George lowered his voice, “I’m interested,” he said. “Perhaps you can help me.”
“A den of thieves,” the old woman said, her thin, yellow face creasing in disgust. “The police ought to lave closed it down long ago. I wish I was the mother of some of those little sluts ’oo go there: I’d warm their backsides for ’em!”
“I’m supposed to meet someone there,” George said, looking at her a little helplessly. “I don’t want to get mixed up in anything. Who’s the little bloke with the red hair?”
“You’ll get mixed up all right,” the old woman said contemptuously. “You keep away from that ’ole.”
“Thanks for the tip,” George returned, smiling at her. “But who is the little bloke with the red hair?”
“That’s Little Ernie; everyone knows ’im and his women.”
“What time does the Club open?” George asked again.
“Seven, and take my advice, keep clear of the place. They might take you for a copper, like I nearly did.” The old woman smiled secretly. “It ain’t healthy being taken for a copper in Joe’s Club.”
George raised his hat and went out into the sunshine. Dark with a red hone bangle; a den of thieves; Little Ernie and his women. What a wonderful Saturday afternoon!
He caught a bus at the corner of the street and travelled to Hyde Park. There he lost himself in the crowds, listening to the speakers, walking along the Serpentine, sitting on the grass. He didn’t mind waiting, because the evening was so full of promise. This was the world that fascinated him: the world he had read about and dreamed about.