Can you spare a couple of farthings, set him back upon his way? Can you? He's all alone and don't know no-one, don't know Chancery Lane from Woolwich. He has left his coat in his master's
cart. — __God bless you, sir! Don't cry, mate! Look, this gentleman is giving you twopence. Here comes some more! And they say Londoners' hearts is hard, in the country— don't they . . .?'
Of course, the idea of a gentleman giving him money made Charles cry worse than ever. His tears were like so many magnets. We made three shillings, that first day— which paid for our room; and when we tried the same dodge the day after, on a different street, we made four. That got us our suppers. The money that was left over after that I kept, along with the ticket to Charles's coat, in my shoe. I wore my shoes, even in bed. 'I wantmy jacket,' Charles would say, a hundred times an hour; and every time I'd answer, 'Tomorrow. I swear. I promise. Just one more day . . .'
And then, all day, I would stand at the shutters, my eye at the heart-shaped hole. I was watching the house, figuring out its habits. I was marking it, patient as a cracksman. I saw thieves come, bringing pieces of poke to Mr Ibbs: I saw him turn the lock on his door, pull down his blind. The sight of his hands, of his honest face, made me want to weep. I'd think, 'Why can't I go to him?' Then, a little later, I'd see Gentleman, and be filled again with fear. Then I'd see Maud. I'd see her at the window. She liked to stand there, with her face against the sash— as if she knew I was watching, and mocked me!
I saw Dainty, helping her dress in the mornings, fastening up her hair. And I saw Mrs Sucksby, at night, letting it down.— Once I saw her lift a tress of it to her mouth, and kiss it.
With each new thing, I would press my faqe so hard against the glass I stood at, it would groan in its frame. And at night, when the house was dark, I would take up my candle and walk, back and forth, back and forth, from one wall to another.
'They have got them all in their power,' I'd say. 'Dainty, and Mr Ibbs, and Mrs Sucksby; and I dare say John and even Phil. Like two great spiders, they have spun their web.
We've got to be careful, Charles. Oh, haven't we! For say they know, through Dr Christie, that I've escaped? They must know by now! They are waiting, Charles. They are waiting for me. She never leaves the house— that's clever!— for, in 307
keeping there, she keeps near Mrs Sucksby. He goes, however. I've seen him. I've been waiting, too. They don't know that. He goes. We'll make our move, next time he does. I'm the fly they want. They shan't get me. We'll send them you. They won't have thought of that! Hey, Charles?'
Charles never answered. I had kept him so long in that dark room, doing nothing, his face had got pale, and his eyes had begun to grow glassy, like a doll's. 'I want my jacket,' he still said, now and then, in a feeble sort of bleat; but I think he had almost forgotten what it was he wanted it for. For at last there came a time when he said it, and I answered: 'All right. Today you'll get it. We've waited long enough. Today's our day'; and instead of looking pleased, he stared and looked frightened.
Perhaps he thought he saw a certain feverish something in my eye. I don't know. It seemed to me I was thinking like a sharper, for the first time in my life. I took him back to Watling Street and got his jacket out of pawn. But I kept hold of it. Then I took him on a 'bus.— 'For a treat,' I said. 'Look out the window, at the shops.'
I found us places next to a woman holding a baby. I sat with the coat across my lap.
Then I looked at the baby. The woman caught my eye, and I smiled.
'Pretty boy,' she said. 'Isn't he? Won't sleep for his mother, though. I bring him on the
'buses and the bumping sends him off. We've been from Fulham to Bow; now we're on our way back.'
'He's a peach,' I said. I leaned in and stroked his cheek. 'Look at them lashes! He'll break hearts, he will.' 'Won't he!'
Then I leaned back. When the next stop came, I made Charles get off. The woman said good-bye, and from the window, as the 'bus moved away, she waved. But I didn't wave back. For, under cover of Charles's coat, I had had a feel about her waistband; and had prigged her watch. It was a nice little ladies' watch, and just what I needed. I showed it to Charles. He looked at it as though it were a snake that might bite him.
'Where did you get that?' he said.
'Someone gave it to me.' 'I don't believe you. Give me my jacket.' 'In a minute.' 'Give me my coat!'
We were walking on London Bridge. 'Shut up,' I said, 'or I'll throw it over the side.— That's better. Now, tell me this: can you
write?'
He would not answer until I had gone to the wall of the bridge and dangled his jacket over; then he began to cry again, but said that he could. 'Good boy,' I said. I made him walk a little further, until we found a man hawking papers and inks. I bought a plain white sheet, and a pencil; and I took Charles back to our room and had him sit and write out a letter. I stood with my hand on the back of his neck, and watched.
'Write, Mrs Sucksby,' I said.
He said, 'How do you spell it?'
'Don't you know?'
He frowned, then wrote. It looked all right to me. I said,
'Now you write this. Write: / was put in the madhouse by that villain your friend— so called!— Gentleman— '
'You are going too fast,' he said, as he wrote. He tilted his head. 'By that villain your 308
friend— '
'— so called!— Gentleman; and that bitch Maud Lilly.— You must make those names stand out.'
The pencil moved on, then stopped. He blushed.
'I won't write that word,' he said.
'What word?'
'That B-word.'
'What?'
'Before Miss Lilly.'
I pinched his neck. 'You write it,' I said. 'You hear me? Then you write this, nice and big: PIGEON MY ARSE! She is WORSE THAN HIM!'
He hesitated; then bit his lip and wrote.
'That's good. Now this. Put: Mrs Sucksby, I have escaped and am close at hand. Send me a signal by this boy. He is a friend, he is writing
t h i s , h i s n a m e i s C h a r l e s . T r u s t h i m , a n d b e l i e v e m e — o h ! i f t h i s f a i l s , I ' l l die!— believe me as ever as good and as faithful as your own daughter— There you must leave a space.'
He did. I took the paper from him and wrote, at the bottom, my name.
'Don't look at me!' I said, as I did it; then I kissed where I had written, and folded the paper up.
' H e r e ' s w h a t y o u m u s t d o n e x t , ' I s a i d t h e n . ' T o n i g h t , w h e n G e n t l e m a n — Mr Rivers— leaves the house, you must go over, and knock, and ask to see Mr Ibbs. Say you've got a thing to sell him. You'll know him straight off: he's tall, and trims his whiskers. He'll ask if you've been followed; and you must be sure, when he does, to say you got away clean. Then he'll ask what brought you to him. Say you know Phil.
If he asks how you know him you're to say, "Through a pal named George." If he asks which George you must say, "George Joslin, down Collier's Rents." George who, down where?'
'George Joslin, down— Oh, miss! I should rather anything than this!'
'Should you rather the cruel hard men, the unspeakable things, Jamaica?'
He swallowed. 'George Joslin, down Collier's Rents,' he said.
'Good boy. Next you hand him the watch. He will give you a price; but whatever price he gives you— if it be, a hundred pounds, or a thousand— you must say it ain't enough.
Say the watch is a good one, with Geneva works. Say— I don't know— say your dad done watches, and you know them. Make him look a bit harder. Any luck, he'll take the back off— that will give you the chance to look about. Here's who you're looking for: a lady, rather old, with hair of silver— she'll be sitting in a rocking- chair, perhaps with a baby in her lap. That's Mrs Sucksby, that brought me up. She'll do anything for me. You find a way to reach her side, and pass this letter to her. You do it, Charles, and we're saved. But listen here. If there's a dark- faced, mean- looking boy about, keep clear of him, he's against us. Same goes for a red-headed girl. And if that viper Miss Maud Lilly is anywhere near, you hide your face. Understand