C.J. Dennis, Rose of Spadgers - Part 4

52 ROSE OF SPADGERS

''Young friend,'' 'e sez. An' quicker than a wink

'Is twinklin' eyes grew sudden very grave.

"Young friend," 'e sez, "I know jist wot yeh think

Uv 'ow us parsons blather an' be'ave.

But I 'ave 'ere a woman's soul to save - 

A lonely woman, tremblin' on the brink

Uv black perdition, blacker than the grave.

An' she must sink.

"Yes, she must sink" 'e sez. "For I 'ave done

All that a man uv my poor parts can do. 

An' I 'ave failed! There was not anyone

That I could turn to, till I met with you.

But now that 'ope 'as gone - an' 'er 'ope too."

"'Old on," I sez. "Just let me think for one

Brief 'arf-a-mo. I'd love a crack or two

At this flash gun."

I thinks that fast I feels me brain-cells whirl,

An' reckons up me chances in the game.

I thinks uv Ginger Mick, an' uv 'is girl

'Eadin' for 'ell - an' I am part to blame.

I thinks about Doreen an' uv me shame.

A HOLY WAR 53

When I git 'ome . . . . "Aw, give the game a twirl!"

Sez that small voice inside. "Don't be a tame,

Unsportin' churl!"

"Righto," I sez (an' turns me back on doubt)

"I'm with yeh, parson. I go down to-night

To Spadgers, an' jist looks this Spike Wegg out."

"Young friend," 'e sez, "be sure you've chosen

right.

Remember, I do not desire a fight.

But if ----" "Now don't you fret" I sez, "about

No vi'lince. If I'm forced, it will be quite

A friendly clout."

"Young friend" 'e sez, "if you go, I go too.

Maybe, by counsel, I may yet injuce

This evil man-----" "It ain't no game for you,"

I argues with 'im. But it ain't no use.

"I go!" 'e sez, an' won't take no ixcuse.

So that's all fixed. An' us crusaders two

Goes down to-night to Spadgers, to cut loose

Till all is blue.

54 ROSE OF SPADGERS

'Ow can Doreen make trouble or git sore?

(Already I can 'ear 'er scold an' sob)

But this ain't stoushin'. It's a 'oly war!

The blessin' uv the Church is on the job.

I'm a church-worker, with full leaf to lob

A sacrid left on Spike Wegg's wicker jor.

Jist let me! Once! An' after, s'elp me bob,

Never no more!

IV NOCTURNE

NOCTURNE

I'm standin' at the corner uv the Lane -

The Lane called Spadgers - waiting fer 'is jills.

The night's come chilly, an' a drizzlin' rain

Falls steady where a near-by street lamp spills

A gashly yeller light on stones all wet,

An' makes the darkest corners darker yet.

Them darkest corners! 'Struth! Wot ain't I 'eard

Uv dark deeds done there in the olden days,

When crooks inticed some silly sozzled bird

Upstage, an' dealt with 'im in unkind ways -

Bashed 'im with bottles, woodened 'im with boots.

Spadgers was rood to flush an' festive coots.

If you are flush in Spadgers, 'tain't good form

To git too festive, if you valyer thrift.

To flash yer gilt an' go the pace too warm

Might make the Lane regard yeh as a gift.

Ther's nothin' loose they're likely to ferget;

An' all yeh've left is 'eadache an' regret.

58 ROSE OF SPADGERS

Lestwise, that's 'ow it used to be. They say

The Lane's reformed, an' took to honest trade.

An' so yeh'd think, to see it uv a day,

All prim an' proper. But when ev'nin's shade

Comes down, an' fools as stacks uv beans to spill,

Why, 'umin nacher's 'umin nacher still.

Don't git me wrong. An' jist in case you might

Misjudge the gents 'oo plys their callin' there,

In Spadgers darkest corners uv a night,

Wot time a shikkered mug 'as gonce to spare,

I'd jist ixplain they takes their point uv view

Frum diff'rint angles to sich birds as you.

