hand it over,' requested Alfred. 'Let's 'ave a look.'
'Not likely,' said the lad, shaking his head. '’Ere, miss.' The barmaid behind the counter woke up and asked, with a yawn, what was the matter now. 'Kindly read that out to this gentleman and take his order for glasses round.'
The barmaid complied, and Alfred paid for the refreshments. The circle, on the invitation of the red- faced youth, toasted him, and the carman, touched by the fact that he had won, declared Alfred to be a good sportsman, and Alfred said that the mere name of the lad (which he did not know) seemed to breathe straightforwardness and strict attention to business, venturing also the prophecy that he would ere long be a master carman, with five-and-twenty pair-horse vans under his control. Caroline pressed Alfred's arm, suggesting an immediate return home.
'I'll take that slip of paper, miss,' whispered Alfred.
The barmaid opened her eyes, and picked the delivery order from the floor, where it had fallen.
'’Appy dreams!'
He turned to the two women. 'Let's slip out quiet,' he said.
They left Miss Ladd at the end of Deptford Green, and walked together, after bidding that lady a friendly good-night, along Creek Road. Caroline, her young brain excited by the importance of the evening, contented to feel at peace with all the world, including Miss Ladd, proud of her young husband, and eager to return to the incomparable baby, almost danced by Alfred's side as they went on the dimly-lighted road and over the bridge which spanned the canal. She chattered away like a merry young bird, rallying her husband on being so quiet, giving an imitation of her sisters' astonishment when they should receive in Devonshire the news of the past six weeks.
'I wish every evening was like this,' sighed the delighted young woman.
'It's going to be,' said Alfred.
'I don't think I could endure anything like real sorrow, Elf dear.'
'You won't 'ave a chance to.'
'I do think,' declared Caroline, 'that I'm the luckiest girl in all the world to have you, Elf, for a 'usband! When I think of some of the men there are in the world——'
'Look 'ere,' he interrupted, 'I'll run you from 'ere 'ome to Exmouth Terrace for twopence, and you can 'ave three lamp-posts start.'
The streets were clear; the sight of the flying young couple excited no comment (save from two matrons with aprons and bare arms who shook their heads solemnly and remarked that it was easy enough to be light-hearted before you were married), and Alfred allowed Caroline to win by a short head. He paid her the amount of the wager, and she went indoors to release Trafalgar from the control of the ex-cornet's wife, whilst Alfred finished in the silent East Street the very end of his cigar. He walked up and down, with one subject gradually shouldering all others from his thoughts.
'I'm a new 'and,' said Alfred, in an undertone, as one rehearsing, 'and I've come for our firm's Swiss cases. Load 'em up sharp, ole man, because I've got a lot to do, and I'll give you a tanner to get some beer. 'Ere's the order'—he affected to take a paper from his pocket and to present it to an imaginary railway porter—'and do look slippy, there's a good sort.'
He stopped and went through it all again, with some amendment.
'I'm a new carman, and 'ere's the delivery order for——'
The end of the cigar burnt his lips, and he threw it away.
'Sop me bob!' said Alfred Bateson thoughtfully, 'I could do it with one 'and tied behind me. If I 'adn't sworn off——'
A tap at the window made him look up. He saw Caroline dancing the open-eyed little Trafalgar, and trying to induce that young man to hail his father.
Alfred Bateson reddened shamefacedly, and went into the house.