Part 23 (2/2)

Therefore, when street arabs vocally commanded him to get his hair cut, they were doing no service to barbers. Why does all the world watch over barbers and conspire to promote their interests? Denzil would have told you it was not to serve the barbers, but to gratify the crowd's instinctive resentment of originality. In his palmy days Denzil had been an editor, but he no more thought of turning his scissors against himself than of swallowing his paste. The efficacy of hair has changed since the days of Samson, otherwise Denzil would have been a Hercules instead of a long, thin, nervous man, looking too brittle and delicate to be used even for a pipe-cleaner. The narrow oval of his face sloped to a pointed, untrimmed beard. His linen was reproachable, his dingy boots were down at heel, and his c.o.c.ked hat was drab with dust. Such are the effects of a love for the Beautiful.

Peter Crowl was impressed with Denzil's condemnation of flippancy, and he hastened to turn off the joke.

”I'm quite serious,” he said. ”b.u.t.terflies are no good to nothing or n.o.body; caterpillars at least save the birds from starving.”

”Just like your view of things, Peter,” said Denzil. ”Good morning, madam.” This to Mrs. Crowl, to whom he removed his hat with elaborate courtesy.

Mrs. Crowl grunted and looked at her husband with a note of interrogation in each eye. For some seconds Crowl stuck to his last, endeavouring not to see the question. He s.h.i.+fted uneasily on his stool. His wife coughed grimly. He looked up, saw her towering over him, and helplessly shook his head in a horizontal direction. It was wonderful how Mrs. Crowl towered over Mr. Crowl, even when he stood up in his shoes. She measured half an inch less. It was quite an optical illusion.

”Mr. Crowl,” said Mrs. Crowl, ”then I'll tell him.”

”No, no, my dear, not yet,” faltered Peter, helplessly; ”leave it to me.”

”I've left it to you long enough. You'll never do nothing. If it was a question of provin' to a lot of chuckleheads that Jollygee and Genesis, or some other dead and gone Scripture folk that don't consarn no mortal soul, used to contradict each other, your tongue'ud run thirteen to the dozen. But when it's a matter of takin' the bread out o' the mouths o'

your own children, you ain't got no more to say for yourself than a lamp-post. Here's a man stayin' with you for weeks and weeks--eatin' and drinkin' the flesh off your bones--without payin' a far--”

”Hush, hush, mother; it's all right,” said poor Crowl, red as fire.

Denzil looked at her dreamily. ”Is it possible you are alluding to me, Mrs. Crowl?” he said.

”Who then should I be alludin' to, Mr. Cantercot? Here's seven weeks come and gone, and not a blessed 'aypenny have I--”

”My dear Mrs. Crowl,” said Denzil, removing his cigarette from his mouth with a pained air, ”why reproach _me_ for _your_ neglect?”

”_My_ neglect! I like that!”

”I don't,” said Denzil more sharply. ”If you had sent me in the bill you would have had the money long ago. How do you expect me to think of these details?”

”We ain't so grand down here. People pays their way--they don't get no _bills_” said Mrs. Crowl, accentuating the word with infinite scorn.

Peter hammered away at a nail, as though to drown his spouse's voice.

”It's three pounds fourteen and eightpence, if you're so anxious to know,” Mrs. Crowl resumed. ”And there ain't a woman in the Mile End Road as 'ud a-done it cheaper, with bread at fourpence threefarden a quartern and landlords clamburin' for rent every Monday morning almost afore the sun's up and folks draggin' and slidderin' on till their shoes is only fit to throw after brides and Christmas comin' and sevenpence a week for schoolin'!”

Peter winced under the last item. He had felt it coming--like Christmas.

His wife and he parted company on the question of Free Education. Peter felt that, having brought nine children into the world, it was only fair he should pay a penny a week for each of those old enough to bear educating. His better half argued that, having so many children, they ought in reason to be exempted. Only people who had few children could spare the penny. But the one point on which the cobbler-sceptic of the Mile End Road got his way was this of the fees. It was a question of conscience, and Mrs. Crowl had never made application for their remission, though she often slapped her children in vexation instead.

They were used to slapping, and when n.o.body else slapped them they slapped one another. They were bright, ill-mannered brats, who pestered their parents and worried their teachers, and were as happy as the Road was long.

”Bother the school fees!” Peter retorted, vexed. ”Mr. Cantercot's not responsible for your children.”

”I should hope not, indeed, Mr. Crowl,” Mrs. Crowl said sternly. ”I'm ashamed of you.” And with that she flounced out of the shop into the back parlour.

”It's all right,” Peter called after her soothingly. ”The money'll be all right, mother.”

In lower circles it is customary to call your wife your mother; in somewhat superior circles it is the fas.h.i.+on to speak of her as ”the wife,” as you speak of ”the Stock Exchange,” or ”the Thames,” without claiming any peculiar property. Instinctively men are ashamed of being moral and domesticated.

<script>