“That makes no difference,” I said, casually. “It’s late and raining, and we want to sleep.”
“Not here. We don’t want no narks in this house. We’re honest people.”
“All right,” said Eddy. “We’ll go somewhere else.”
He was moving off, when the man took hold of his arm.
“Perhaps you won’t,” he snarled. “I may get into trouble about this, with the cops. You’ll stay here till I send a word round to the station.”
He gave a whistle, and the men lurking in the darkness about us pressed closer. They were young Jews of Russian type, anæmic and white-faced.
He shoved the man off, and pushed his way through the crowd. They jabbered in a foreign tongue, and followed a little way, but did not touch us.
“Let go of my arm, or I’ll hit you,” said Eddy.
The rain fell faster, and we were splashed with mud. With good warm houses in the West of London, it was ridiculous to be tramping about the East like this, homeless and cold. We knocked at many doors in other streets, and every answer we had was a rough refusal in Yiddish or German to take us in. Not even when we offered as much as a sovereign for a night’s shelter.
“These people don’t like the look of us,” said Eddy. “What’s the matter with our money?”