THE PROCESSION OF LIFE

At last his father had fulfilled his threat. He was
locked out. Since his mother died, a year ago, it
had been a cause of dire penalties and direr
threats, this question of hours. ‘Early to bed,’
his father quoted, insisting that he should be
home by ten o’clock. He, a grown boy of sixteen
to be home at ten o’clock like any kid of twelve!
He had risked being late a dozen times before,
but to-night had cooked it properly. There was
the door locked against him, not a light in the
house, and a stony ear to all his knockings and
whisperings.

By turns he felt miserable and elated. He had
tried sleeping in a garden, but that wasn’t a
success. Then he had wandered aimlessly into
the city and been picked up by a policeman. He
looked so young and helpless that the policeman
wanted to take him to the barracks, but this was
not included in his plans for the night. So he
promised the policeman that he would go home
directly, and no sooner was he out of the
policeman’s sight, than he doubled down the quay
at the opposite side of the bridge. He walked on
for at least a mile until he judged himself safe.
The quays were lonely and full of shadows, and
he sighed with relief when he saw a watchman’s
fire glowing redly on the waterfront. He went
up to it, and said good-night to the watchman,
who was an oldish, bearded man with a sour and
repulsive face.

He sat in his little sentry-box, smoking his
pipe, and looked, thought Larry, for all the
world like a priest in the confessional. But he
was swathed in coats and scarves, and a second
glance made Larry think not of a priest but of
some heathen idol; his face was so bronzed above
the grey beard and glowed so majestically in the
flickering light of the brasier.

Larry didn’t like his situation at all, but he
felt his only hope was to stick near the watch-
man. The city smouldering redly between its
' hills was in some way unfamiliar and frightening.
So were the quays all round him. There
were shadowy heaps of timber lying outside the
range of the watchman’s fire, and behind these
he imagined all sorts of strange and frightening
things. The river made a clucking, lonely sound
against the quay Wall, and three or four ships,
almost entirely in darkness, swayed about close
to the farther bank. He heard the noisy return
of a party of sailors from across the water, and
once two Lascars went past him in the direction
of the bridge.

But the watchman did not seem to welcome
Larry’s company as much as Larry welcomed
his. He was openly incredulous when Larry said
he had been locked out.

‘Locked out?’ he asked suspiciously. ‘Then
why didn’t you kick up hell, huh?’

‘What’s that, sir?’ asked Larry, startled.

‘Why didn’t you bate the door and kick up
hell’s delights?’

‘God, sir, I’d be afraid to do that!’

At this the watchman started blindly from his
box, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and swaying
about in the heavy fumes of the brasier.

‘Afraid?’ he exclaimed scornfully. ‘A boy of
your age to be afraid of his own father? When I
was your age I wouldn’t let meself be treated
like that. I had a girl of me own, and the first
time me ould fella’—God rest him!—tried to
stop me going with her I up with the poker, and
hit him such a clout over the poll they had to
put six stitches in him in the Infirmary after.’

Larry shuddered.

‘And what did he do then, sir?’ he asked
innocently.

‘What did he do then?’ growled the watchman.
‘Ech, he was a quiet man after that I tell
you! He couldn’t look at me after in the light of
day but he’d get a reeling in his head.’

‘Lord, 'sir,’ said Larry, ‘you ,must have hit.
him a terrible stroke!’ ‘

‘Oh, I quietened him,’ said the watchman
complacently. ‘I quietened him sure enough. . . .
And there’s a big fella’ like you now, and you’d
let your father bate you, and never rise a hand in
your own self-defence?’

‘I would, God help me!’ said Larry.

‘I suppose you never touched a drop of drink
in your life?’

‘I did not.’

‘And you never took a girl out for a walk?’

‘I didn’t.’

‘Had you ever as much as a pipe in your
mouth, tell me?’

‘I took a couple of pulls out of me father’s
pipe once,’ said Larry brokenly. ‘And I was
retching until morning.’

‘No wonder you’re locked out!’ said the
watchman contemptuously. ‘No wonder at all! I
think if I’d a son like you ’twould give me all
I could do to keep me hands off him. Get out of
me sight!’

Terrified at this extraordinary conclusion,
Larry retreated to the edge of the circle of light.
He dared not go farther.

‘Get out of me sight!’ said the watchman again.

‘You won’t send me away now, sir?’ asked
Larry in despair. .

‘Won’t I?’ asked the watchman ironically.
‘Won’t I just? There’s people comes here at
every hour of the night, and am I going to have
it said I gethered all the young blackguards of
the city about me?’

‘I’d go mad with lonesomeness,’ Larry cried,
his voice rising on a note of fear.

‘You’ll find company enough in the tramp’s
shelter on the Marina.’

