The guests listened with a beery sadness in their eyes,suddenly reminded that you were here to-day and gone to-morrow,pierced with a sense of the tragic brevity of Life,their hearts oppressed with a pleasant anguish at the pity and wonder of this insubstantial world.
Mrs Yabsley had put the baby in her bed,where it had slept calmly through the night till awakened by the singing.Then it grew fretful,disturbed by the rude clamour.At length,in a sudden pause,a lusty yell from the bedroom fell on their ears.Everyone smiled.But,as Mrs Yabsley crossed the room to pacify it,the women called for the baby to be brought out.
When Mrs Yabsley appeared with the infant in her arms,she was greeted with yells of admiration.Ada turned crimson with embarrassment.The women passed it from hand to hand,nursing it for a few minutes with little cries of emotion.
But suddenly Jonah walked up to Mrs Swadling and took his child in his arms.And he stood before the crowd,his eyes glittering with pride as he exhibited his own flesh and blood,the son whose shapely back and limbs proved that only an accident separated the hunchback from his fellows.
The guests howled with delight,clapping their hands,stamping their feet,trying to add to the din.It was a triumph,the sensation of the evening.
Then Old Dad,shutting one eye to see more distinctly,proposed the health of the baby.It was given with a roar.The noise stimulated Dad to further effort and,swaying slightly,he searched his memory for a suitable quotation.A patent medicine advertisement zigzagged across his brain,and with a sigh of relief,he muttered,"The 'and that slaps the baby rocks the world,"beaming on the guests with the air of a man who has Shakespeare at his fingers'ends.There was a dead silence,and Dad looked round in wonder.
Then a woman tittered,and a shout went up that rattled the windows.
It was nearly twelve when the party broke up,chiefly because the "Woolpack"was closed and the supply of beer was cut off.Some of the men had reached the disagreeable stage,maudlin drunk or pugnacious,anxious to quarrel,but forgetting the cause of dispute.The police,who had looked on with a tolerant eye,began to clear the footpaths,shaking the drowsy into wakefulness,threatening and coaxing the obstinate till they began to stagger homewards.
There was nearly a fight in the cottage.Pinkey's young man had called to take her home,and Chook had recognized him for an old enemy,a wool-washer,called "Stinky"Collins on account of the vile smell of decaying skins that hung about his clothes.Chook began to make love to Pinkey under his very eyes.And Stinky sat in sullen silence,refusing to open his mouth.Pinkey,amazed by Chook's impudence and annoyed that her lover should cut so poor a figure,encouraged him,with the feminine delight in playing with fire.Then Chook,with an insolent grin at Stinky,announced that he was going to see Pinkey home.Mrs Yabsley just parted them in time.Chook went swearing up to the corner on the chance of getting a final taste at the "Woolpack."Mrs Yabsley stood on the veranda and watched his departing figure,aching in every joint from the strain of the eventful day.Cardigan Street was silent and deserted.The air was still hot and breathless,but little gusts of wind began to rise,the first signs of a coming "buster".Then she turned to Jonah and Ada,who had followed her on to the veranda,and summed up the day's events.
"All's well that ends well,as the man said when he plaited the horse's tail,but this is a new way of gittin'married on the sly,with all the street to keep the secret.There's no mistake,secrets are dead funny.
Spend yer last penny to 'elp yer friend out of a 'ole,an'it niver gits about,but pawn yer last shirt,an'nex'day all the bloomin'street wants to know if yer don't feel the cold."
JONAH STARTS ON HIS OWN
It was Monday morning.Hans Paasch was at his bench cleaning up the dirt and litter of last week,setting the tools in order at one end of the bench,while he swept it clear of the scraps of leather that had gathered through the week.Then he set the heavy iron lasts on their shelves,where they looked like a row of amputated feet.The shining knives and irons lay in order,ready to hand.A light cloud of dust from the broom made him sneeze,and he strewed another handful of wet tea-leaves on the floor.These he saved carefully from day to day to lay the dust before sweeping.When the bench and the shop were swept clean,he looked round with mild satisfaction.
Once a week,in this manner,he gratified his passion for order and neatness;but when work began,everything fell into disorder,and he wasted hours peering over the bench with his short sight for tools that lay under his nose,buried in a heap of litter.
The peculiar musty odour of leather hung about the shop.A few pairs of boots that had been mended stood in a row,the shining black rim of the new soles contrasting with the worn,dingy uppers--the patched and mended shoes of the poor,who must wear them while upper and sole hang together.
They betrayed the age and *** of the wearer as clearly as a photograph.
The shoddy slipper,with the high,French heels,of the smart shop-girl;the heavy bluchers,studded with nails,of the labourer;the light tan boots,with elegant,pointed toes,of the clerk or counter-jumper;the shoes of a small child,with a thin rim of copper to protect the toes.
For the first time since he was on piecework,Jonah set out for the shop on Monday morning;but when he walked in,Paasch met him with a look of surprise,thinking he had mistaken the day of the week.He blinked uneasily when Jonah reached for his apron.
"It vas no use putting on your apron.Dere is not a stitch of work to be done,"he cried in amazement.
Jonah looked round,it was true.He remembered that the repairs,which were the backbone of Paasch's trade,began to come in slowly on Monday.
