Читать книгу Roper's Row - Warwick Deeping - Страница 17

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It was Soames who shadowed Christopher through the shabby mysteries of the district lying between Clerkenwell and Islington, and made the discovery that Hazzard entered the side door of the “Bunch of Grapes.” Soames was not impartial. Whenever he failed to answer one of Sir Dighton’s questions in the wards Hazzard was able to answer it, and Soames was a little tired of Hazzard’s infallibility. But Soames’s researches were pushed beyond the pavement of St. John Street, and into the bar, and where, after being served with half a pint of beer, he heard sounds of music.

“Got a concert on, Miss?”

The barmaid was too busy to be conversational, and Soames was not an impressive young man.

“Yes. First door on the right, and straight down the passage.”

Soames finished his beer, and exploring, saw through an open door and a haze of tobacco smoke, Mr. Bangs, Hazzard, and the flutist making music for the many.

Soames sailed back to “Bennet’s,” big with the news, and found Bullard and others playing poker in the college common room.

“I say, you chaps.”

Soames was apt to froth at the mouth when he was excited. His soapiness blew bubbles.

“I bet you can’t guess what the Squit does in the evening.”

Someone suggested that Hazzard bathed with the urchins in the Trafalgar Square basins.

“Try again.”

“Goes round with the Salvation Army? Can’t you see the little blighter in a red jersey?”

Soames had to burst his bubble, and he burst it on Bullard.

“I s-saw him st-start out——”

“Don’t spit, Samuel.”

“Oh, shut up. The Squit goes to a pub in St. John Street, and plays the fiddle in a bally orchestra.”

“No!”

“It’s a fact.”

“What sort of orchestra?”

“Oh, a boozer with a banjo, and a little monkey tootling on the flute, and the Squit fiddling. Funniest sight.”

Bullard threw his cards on the table.

“By George, a straight flush! I say—you chaps—we’ll make up a party and go and listen to the Squit fiddling.”

That was what happened. Recruits were called up, and a party of thirty irresponsible young men started out for the “Bunch of Grapes.” It was a rag, and the alumni of “Bennet’s” had a reputation for ragging. Bullard was in command. In Tottenham Court Road they half cleared the barrow of an itinerant fruit-vendor, and went forward armed with bags of over-ripe plums. In St. John Street Bullard issued instructions.

“Look here, you chaps, we’d better drift in in twos and threes. If we blow in in a chunk the management’ll get windy. We’ll call it the Bag of Plums, what!”

Mr. Bangs was in the middle of one of his gags when the first instalment from “Bennet’s” strolled into the big, bare room, each with a mug of beer in one hand and a brown-paper bag in the other. The room happened to be rather empty. Bullard and Soames sat down at one of the wooden tables, and with an air of concentrated solemnity placed their bags of plums on the board. They kept their hats on. Others arrived and sat.

Said Bullard—in the pause between Mr. Bangs’s gag and the next piece of music:

“Why—surely—there’s our dear little friend Squit. By George, what a small world it is. Good evening, Squit.”

He raised an ironical hat to Hazzard. All of them raised their hats. Mr. Bangs, scenting youth and mischief, beamed round upon them.

“Thank you, gentlemen. Will someone call a tune?”

Said Bullard, rising to his feet, and holding his mug:

“Sir, your good health. We are pious young men. I propose that the band plays ‘Onward, Christian Soldiers.’ ”

There was a yell.

“Onward, Christian Soldiers——”

“Onward to the booze.”

“With the buxom barmaid.”

Christopher sat and looked at Bullard; he compelled himself to look at him. For he was under no illusions. He had been caught and he was to be pilloried. He was conscious of a little iciness in his spine, a dryness of the mouth, a sense of emptiness at the pit of his stomach. He just sat and looked at Bullard, and nursed his violin and refused to flinch. He knew that there was another door in the corner of the room, and that he might be able to bolt for it, but then the whole pack would be after him. Besides—he was not going to bolt. He would face it out.

Mr. Bangs stood up. His face looked shiny.

“Gen’lemen, this isn’t a little Bethel. I looks towards you. We’ve got a little song—‘Come where the Booze is cheaper.’ ”

Bullard led the roar of protest.

“No—no——”

“No vulgar ditties. We’re pious fellows.”

“Onward, Christian Soldiers——”

Mr. Bangs began an apology.

“Sorry—gentlemen—the hymn ain’t in our repetoire. We can give you ‘Annie Laurie’ or ‘ ’Er golden hair was ’anging down ’er back.’ ”

There was uproar. One or two habitués began to hammer on the tables and to protest. Others laughed.

Said Bullard, standing, and with an air of elephantine gravity:

“Gentlemen, I put it to you that this band is a swindle. This band is an abandoned band. It cannot play a good godly tune, gentlemen. Gentlemen, I propose that this band be busted.”

As Bullard had prophesied, the “Bunch of Grapes” became a Bag of Plums. The banjoist, raising his banjo to shield his face, received the first purple patch upon the ass skin. The flutist, picking up his chair, crouched behind the seat of it, and was moderately safe. Thirty young men, grabbing over-ripe fruit out of brown bags, and throwing it with gusts and squeals of laughter, plastered the violinist. It was no case for dignity. It was one of those occasions when an archangel would have looked foolish, and made haste to retire behind his shield. The thing that had been Hazzard became a mess of juice and of pulped fruit.

The management appeared, an ex-pugilist in waistcoat and shirt-sleeves, backed by a couple of pot-men. Half a dozen rough customers, always ready for a row, especially when young toffs were the enemy, complicated the situation. Tempers began to be lost, and the throwing of things became impartial. Someone struck at Bullard, and was knocked into a welter of beer glasses and chairs.