‘I won’t go, I won’t go! I’ll dodge behind the
timbers if a stranger comes.’

‘You’ll do nothing of the kind,’ the watchman
shouted, losing his temper. ‘Clear out now
and don’t let me see your ugly mug again.’

‘I won’t go!’ Larry repeated hysterically,
evading him by running round the brasier. ‘I’m
frightened, I tell you.’ '

He had plainly heard the sound of quick footsteps
coming in his direction, and he was determined
that he would stay. The watchman, too, had heard
them, and was equally determined that he would go.

‘Bad luck to you!’ he whispered despairingly,
‘what misfortune brought you this way to-night.
If you don’t go away I’ll strangle you and drop
your naked body in the river for the fish to ate.
Be off with you, you devil’s brat!’

He succeeded in chasing Larry for a few
yards when the footsteps suddenly stopped and
a woman’s voice called out:

‘Anybody there?’

‘I am,’ said the watchman, surlily abandoning
the chase.

‘I thought you were lost,’ the woman said,
and her voice sounded in Larry’s ears like a
peal of bells. He came nearer to the brasier on
tiptoe so that the watchman would not perceive
him.

‘Do you want tea?’ the watchman asked
sourly.

‘Well, you are a perfect gentleman,’ the
woman’s voice went on with a laugh. ‘Nice way
to speak to a lady!’

‘Oh, I know the sort of a lady you are!’ the
watchman grumbled.

‘Squinty!’ and now her voice sounded caressing.
‘Are you really sore because I left you down
the other night? I was sorry, Squinty, honest to
God I was, but he was a real nice fella’ with tons
of dough, and he wanted me so bad!’

Larry, fascinated by the mysterious woman,
drew nearer and nearer to the circle of light.

‘It isn’t only the other night,’ the watchman
snarled. ‘It’s every night. You can’t see a man
but you want to go off with him. I warn you, my
girl———

But his girl was no longer listening to him.

‘Who’s that?’ she whispered sharply, peering
into the shadows where Larry’s boyish face was
half—hidden.

‘Blast you!’ shouted the watchman furiously.
‘Aren’t you gone yet?’

The woman strode across to where Larry
stood and caught him by the arm. He tried to
draw back, but she pulled him into the light of
the brasier.

‘I say, kid,’ she said, ‘aren’t you bashful?

Let’s have a look at you! . . . Why, he’s a real
beauty, that’s what he is.’

‘I’ll splinter his beauty for him in wan minit
if he don’t get out of this!’ the watchman cried.
‘I’ll settle him. He have the heart played out of
me this night already.’

‘Ah, be quiet, Squinty!’ said the woman
appeasingly.

‘I’ll be the death of him!’

‘No, you won’t. . . . Don’t you be afraid of
him, kid. He’s not as bad as he sounds. . . . Make
a drop of tea for him, Squinty, the poor kid’s
hands are freezing.’

‘I won’t make tea for him. I have no liquors
to spare for young ragamuffins and sleepouts.’

‘Aah, do as you’re told!’ the woman said disgustedly.

‘You know there’s only two ponnies,’ said the
watchman, subsiding.

‘Well, him and me’ll drink out of the one.
Won’t we kid?’

And with amazing coolness she put him
sitting on an improvised bench before the fire,
sat close beside him, and drew his hand comfortingly
about her slender waist. Larry held it
shyly; for the moment he wasn’t even certain
that he might lawfully hold it at all. He looked
at this magical creature in the same shy way.
She had a diminutive face, coloured a ghostly
white, and crimson lips that looked fine in the
firelight. She was perfumed, too, with a scent that
he found overpowering and sweet. There was
something magical and compelling about her.
And stranger than all, the watchman had fallen
under her spell. He brewed the tea and poured
it out into two ponnies, grumbling to himself
the while.

‘You _know_ he have no right to set down there,’
he was saying. ‘Nice trouble I’d be getting into
if someone came along and seen a . . . seen a
woman of the streets and a young reformatory
school brat settin’ be the fire. . . . Eh, me lady?
. . . Oh, very well, very well. . . . This’ll be put a
stop to, this can’t go on forever ..... And you
think I don’t know what you’re up to, huh? Hm?
No, no, my dear, you can’t fool an old soldier
like me that way. This’ll be put a stop to.’

‘What are you saying, Squinty?’ the woman
asked.

‘Oh, don’t mind me! Don’t mind me!’ The
watchman laughed bitterly. ‘I don’t count, but
all the same this’ll be put a stop to . . . there’s
your tea!’

He handed her one of the ponnies, then retreated
into his watch box with the second. Inside
he fumbled in his pockets, removed a little
parcel of bread and butter, and tossed her half,
which she deftly caught and shared with Larry.
Larry had begun to feel that miracles were a
very ordinary thing after all.