F'rinstance, s'posin' blokes like me an' you

('Oo is raspectabil, I 'ope) should see

Some prodigal all 'eading' fer to do

A one-ack "Road to Ruin" tragedy,

Would we jist let 'im flop before our eyes

Or, bein' decint 'umins, put 'im wise?

Would we not try to 'alt the wayward feet

Uv this 'ere errrin' brother with a word

Diagram - see original document

NOCTURNE 61

Before 'is moril knock-out was complete?

O' course we would. Advice is cheap, I've 'eard.

When sinners miss the step ther's few men ain't

Itchin' like 'ell to preach, an' be a saint.

Well, s'pose again, the Lane should see a bloke

Dead keen to splash around 'is surplis wealth

On rapid livin' till 'e's bust an' broke

An' rooned in repitation an' in 'ealth,

Do they tork empty words, an' let 'im go,

Jist for a chance to say, "I tole yeh so!"

Not them. They say, "'Ere is a wasteful coot

'Oo will be sorry ere tamorrer's sun."

Per meejim, then, uv bottle or uv boot

They learn 'im wisdom, an' 'is sinful fun

Is ended. An', for quick results, their style

'As all yer preachin' beaten be a mile.

Quick-action missionaries, you might say.

When they sees some stray sheep inclined to raom

An' chuck 'is 'ealth an' character away,

They takes stern measures for to lead 'im 'ome.

62 ROSE OF SPADGERS

An', if they reaps some profits at the game,

Well, 'oo are me an' you to sling 'em blame?

I'm standin' at the corner uv the Lane

Toyin' with sich thorts idly, when I spys

A furtive coot come sloushin' through the rain

An' stop to size me up with sidelong eyes.

An' then 'e chats me, with the punkest tale

That ever got a bad man into jail.

I s'pose me face ain't clear in that 'arf-dark,

Or else 'e was near-sighted. An' I s'pose

I mighter seemed to 'im a easy mark - 

Me in me farmer's 'at an' country clo'es.

But, strick, it 'urt me pride to think that 'e

Would try to ring that old, old dope on me.

On me! 'Is make-up fairly yelled 'is trade,

Brandin' 'im plain a low-down city gun.

The simple country mug was never made

'Oo'd wear sich duds. It was all overdone:

'Is moleskin pants, 'is carpet-bag, 'is beard -

Like some cheap stage comeejin 'e appeared.

NOCTURNE 63

"Hey, mate," 'e w'ispers. "Could yeh do a bloke

A little favor? Listen - on the square -

I've done me tin. I'm bottle-green, dead broke,

An' can't git 'ome. I 'aven't got me fare.

But 'ere's me watch - reel gold - belong to Dad.

Lend us a vier on it, will yeh, lad?

A reel gold watch! Oh, 'elp! They worked that lay

When I was jist a barefoot kid. 'Twas old

When cheap-Jacks sweated for their 'ard-earned pay

At country shows. I knoo the sort of gold -

Priced in the brumy shops four an' a zac;

An' 'fore you git' 'em 'ome the gold's gone black.

"Sent I may live!" I sez. "You got a nerve!

That tale's got w'iskers longer than your own.

A slice of cold, 'ard quod's wot you deserve

For springin' duds like that! Lea' me alone;

An' try some kindergarten with that lurk.

A man's a right to crack you! Aw, git work!"

But 'e won't take a 'int nor 'old 'is jaw,

This amacher in crime with brums to sell,

64 ROSE OF SPADGERS

But breast right up to me an' starts to paw.

Now, likewise, that's a game I know too well:

Pawin' with one 'and while the other dips

Into yer - "Back!" I yell, an' come to grips.

I grab 'im be the throat an' shake 'im good,

Ixpectin' 'is fake w'iskers to come loose.

"A rotten'pris way to earn yer livli'ood!"

I growl . . . 'E grunts . . . 'Is face is goin' puce.

"You imitation crook!" I sez agen.

"Wot do yeh mean by swin'lin' honest men?"

 I shake 'im 'ard once more. "The first John 'Op

That comes," I sez, "can 'ave you for a gift!"

