But he forgot them in watching the Jews driving bargains in second-hand clothes,renovated with secret processes handed down from the Ark.Coats and trousers,equipped for their last adventure with mysterious darns and patches,cheated the eye like a painted beauty at a ball.Women's finery lay in disordered heaps--silk blouses covered with tawdry lace,skirts heavy with gaudy trimming--the draggled plumage of fine birds that had come to grief.But here buyer and seller met on level terms,for each knew to a hair the value of the sorry garments;and they chaffered with crafty eyes,each searching for the silent thought behind the spoken lie.
Chook stared at the bookstall with contempt,wondering how people found the time and patience to read.One side was packed with the forgotten lumber of bookshelves--an odd volume of sermons,a collection of scientific essays,a technical work out of date.And the men,anxious to improve their minds,stared at the titles with the curious reverence of the illiterate for a printed book.At their elbows boys gloated over the pages of a penny dreadful,and the women fingered penny novelettes with rapid movements,trying to judge the contents from the gaudy cover.
The crowd at the provision stall brought Chook to a standstill again.
Enormous flitches hung from the posts,and the shelves were loaded with pieces of bacon tempting the eye with a streak of lean in a wilderness of fat.The buyers watched hungrily as the keen knife slipped into the rich meat,and the rasher,thin as paper,fell on the board like the shaving from a carpenter's plane.The dealer,wearing a clean shirt and white apron,served his customers with smooth,comfortable movements,as if contact with so much grease had nourished his body and oiled his joints.
When Chook elbowed his way to the corner where Joe Crutch and Waxy Collins had promised to meet him,there was no sign of them,and he took another turn up the middle arcade.It was now high tide in the markets,and the stream of people filled the space between the stalls like a river in flood.
And they moved at a snail's pace,clutching in their arms fowls,pot-plants,parcels of groceries,toys for the children,and a thousand odd,nameless trifles,bought for the sake of buying,because they were cheap.A babel of broken conversation,questions and replies,jests and laughter,drowned the cries of the dealers,and a strong,penetrating odour of human sweat rose on the hot air.From time to time a block occurred,and the crowd stood motionless,waiting patiently until they could move ahead.In one of these sudden blocks Chook,who was craning his neck to watch the vegetable stalls,felt someone pushing,and turning his head,found himself staring into the eyes of Pinkey,the red-haired.
"'Ello,fancy meetin'yous,"cried Chook,his eyes dancing with pleasure.
The curious pink flush spread over the girl's face,and then she found her tongue.
"Look w'ere ye're goin'.Are yer walkin'in yer sleep?""I am,"said Chook,"an'don't wake me;I like it."But the twinkle died out of his eyes when he saw Stinky Collins,separated from Pinkey by the crowd,scowling at him over her shoulder.He ignored Chook's friendly nod,and they stood motionless,wedged in that sea of human bodies until it chose to move.
Chook felt the girl's frail body pressed against him.His nostrils caught the odour of her hair and flesh,and the perfume mounted to his brain like wine,The wonderful red hair,glittering like bronze,fell in short curls round the nape of her neck,where it had escaped from the comb.A tremor ran through his limbs and his pulse quickened.And he was seized with an insane desire to kiss the white flesh,pale as ivory against her red hair.
The crowd moved,and Pinkey wriggled to the other side.
"I'll cum wid yer,if yer feel lonely,"said Chook as she passed.
"Yous git a move on,or yer'll miss the bus,"cried Pinkey,as she passed out of sight.
When Chook worked his way back to the corner,little Joe Crutch and Waxy Collins stepped forward.
"W'ere the 'ell 'ave yer bin?We've bin waitin''ere this 'arf 'our,"they cried indignantly.
"Wot liars yer do meet,"said Chook,grinning.
The three entered the new market,an immense red-brick square with a smooth,cemented floor,and a lofty roof on steel girders.It is here the people amuse themselves with the primitive delights of an English fair after the fatigue of shopping.
The larrikins turned to the chipped-potato stall as a hungry dog jumps at a bone,eagerly sniffing the smell of burning fat as the potatoes crisped in the spitting grease.
"It's up ter yous ter shout,"cried Joe and Waxy.
"Well,a tray bit won't break me,"said Chook,producing threepence from his pocket.
The dealer,wearing the flat white cap of a French cook,and a clean apron,ladled the potatoes out of the cans into a strainer on the counter.
His wife,with a rapid movement,twisted a slip of paper into a spill,and,filling it with chips,shook a castor of salt over the top.
Customers crowded about,impatient to be served,and she went through the movements of twisting the paper,filling it with chips,and shaking the castor with the automatic swiftness of a machine.
When they were served,the larrikins stood on one side crunching the crisp slices of potato between their teeth with immense relish as they watched the cook stirring the potatoes in the cauldron of boiling fat.Then they licked the grease off their fingers,lit cigarettes,and sauntered on.
But the chips had whetted their appetites,and the sight of green peas and saveloys made their mouths water.
Men,women,and children sat on the forms round the stall with the stolid air of animals waiting to be fed.When each received a plate containing a squashy mess of peas and a luscious saveloy,they began to eat with slow,animal satisfaction,heedless of the noisy crowd.The larrikins sat down and gave their order,each paying for his own.
