The Bravo of London: And ‘The Bunch of Violets’. Bramah Ernest
well inside (the essence of the test as laid down), chanted in the peculiarly irritating sing-song of her tribe:
‘Toady, toady Jewlicks;
Crawls about on two sticks.
Toady, toady—’
‘Makee go away,’ called out Won Chou from his post, and this not being at once effective he advanced towards the door with a mildly threatening gesture. ‘Makee go much quickly, littee cow-child. Shall do if not gone is.’
The young imp had been prepared for immediate flight the instant anyone appeared, but for some reason Won Chou’s not very aggressive behest must have conveyed a peculiarly galling insult for its effect was to transform the wary gamin into a bristling little spitfire, who hurled back the accumulated scandal of the quarter.
‘’Ere, don’t you call me a cow-child, you ’eathen swine,’ she shrilled, standing her ground pugnaciously. ‘Pig-tail!’ And as Won Chou, conscious of his disadvantage in such an encounter, advanced: ‘Oo made the puppy pie? Oo et Jimmy ’Iggs’s white mice? Oo lives on black beetles? Oo pinched the yaller duck and—’ but at this intriguing point, being suddenly precipitated further into the shop by a mischievous child behind, and honour being fully satisfied by now, she dodged out again and rejoined the fleeing band which was retiring down the street to a noisy accompaniment of feigned alarm, squiggles of meaningless laughter, and the diminishing chant of:
‘Toady, toady Jewlicks;
Goes abaht on two sticks.
Toady, toady—’
Sadly conscious of the inadequacy of his control in a land where for so slight a matter as a clouted child an indignant mother would as soon pull his pig-tail out as look, Won Chou continued his progress in order to close the door. There, however, he came face to face with a stout, consequential gentleman whose presence, opulent complexion, ample beard and slightly alien cut of clothes would have suggested a foreign source even without the ruffled: ‘Tevils! tevils! little tevils!’ drawn from the portly visitor as the result of his somewhat undignified collision with the flying rabble.
‘Plenty childrens,’ remarked Won Chou, agreeably conversational. ‘Makee go much quickly now is.’
‘Little tevils,’ repeated the annoyed visitor, still dusting various sections of his resplendent attire to remove the last traces of infantile contamination. ‘Comrade Joolby is at home? He would expect me.’
‘Make come in,’ invited Won Chou. ‘Him belong say plaps you is blimby.’
‘The little tevils need control. They shall have when—’ grumbled the newcomer, brought back to his grievance by the discovery of a glutinous patch marring an immaculate waistcoat. ‘However, that is not your fault, Won Chou,’ and being now within the shop and away from possibly derisive comment, he kissed the attendant sketchily on each cheek. ‘Peace, little oppressed brother!’
Not apparently inordinately gratified by this act of condescension, Won Chou crossed the shop and pushing open the inner door announced the new arrival to anyone beyond in his usual characteristic lingo:
‘Comlade Blonsky come this side.’
‘Shall I to him go through?’ inquired Mr Bronsky, bustling with activity, but having already correctly interpreted the sounds from that direction Won Chou indicated the position by the sufficient remark: ‘Him will. You is,’ and withdrew into a further period of introspection.
In the sacred cause of universal brotherhood comrade Bronsky knew no boundaries and he hastened forward to meet Mr Joolby with the same fraternal greeting already bestowed on Won Chou, forgetting for the moment what sort of man he was about to encounter. The reminder was sharp and revolting: his outstretched arms dropped to his sides and he turned, affecting to be taken with some object in the shop until he could recompose his agitated faculties. Joolby’s slit-like mouth lengthened into the ghost of an enigmatical grin as he recognised the awkwardness of the comrade’s position.
Bronsky, for his part, felt that he must say something exceptional to pass off the unfortunate situation and he fell back on a highly coloured account of the derangement he had just suffered through being charged and buffeted by a mob of ‘little tevils’—an encounter so upsetting that even yet he scarcely knew which way up he was standing. Any irregularity of his salutation having thus been neatly accounted for he shook Joolby’s two hands with accumulated warmness and expressed an inordinate pleasure in the meeting.
‘But I am forgetting, comrade,’ he broke off from these amiable courtesies when the indiscretion might be deemed sufficiently expiated; ‘those sticky little bastads drove everything from my mind until I just remember. I met two men further off and from what I could see at the distance they seemed to have come out from here?’
‘There were a couple of men here a few minutes ago,’ agreed Mr Joolby. ‘What about it, comrade?’
‘I appear to recognise the look of one, but for life of me I cannot get him. Do you know them, comrade Joolby?’
‘Not from Mahomet. Said his name was Carrados—his nibs. The other was a flunkey.’
‘Max Carrados!’ exclaimed Mr Bronsky with startled enlightenment. ‘What in name of tevil was he doing here in your shop, Joolby?’
‘Wasting his time,’ was the indifferent reply. ‘My time also.’
‘Do you not believe it,’ retorted Bronsky emphatically. ‘He never waste his time, that man. Julian Joolby, do you not realise who has been here with you?’
‘Never heard of him in my life before. Never want to again either.’
‘Well, it is time for yourself that you should be put wiser. It was Max Carrados who fixed the rope round Serge Laskie’s neck. And stopped the Rimsky explosion when everything was going so well; and, oh, did a lot more harm. I tell you he is no good, comrade. He is a bad man.’
‘Anyhow, he can’t interfere with us in this business, whatever he’s done in the past,’ replied Joolby, who might be pardoned after his recent experience for feeling that there would be more agreeable subjects of conversation. ‘He’s blind now.’
‘“Blind now”—hear him!’ appealed Bronsky with a derisive cackle. ‘Tell me this however notwithstanding: did you make anything out of him, eh, Joolby?’
‘No,’ admitted Joolby, determinedly impervious to Bronsky’s agitation; ‘we did no business as it happens. He knew more than a customer has any right to know. In fact’—with an uneasy recollection of the Greek coin—‘he may have known more than I did.’
‘That is always the way. Blind: and he knows more than we who not are. Blind: and he stretch out his cunning wicked fingers and they tell him all that our clever eyes have missed to see.’
‘So he said, Bronsky. Indeed, to hear him talk—’
‘Yes, but wait to hear,’ entreated the comrade, anxious not to be deprived of his narration. ‘He sniffs—at a bit of paper, let us haphazard, and lo behold, where it has been, who has touched it, what pocket it has laid in—all are disclose to him. He listen to a breath of wind that no one else would hear and it tell him that—that, well, perhaps that two men are ready round the corner for him with a sand-bag.’
‘Oh-ho!’ said Joolby, sardonically amused; ‘so you’ve tried it, have you?’
‘Tried! You use the right word, comrade Joolby. Listen how. At Cairo he was given some sandwiches to ate on a journey. He did ate three and the fourth he had between his teeth when he change his mind and throw it to a pi-dog. That dog died very hastily.’
‘Anyone may recognise a taste or smell. Your people mixed the wrong sort of mustard.’
‘Anyone may recognise a taste or smell but yet plenty of people die of poison. Listen more. One night at Marseilles he was