Me late idears uv thugs 'as all gone flop:

Me point uv view, some'ow,' 'as seemed to shift;

'Tain't philosophic, like it used to be,

Now someone's took a fly at thuggin' me.

'E's gurglin' nicely - clawin' at the air.

"You pest!" I sez. "You scum! You sewer rat!

Why can't yeh earn yer livin' on the square,

An' be raspectabil?" I'm gettin' that

NOCTURNE 65

Right-thinkin' I am all one virchus glow.

"Leg-gug-" 'e gurgles, musical. "Leggo!"

We made a pretty pitcher standin' there - 

Nocturne, as artists sez. I felt, some'ow,

That, underneath the yeller lamp-light's glare,

'Is upturned face (It's gittin' purple now)

Was sumpthin' painters would admire no end . . . . 

Then a sharp voice be'ind me yelps, "Young friend!"

"Young friend," 'e sez, su'prised, "wot - wot's amiss?

Yes; my ole parson friend. I drops the crook.

"You are mistook, young friend," 'e sez; "for this

Is not the man for 'oo we've come to look."

Then 'e stares closer at the gaspin' gun.

"Why! Bless me 'eart!" 'e chirps. "It's Daniel

Dunn!"

"It's Mister Dunn," 'e sez, "from Bungaroo!

My farmer friend!" ('Ere was a flamin' mess!)

"Is this 'ere coot," I arsts, "well knowed to you?"

The parson takes another gig. "Why, yes. 

66 ROSE OF SPADGERS

You're Mister Dunn?" An' Whiskers answers,

"'Ick!"

I notice then that Daniel's partly shick.

A dinkum farmer! Strike! I'm in all wrong!

"Sorry," I sez. "My fault. 'Ow could I tell?

I acted nervis when 'e come along.

But, if you're sure, it might be jist as well

To intrajuice us, 'coz it would appear

Ther's been some slight misun'erstandin' 'ere."

Then Snowy twinkles, an' pufforms the rite.

(W'iskers 'as to 'is wind back with the spell)

"'Appy to meet yeh, sir," 'e sez, perlite.

"Don't mention it," sez me. "I 'ope you're well?"

"Not bad, consid'rin'," 'e remarks (an' takes

Me 'and) "the narsty weather." So we shakes.

Then I ixplain; an' W'iskers spills 'is tale - 

The old yarn uv the mug 'oo puts 'is trust

In nice new city frien's uv 'is 'oo fail

To keep appointments, an' 'e wakes up bust.

We spring a overdraft, an' leave 'im there,

Bristlin' with gratichood in every 'air.

NOCTURNE 67

"Jist goes to show," I sez to Snowy then.

"If I 'ad not - well, not detained yer friend,

'E mighter fallen in with reel rough men

An' ended up all narsty in the end.

I feel to-night, some'ow, me luck's dead in,

An' I could give some crook a rotten spin."

"Young friend," sez Snowy, solemn, "should we meet

This man we seek to-night - this feller Wegg,

Try to be diplermatic an' discreet;

Reason with 'im; no vi'lince, friend, I beg."

"Wot? Vi'lince? Me?" I chirps. (I'm bublin' now)

"Wot do yeh know 'bout that? I'll kiss the cow!"

V. THE CRUSADERS

THE CRUSADERS

"Peter the 'Ermit was a 'oly bloke,"

The parson sez, "wot chivvied coves to war."

"Too right," I chips. "I've 'eard that yarn before."

"Brave knights sprung straight to arms where'er 'e

spoke."

"Sure thing," sez I. "It muster been no joke

Tinnin' yer frame in them dead days uv yore

Before yeh starts to tap a foeman's gore."

"Peter the 'Ermit was a man inspired,"

The parson sez. We're moochin' up the Lane,

Snoopin' around for news we might obtain

Uv this Spike Wegg, the man 'oo I am 'ired

To snatch by 'ook or crook, jist as required

By circs, frum out the sev'ril sins wot stain

'Is wicked soul. I 'ope me meanin's plain.