Long Hicks raved and tore at his hair, striding about the shop, and cursing himself with whatever words he could find. Johnny was excited still, but he grew thoughtful. There was more in this business, he saw now, than the mere happy riddance of Butson. What of the future? His mother was prostrated, and lay moaning on her bed. No one was there to tend her but Bessy, and there was no likelihood of help; they had no intimacy with neighbours, and indeed the stark morality of Harbour Lane womankind would have cut it off if they had. For already poor Nan was tried and condemned (as was the expeditious manner of Harbour Lane in such a matter), and no woman could dare so much as brush skirts with her.

“It’s my fault—all of it!” said the unhappy Hicks. “I shouldn’t ’a’ bin such a fool! But how was I to know she’d go on like that, after what she’d agreed to? Oh, damme, I shouldn’t ’a’ meddled!”

Johnny calmed him as well as he might, pulled him into a chair in the shop parlour, and sought to know the meaning of his self-reproaches. “Why not meddle?” Johnny asked. “When you found her kicking up that row—”

“Ah, but I didn’t, I didn’t!” protested Hicks, rolling his head despairingly and punching his thigh. “I brought her here! It’s all my fault! I thought I was doin’ somethin’ clever, an’ I was silly fool! O, I’d like to shoot meself!”

“Brought her here? Well, tell us about it—no good punching yourself. When did you find out he was married?”

“Knew it years ago; didn’t know the woman was alive, though. Thought she must ’a’ bin dead when you told me he’d married your mother.”

Some light broke on Johnny. “And you took these days off to look for her—was that it?”

“That’s it. An’ I was a fool—made things wuss instead o’ better!”

“Never mind about that—anything’s better than having that brute here. What changed your mind about her being dead?”

“Oh, I dunno. I’ll tell you all there is to it. Long time ago when I was workin’ at Bishop’s an’ lodgin’ in Lime’us, my lan’lady she knew Butson an’ ’is wife too, an’ she told me they led a pretty cat an’ dog life, an’ one day Butson hops the twig. Well his missus wasn’t sorry to lose ’im, an’ she sets to washin’ an’ ironin’ to keep ’erself an’ the kid. But when Butson gets out of a job (’e was never in one long) ’e goes snivellin’ round to ’er, an’ wants to go back, an’ be kep’. Well the missis makes it pretty ’ot for ’im, you may guess; but she stands ’im for a week or two, givin’ it ’im pretty thick all the time, till Butson ’e cuts away again, an’ never comes back. His missis never bothered about ’im—said she was well quit. This was all before I went to live at Lime’us, but she used to be pals with my lan’lady. I kep’ a bottle o’ whisky then, case of a friend comin’, an’ them two give it what for, between ’em, on the quiet.”

“And did you know her then—his wife?”

“On’y by sight, an’ not to say to speak to, me bein’ a quiet sort. I knew Butson since—in the shops; most took ’im for a bachelor. Well, I wasn’t at Lime’us very long; I came away to this part an’ see no more of ’er—though o’ course I see ’im, often. When you told me ’e’d married your mother it took me aback a bit at first. But then, thinks I, I expect the first one’s dead—must be. But after that, the other day, when you told me what a right down bad ’un ’e was, I begun to think wuss of ’im. I knew ’e’d bin livin’ idle, but I didn’t guess ’e treated ’er so bad. An’ when you talked o’ wantin’ to get rid of ’im, I got a notion. If ’e’s bad enough for what ’e’s done, thinks I, ’e’s bad enough for anythink. P’raps ’is fust wife ’s alive after all, an’ if she is, why the job’s done! Anyway, I puts it, I’ll risk a day or two auf on it. An’ I did, an’ ’ere’s a nice old bloomin’ mess I made! Oh, I ought to be poleaxed!”

“Well of course there’s been a row,” Johnny said gloomily, “an’ I expect it’ll knock trade to pieces here, an’ half kill mother. But you couldn’t very well help a row in a thing like this.”

“I bin three days findin” ’er. My old lan’lady’s dead, an’ I ’ad to try an’ find ’er sister. Nobody knew where the sister was, but after a lot o’ bother a old woman sends me to a cousin—in the workus. Cousin in the workus thinks the sister’s dead too, but tells me to go an’ ask at a newspaper-shop in Bromley. Newspaper-shop’s shut up—people gone. Find the man as moved ’em, an’ ’e sends me to Bow—another newspaper-shop. People there send me right back to Poplar; party o’ the name o’ Bushell. Party o’ the name o’ Bushell very friendly, an’ sends me to Old Ford; then I went to Bow again, an’ so I dodged about, up an’ down, till I run across Mrs. Butson up on ’Omerton Marshes, keepin’ a laundry. That was to-day, that was.

“Well, she took it mighty cool at first. When I told ’er I knew where ’er ’usband was, she told me I might keep my knowledge to myself, for she didn’t want ’im. Very cool she was, till I told ’er ’e’d married again, an’ at that she shut ’er jaw with a snap, an’ glared at me. So I just told ’er what I knew, an’ ’ow it ’ud be a charity to give ’im a scare on the quiet, an’ send ’im away from ’ere, an’ ‘All right,’ she says. ‘Jest you show me where they live,’ she says; ‘I’ll give ’im a scare!’ ‘Right,’ says I, but I made conditions. She wus to wait at the street-corner, an’ I was to send in a message for ’im to come out. Then we was to give ’im ten minutes to go an’ git ’is clo’es, if ’e wanted any, make any excuse ’e liked, an’ clear out; so as to do it all quiet an’ peaceable, an’ nobody the wiser. ‘All right,’ she says, ‘jest you show me the place, that’s all!’ So I brought ’er. But when we got to the corner an’ I told ’er which ’ouse, auf she went at a bolt, an’—an’ set up all that row ’fore I could stop ’er! Who’d ’a’ thought of ’er actin’ contradictory like that?”

It was not altogether so dense a mystery to Johnny as it was to the simpler Hicks, twice his age, though more a boy than himself. But he assured Hicks that after all he had done a good turn, and no price was too high for riddance of Butson. “Mother’ll be grateful to you, too, when she’s a bit quieter, an’ knows about it,” he said. And presently he added thoughtfully, “I think I ought to have guessed something o’ the sort, with his sneaking in an’ out so quiet, an’ being afraid o’ the p’lice. There’s lots o’ things I see through now, that I ought to have seen through before: not wantin’ the new name over the door, for one!”

. . . . .Till the shutters were up that night, and the door well bolted, Nan May was urgent that that horrible woman must be kept out. And when at last she slept, in mere exhaustion, she awoke in a fit of trembling and choking, beseeching somebody to take the woman away.

Bessy, like Johnny, had a sense of relief, though she slept not at all, and dreaded vaguely. But withal she was conscious of some intangible remembrance of that red-faced woman with the harsh voice; and it was long—days—ere it returned to her that she had heard the voice high above the shouts of the beanfeasters in the Forest on the day when Uncle Isaac had brought Butson to the cottage.