‘Get outside that, kid,’ she said kindly to
Larry, handing him the ponny of boiling tea.

‘’Twill warm up your insides. What happened
you to be out so late? Kissed the girl and lost the
tram?’

‘Me ould fella’———’ said Larry, sipping and
chewing, ‘me ould fella’———locked me out!’ ‘Bad
luck to him!’ he added with a startling new
courage. '

‘Oh, ay, oh, ay!’ commented the watchman
bitterly from his box. ‘That’s the way they
speaks of their fathers nowadays! No respect for
age or anything else. Better fed than taught.’

‘Never mind him, darling,’ said the woman
consolingly. ‘He’s old-fashioned,—that’s what
he is!’

Then as Larry made a frightened sign to her,
she laughed.

‘Are you afraid he’ll hear me? Oh, Squinty
doesn’t mind a bit. We’re old friends. He know
quite well what I think of him—don’t you,
Squinty?’ Her voice dropped to a thrilling
whisper, and her hand fondled Larry’s knee in a
way that sent a shiver of pleasure through him.
‘Will you come home with me, darling?’ she
asked, without listening to the watchman’s reply.

‘Oh, I know, I know,’ the latter answered.
‘Nice name this place’ll be getting with you and
all the immoral men and boys of the city making
your rondeyvoos here. Sailors . . . tramps . . .
reformatory school brats . . . all sorts and conditions.
This’ll be put a stop to, my lady. Mark
my words, this’ll be put a stop to. I know what
you’re saying, I know what you’re whispering.
It’s no use, my dear. You can’t deceive me.’

‘I was only asking him if he’d e’er a place to
stop.’

‘And what is it to you if he haven’t, my lady?’

‘God help us, you wouldn’t like your own son
to be out here all night, catching his death of
cold or maybe dropping asleep and falling stupid
in the fire.’

‘I wouldn’t like me own son to be connaisseuring
with the likes of you either.’

‘He might meet with worse,’ said the woman,
bridling up.

‘And where would you bring him?’

‘Never mind where I’d bring him! I’d bring
him a place he’d be welcome in anyway, not like
here.’

The watchman suddenly changed his tone,
becoming violent, and at the same time conciliatory.

‘You wouldn’t leave me here lonesome by
meself after all you promised me?’ he cried.

‘I won’t remain here to be insulted either.’

‘He can stay, he can stay,’ said the watchman
submissively. ‘I won’t say a cross word to him.’

‘He’d rather go home with me,’ said the
woman. ‘Wouldn’t you, darling?’

‘I would,’ said Larry decisively,

‘Don’t you go! Don’t you go, young fellow!’
shouted the watchman. ‘She’s an immoral
woman. . . . Oh, you low creature,’ he continued,
‘aren’t you ashamed of yourself? Leaving me
lonesome night after night, and chasing off with
any stranger that comes the way. Last time it
was the dandy fellow off the Swedish boat, and
now it’s a common brat that his own father
won’t leave in.’

‘Now, now, don’t be snotty!’ said the young
woman reprovingly. ‘It’s not becoming to your
years. And if you’re good maybe I’ll come round
and see you to-morrow night.’

‘You’ll say that and not mean a word of it!’
exclaimed the watchman. ‘Oh, you low creature.
You haven’t a spark of honour or decency.’

‘Come on home, darling, before he loses his
temper,’ said the woman good-humouredly. She
rose and took Larry’s hand, and with a loud
‘Good-bye’ to the watchman, guided him on to
the roadway. As she did so there came the sound
of heavy footsteps thudding along the wooden
jetty. The woman started nervously and pushed
Larry before her towards the shadow of the
timber.

‘Here, kid,’ she whispered, ‘we’ll go round
by the timbers and up the Park. Hurry! Hurry!
I hear someone coming.’

The steps drew nearer, and suddenly she
dropped Larry’s hand and crouched back into
the shadows. He heard a quick, stifled cry that
terrified him.

‘Oh, Sacred Heart, he seen me!’ she said, and
then in a tense, vicious whisper she cried to the
unseen, ‘May the divil in hell melt and blind
you, you clumsy Tipperary lout!’

‘Is that you I seen, Molly?’ a jovial voice
called from the darkness, and a moment later
Larry saw the glint of the fire on an array of
silver buttons.

‘Yes, constable, it’s me,’ the woman answered,
and Larry could scarcely recognise her voice for
the moment, it was so unctuous, so caressing.
But again came the fierce mutter beside him,
‘Bad luck and end to you, y’ould ram, what
divil’s notion took you to come this way tonight?’ 

‘Are you alone?’ the policeman asked, emerging
from the shadows.

‘No, constable,’ she sniggered.

‘Is there someone with you?’

‘Yes, constable . . . a friend.’

