When the beer came,Jonah gallantly offered it to Mrs Yabsley,whose face was hot and red.
"Just leave a drop in the jug,an'I'll be thankful for it when I'm done,"she replied,wiping her forehead on her sleeve.Jonah had risen in her esteem.
After some awkward attempts at conversation,Jonah relapsed into silence.
He was glad that he had brought his mouth-organ,won in a shilling raffle.
He would give them a tune later on.
When she had finished the last shirt,Mrs Yabsley looked at the clock with an exclamation.It was nearly ten.She had to deliver the shirts,and then buy the week's supplies.For she did her shopping at the last minute,in a panic.It had been her mother's way--to dash into the butcher's as he swept the last bones together,to hammer at the grocer's door as he turned out the lights.And she always forgot something which she got on Sunday morning from the little shop at the corner.
As she was tying the shirts into bundles,she heard the tinkle of a bell in the street,and a hoarse voice that cried:
"Peas an'pies,all 'ot,all 'ot!"
"'Ow'd yer like some peas,Joe?"she cried,dropping the shirts and seizing a basin.
"I wouldn't mind,"said Jonah.
"'Ere,Ada,run an'git threepenn'orth,"she cried.
In a minute Ada returned with the basin full of green peas,boiled into a squashy mass.
Mrs Yabsley went out with the shirts,and Jonah and Ada sat down to the peas,which they ate with keen relish,after sprinkling them with pepper and vinegar.
After the green peas,Ada noticed that Jonah was looking furtively about the room and listening,as if he expected to hear something.She guessed the cause,and decided to change his thoughts.
"Give us a tune,Joe,"she cried.
Jonah took the mouth-organ from his pocket,and rubbed it carefully on his sleeve.He was a famous performer on this instrument,and on holiday nights the Push marched through the streets,with Jonah in the lead,playing tunes that he learned at the "Tiv".He breathed slowly into the tubes,running up and down the scale as a pianist runs his fingers over the keyboard before playing,and then struck into a sentimental ballad.
In five minutes he had warmed up to his work,changing from one tune to another with barely a pause,revelling in the simple rhythm and facile phrases of the popular songs.Ada listened spellbound,amazed by this talent for music,carried back to the gallery of the music-hall where she had heard these very tunes.At last he struck into a waltz,marking the time with his foot,drawing his breath in rapid jerks to accentuate the bass.
"Must 'ave a turn,if I die fer it,"cried Ada,springing to her feet,and,with her arms extended to embrace an imaginary partner,she began to spin round on her toes.Ada's only talent lay in her feet,and,conscious of her skill,she danced before the hunchback with the lightness of a feather,revolving smoothly on one spot,reversing,advancing and retreating in a straight line,displaying every intricacy of the waltz.
The sight was too much for Jonah,and,dropping the mouth-organ,he seized her in his arms.
"Wot did yer stop for?"cried Ada."We carn't darnce without a tune.""Carn't we?"said Jonah,in derision,and began to hum the words of the waltz that he had been playing:
White Wings,they never grow weary,They carry me cheerily over the sea;Night comes,I long for my dearie--
I'll spread out my White Wings and sail home to thee.
The pair had no equals in the true larrikin style,called "cass dancing",and they revolved slowly on a space the size of a dinner-plate,Ada's head on Jonah's breast,their bodies pressed together,rigid as the pasteboard figures in a peep-show.They were interrupted by a cry from Mrs Yabsley's bedroom.Jonah stopped instantly,with a look of dismay on his face.
Ada looked at him with a curious smile,and burst out laughing.
"I'll 'ave ter put 'im to sleep now.Cum an''ave a look at 'im,Joe--'e won't eat yer.""No fear,"cried Jonah,recoiling with anger."Wot did yer promise before I agreed to come down?"Chook's words flashed across his mind.This was a trap,and he had been a fool to come.
"I'll cum to-morrow,an'fix up the fowls,"he cried,and grabbing his mouth-organ,turned to go--to find his way blocked by Mrs Yabsley,carrying a shoulder of mutton and a bag of groceries.
CARDIGAN STREET AT HOME
Mrs Yabsley came to the door for a breath of fresh air,and surveyed Cardigan Street with a loving eye.She had lived there since her marriage twenty years ago,and to her it was the pick of Sydney,the centre of the habitable globe.She gave her opinion to every newcomer in her tremendous voice,that broke on their unaccustomed ears like thunder:
"I've lived 'ere ever since I was a young married woman,an'I know wot I'm talkin'about.My 'usband used ter take me to the play before we was married,but I never see any play equal ter wot 'appens in this street,if yer only keeps yer eyes open.I see people as wears spectacles readin'books.I don't wonder.If their eyesight was good,they'd be able ter see fer themselves instead of readin'about it in a book.I can't read myself,bein'no scholar,but I can see that books an'plays is fer them as ain't got no eyes in their 'eads."The street,which Mrs Yabsley loved,was a street of poor folk--people to whom poverty clung like their shirt.It tumbled over the ridge opposite the church,fell rapidly for a hundred yards,and then,recovering its balance,sauntered easily down the slope till it met Botany Road on level ground.It was a street of small houses and large families,and struck the eye as mean and dingy,for most of the houses were standing on their last legs,and paint was scarce.The children used to kick and scrape it off the fences,and their parents rub it off the walls by leaning against them in a tired way for hours at a stretch.On hot summer nights the houses emptied their inhabitants on to the verandas and footpaths.
The children,swarming like rabbits,played in the middle of the road.
