"He got his wages last night, and came round as usual to give 'em to you, but he wouldn't give 'em to me. Then he went off."
"Didn't you go with him?"
"I wish I had thought of it," said the other ruefully. "He went straight from here to the 'Three Feathers,' and stayed there till closing time."
Mark looked at his watch. His train left Waterloo in an hour. He had time to see Bagshot, although such time would probably be wasted. Bagshot was a brand snatched from the burning some six weeks before: a big, burly, blackguard of a navvy, strong as Sandow, weak as Reuben, reasonable enough when sober, a madman drunk, with a frail wife and five small children at his mercy.
"I'll go alone," said Mark, as the young fellow reached for his hat.
He hurried off, followed at a discreet distance by the deacon. The Bagshots lived not far from the Mission, in Vere Terrace, a densely populated slum. Mark tapped at the door of Number 5, opened by a tattered girl of twelve, whose fingers and face were smeared with paste.
"Where's your father, 'Liza?" said Mark.
"Dunno," replied 'Liza. "'E's drunk, wherever 'e is. Would yer like to see mother, Mr. Samphire?"
Mark followed the child into the living-room of the family. Coming straight from Birr Wood, contrast smote him with a violence he had never before experienced. The Bagshot family sat round a rickety table making matchboxes. Deducting the cost of paste (which the matchmakers supply), these bring less than fourpence a gross, and a handy child of ten or twelve can make just about that number in a day's hard work! Facing Mark, stood an old-fashioned mangle, seldom used, because it took two strong women to turn it; to the right was a chest of drawers in the last stages of infirmity, crippled by ill-usage and long service, stained and discoloured like the face of the woman who was proud to own it; to the right a small stove displayed a battered assortment of pots and pans. The window, which overlooked a court, was propped open with an empty bottle. Into the court, half filled with rubbish and garbage, the May sun was streaming, illuminating an atmosphere of squalor and unhomeliness which hung like a fetid fog between the crumbling ceiling and the rotten floor.
"'Ere's Mr. Samphire, mother," said the girl. Already her thin, nimble fingers were at work, while her eyes sparkled with excitement. In the congested districts of the East End the decencies of life go naked and unashamed. 'Liza knew that her mother would burst into virulent speech, and was not disappointed. Bill was drunk again, and violent. She bared a part of her neck and bosom, showing a hideous bruise. 'Liza stuck out a leg not much thicker than a cricket stump, and offered to pull down her stocking. Another child had an ugly lump within three inches of his temple.