Suffice to say Hastings won the wager, and the party hurried eastward, leaving the brave old bird like a warrior taking his rest.
One of the most popular pastimes of the long-ago sixties was going the rounds of the dens of infamy in the East End and the rookeries that then abutted upon the Gray’s Inn Road. In this latter quarter, indeed, there was one narrow, tortuous passage that in broad daylight was literally impassable, and to escape with one’s life or one’s shirt was as much as the most sanguine could expect.
The Ratcliff Highway, now St. George’s Street East, alongside the Docks, was a place where crime stalked unmolested, and to thread its deadly length was a foolhardy act that might quail the stoutest heart.
Every square yard was occupied by motley groups; drunken sailors of every nationality in long sea-boots, and deadly knives at every girdle; drunken women with bloated faces, caressing their unsavoury admirers, and here and there constables in pairs by way of moral effect, but powerless—as they well knew—if outrage and free fights commenced in real earnest. Behind these outworks of lawlessness were dens of infamy beyond the power of description—sing-song caves and dancing-booths, wine bars and opium dens, where all day and all night Chinamen might be seen in every degree of insensibility from the noxious fumes.
The detective who was to be our cicerone was known to every evil-doer in the metropolis. Entering these dens when not in pursuit of quarry was to him a pilgrimage of absolute safety, and a friendly nod accompanied by “All right, lads, only some gents to stand you a drink” extended the protection to all who accompanied him. A freemasonry, indeed, appeared to exist between these conflicting members of society whereby, by some unwritten code, it was understood that when either side passed its word every one was on his parole to “play the game.”
The first place the explorers entered was a singsong in the vicinity of Nile Street, but it was evidently an “off night,” for, with the exception of a dozen half-drunken men and women, the place was practically empty. As we entered, however, a sign of vitality was apparent, and the chairman announced that a gent would oblige with a stave; but the cicerone with commendable promptitude called out, “Not necessary, thank you all the same,” and prompted his followers to lay five shillings on the desk. But the compliment was not to be denied, and a drunken refrain soon filled the air, which was absolutely inaudible, except:
“She turned up her nose at Bob Simmons and me.”
The next place was infinitely more interesting—the “Jolly Sailors,” in Ship Alley. “A dozen,” explained our cicerone as he tendered a coin, and our party awaited admission. “Keep your money, sergeant,” was the ominous reply. “Of course, I know you; but we’ve got a mangy lot here to-night; they won’t cotton to the gents. If they ask any of their women to dance it will be taken as an affront, and if they don’t ask them it will be taken as an affront; leave well alone, say I. Most nights it might do, but not to-night, sergeant; the drink’s got hold of most of them, and there’s a lot of scurvy Greeks about who will whip out their knives afore you can say what’s what.”
“Nonsense, man,” cut in Bobby, “we don’t want to have a row, we’ve come for a spree; there’s the money, we’ll take our chance.” The Baron also, who prided himself on his mastery of our vernacular, interposed with: “Posh, I snaps my finger at eem! Am I afraid of a tirty Greek? Posh! All our intent is larks; we want no rows. Posh!” And regardless of the friendly monition, our party trooped into the room. The scene that presented itself was not an encouraging one; perched on a rickety stool was a fiddler scraping with an energy only to be attained by incessant application to a mug of Hollands that stood at his elbow, and to which he appeared to resort frequently. Polkaing in every grotesque attitude were some twenty couples, the males attired for the most part in sea-boots and jerseys, their partners with dishevelled hair and bloated countenances, all more or less under the influence of gin or beer; here and there couples, apparently too overcome to continue the giddy joy, were propped against the wall gurgling out blasphemy and snatches of ribald song, whilst in alcoves or leaning over a trestle table were knots of men, smoking, cursing, swilling strong drinks, and casting wicked eyes at the intruders. “’Aven’t they a leg of mutton and currant dumplin’s at ’ome wi’out comin’ ’ere?” inquired a ferocious ruffian. “What for brings ’em a-messing about ’ere, I’d like to know?”
“Blast me if I wudn’t knife ’em; what say you, lads?” replied a stump-ended figure, stiffening himself.