“I wasn’t thinking to see ye so soon,” from the ostler.
“Then nobody of any importance has yet gone into the assembly room?” from Big James.
“Nobody worth speaking of, and won’t, for a while,” from the other.
“Then I’ll take a turn,” from Big James.
The latter now looked down at Edwin, and addressed him in words—
“Seemingly we’re too soon, Mr Edwin. What do you say to a turn round the town—playground way? I doubted we should be too soon.”
Edwin showed alacrity. As a schoolboy it had been definitely forbidden to him to go out at night; and unless sent on a special and hurried errand, he had scarcely seen the physiognomy of the streets after eight o’clock. He had never seen the playground in the evening. And this evening the town did not seem like the same town; it had become a new and mysterious town of adventure. And yet Edwin was not fifty yards away from his own bedroom.
They ascended Duck Bank together, Edwin proud to be with a celebrity of the calibre of Big James, and Big James calmly satisfied to show himself thus formally with his master’s son. It appeared almost incredible that those two immortals, so diverse, had issued from the womb practically alike; that a few brief years on the earth had given Big James such a tremendous physical advantage. Several hours’ daily submission to the exact regularities of lines of type and to the unvarying demands of minutely adjusted machines in motion had stamped Big James’s body and mind with the delicate and quasi-finicking preciseness which characterises all compositors and printers; and the continual monotonous performance of similar tasks that employed his faculties while never absorbing or straining them, had soothed and dulled the fever of life in him to a beneficent calm, a calm refined and beautified by the pleasurable exercise of song. Big James had seldom known a violent emotion. He had craved nothing, sought for nothing, and lost nothing.
Edwin, like Big James in progress from everlasting to everlasting, was all inchoate, unformed, undisciplined, and burning with capricious fires; all expectant, eager, reluctant, tingling, timid, innocently and wistfully audacious. By taking the boy’s hand, Big James might have poetically symbolised their relation.
Three.
“Are you going to sing to-night at the Dragon, Mr Yarlett?” asked Edwin. He lengthened his step to Big James’s, controlled his ardent body, and tried to remember that he was a man with a man.
“I am, young sir,” said Big James. “There is a party of us.”
“Is it the Male Glee Party?” Edwin pursued.
“Yes, Mr Edwin.”
“Then Mr Smallrice will be there?”
“He will, Mr Edwin.”
“Why can Mr Smallrice sing such high notes?”
Big James slowly shook his head, as Edwin looked up at him. “I tell you what it is, young sir. It’s a gift, that’s what it is, same as I can sing low.”
“But Mr Smallrice is very old, isn’t he?”
“There’s a parrot in a cage over at the Duck, there, as is eighty-five years old, and that’s proved by record kept, young sir.”
“No!” protested Edwin’s incredulity politely.
“By record kept,” said Big James.
“Do you often sing at the Dragon, Mr Yarlett?”
“Time was,” said Big James, “when some of us used to sing there every night, Sundays excepted, and concerts and whatnot excepted. Aye! For hours and hours every night. And still do sometimes.”
“After your work?”
“After our work. Aye! And often till dawn in summer. One o’clock, two o’clock, half-past two o’clock, every night. But now they say that this new Licensing Act will close every public-house in this town at eleven o’clock, and a straight-up eleven at that!”
“But what do you do it for?”
“What do we do it for? We do it to pass the time and the glass, young sir. Not as I should like you to think as I ever drank, Mr Edwin. One quart of ale I take every night, and have ever done; no more, no less.”
“But”—Edwin’s rapid, breaking voice interrupted eagerly the deep majestic tones—“aren’t you tired the next day? I should be!”
“Never,” said Big James. “I get up from my bed as fresh as a daisy at six sharp. And I’ve known the nights when my bed ne’er saw me.”
“You must be strong, Mr Yarlett, my word!” Edwin exclaimed. These revelations of the habits and prowess of Big James astounded him. He had never suspected that such things went on in the town.
“Aye! Middling!”
“I suppose it’s a free-and-easy at the Dragon, to-night, Mr Yarlett?”
“In a manner of speaking,” said Big James.
“I wish I could stay for it.”
“And why not?” Big James suggested, and looked down at Edwin with half-humorous incertitude.
Edwin shrugged his shoulders superiorly, indicating by instinct, in spite of himself, that possibly Big James was trespassing over the social line that divided them. And yet Big James’s father would have condescended to Edwin’s grandfather. Only, Edwin now belonged to the employing class, whilst Big James belonged to the employed. Already Edwin, whose father had been thrashed by workmen whom a compositor would hesitate to call skilled—already Edwin had the mien natural to a ruler, and Big James, with dignified deference, would submit unresentingly to his attitude. It was the subtlest thing. It was not that Edwin obscurely objected to the suggestion of his being present at the free-and-easy; it was that he objected (but nicely, and with good nature) to any assumption of Big James’s right to influence him towards an act that his father would not approve. Instead of saying, “Why not?” Big James ought to have said: “Nobody but you can decide that, as your father’s away.” James ought to have been strictly impartial.
Four.
“Well,” said Big James, when they arrived at the playground, which lay north of the covered Meat Market or Shambles, “it looks as if they hadn’t been able to make a start yet at the Blood Tub.” His tone was marked by a calm, grand disdain, as of one entertainer talking about another.
The Blood Tub, otherwise known as Snaggs’s, was the centre of nocturnal pleasure in Bursley. It stood almost on the very spot where the jawbone of a whale had once lain, as a supreme natural curiosity. It represented the softened manners which had developed out of the old medievalism of the century. It had supplanted the bear-pit and the cock-pit. It corresponded somewhat with the ideals symbolised by the new Town Hall. In the tiny odorous beer-houses of all the undulating, twisting, reddish streets that surrounded the contiguous open spaces of Duck Bank, the playground, the market-place, and Saint Luke’s Square, the folk no longer discussed eagerly what chance on Sunday morning the municipal bear would have against five dogs. They had progressed as far as a free library, boxing-gloves, rabbit-coursing, and the Blood Tub.
This last was a theatre with wooden sides and a canvas roof, and it would hold quite a crowd of people. In front of it was a platform, and an orchestra, lighted by oil flares that, as Big James and Edwin approached, were gaining strength in the twilight. Leaning against the platform was a blackboard on which was chalked the announcement of two plays: “The Forty Thieves” (author unstated) and Cruikshank’s “The Bottle.” The orchestra, after terrific concussions, fell silent, and then a troupe of players in costume, cramped on the