‘Oh, a friend, is there? And what’s your
friend doing out at this hour of the night?’ He
strode across to Larry and shook his arm. ‘So
you’re the friend, me young hopeful? And what
have you here at this hour of the night, huh?’

‘He was seeing me home, constable, and I
took a bit of a weakness so we sat here a while
with Squinty.’

‘Answer me!’ thundered the policeman to
Larry. ‘And don’t try to tell any lies. What have
you out at this hour?’

‘Me father’—gasped Larry, ‘me father—locked me
out—sir.’

‘Mmmm. Your father locked you out, did he?
Well, I’m thinking it wouldn’t do you any harm
to lock you in, d’you hear? How would you like
that, eh?’

‘Bah!’ grunted the watchman.

‘What did you say, Squinty?’

‘I said right, constable. Right every time! If
I’d me way with that sort of young fellow I’d
make drisheens of his hide.’

‘And what about you, Molly?’

‘He’s a friend of mine, constable,’ the woman
said ingratiatingly. ‘Let him go now and he
won’t do it again. I’m finding him a place to
sleep—the poor child is perished with the cold.
Leave him to me, constable. I’ll look after him
for the night.’

‘Aisy now, aisy!’ the policeman interrupted
heavily. ‘We’re all friends, aren’t we?’

‘Yes, constable.’

‘And we want to do the best we can by one
another, don’t we?’

‘Yes, constable.’

‘I’ve a word to say to you, so I think I’ll take
your advice and let the boy go. Squinty will
keep an eye on him, won’t you, Squinty?’

‘You may swear I’ll keep an eye on him,’ the
watchman said viciously.

‘That’s all right then. Are you satisfied now,
Molly?’

‘Yes, constable,’ she said between her teeth.

‘The same place?’

‘Yes, constable.’

She turned on her heel and went off slowly
along the quay. The darkness was thinning. A
faint brightness came from above the hill at the
other side of the river. The policeman glanced,
at it and sighed.

‘Well, it’s a fine day, thanks be to God,’ he
said. ‘I had a quiet night of it, and after this I’ll
have a grand sleep for myself. Will you try a
drop, Squinty?’

‘I will then,’ said the watchman greedily.

The policeman took a flask from his pocket
and drank from it. He handed it to the
watchman, who took another swig and gave it back to
him. The policeman held it up to the fire. He
closed his left eye and whistled brightly for a
few moments.

‘There’s a _taoscán_ in it still,’ he commented.
‘I suppose you don’t drink, young fellow?’

‘I don’t,’ said Larry sourly, ‘but I’d drink it
now if you’d give it to me.’

‘I will, I will,’ said the policeman laughing.
‘And I after taking your girl from you and all.
’Tis the least I might do. But never mind, young
fellow. There’s plenty more where she came
from.’

Larry choked over a mouthful of the neat
whiskey and handed back the empty flask. The
policeman drew out a packet of cheap cigarettes
and held it towards him.

‘Wish me luck!’ he said.

‘Good luck!’ said Larry, taking a cigarette.

‘Fathers are a curse anyway,’ said the other
confidentially. ‘But I mustn’t be keeping me
little pusher waiting. So long, men.’

‘So long,’ said Larry and the watchman together.

The policeman disappeared between the high
walls of timber, and Larry sat by the brasier and
recklessly lit his cigarette. The watchman, too,
lit his pipe, and smoked silently and contentedly,
spitting now and again out of sheer satisfaction.
The faint brightness over the hill showed clearer
and clearer, until at last the boy could distinguish
the dim outlines of riverside and ships and
masts. He shivered. The air seemed to have
become colder. The watchman began to mumble
complacently to himself within his box. . .

‘Ah, dear me,’ he said, launching, a spit in
the direction of the brasier, ‘dear me, honesty is
the best policy. . . . Yes, my lady, honesty is the
best policy after all, that’s what I say. . . . I told
you I’d (spit) put a stop to your goings-on, my
lady; your (Spit) Swedish skippers and your
dandy boys, and now you’re quiet enough, my
lady. . . . Now you’re quiet enough.’

Larry rose.

‘Where are you going now?’ asked the watch-man
sourly.

‘I’m going home,’ said Larry.

‘Stop where you are now! Didn’t you hear
what the policeman said?’

‘I don’t care what the policeman said. i plex installaI’m
going home.’

‘Home? Aren’t you afraid?’

‘What would I be afraid of?’ asked Larry
contemptuously.

‘Ah, my boy,’ said the watchman with fierce
satisfaction, ‘your old fella’ will hammer hell out
of you when he gets you inside the door!’

‘Will he?’ asked Larry. ‘Will he now? I’d
bloody well like to see him try it.’

And whistling jauntily, he went off in the
direction of the city.