Post-Game Report: The Hooligan Nights

For late-risers, here are the links to the Chapter Recaps (chock full of spoilers): 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22.

If you're interested in a treatment of the Hooligan problem that takes a more directly critical and advisory tone, Clarence Rook wrote an article on the topic for The Anglo-Saxon Review in 1900, somewhat sarcastically titled "St. Patrick Hooligan". This one even draws a comparison between the Hooligan and Lord Byron. No, really.

His conclusion in this later article is the fruit of the seeds scattered throughout The Hooligan Nights.

No human instinct is bad; and the only sensible way of developing character is to accept the instinct and make the best of it. Lawlessness in itself is not praiseworthy; but I maintain that the character which naturally breaks out into lawlessness contains splendid possibilities. So long as we leave several hundreds of thousands of boys to roam the streets with no legitimate outlet for their abundant energy, so long shall we be startled by the howl and occasionally stunned by the belt of the Hooligan. Here and there efforts are being made in the right direction. Here and there an obscure clergyman has recognised that if boys are set to box with the gloves in a parish-room they will be too tired to fight with the fists in the street. The organisers of the cadet battalions, such as the Queen's, which has its headquarters in Southwark, have found that 'playing at soldiers' is an extremely popular amusement with boys. Such efforts, however, touch but one in ten thousand ; and London swarms with boys who, filled with the laudable ambition of being pirates, have to struggle blindly, without guidance, after their ideal. Let us not think too unkindly of a lad when he goes howling through the streets to the fray. Let us remember that the Oxford undergraduate was a Hooligan, delighting in town-and-gown rows, until some one had the happy thought of turning his misdirected energy towards athletics.
--Anglo-Saxon Review, December 1900

This is touched on fairly early in the book itself, the theme of "There is no such thing as a bad boy, just bad guidance from adults who should know better." In spite of himself, Rook does occasionally find admirable qualities in the young man who is his subject which, if they had been channeled in positive directions at an early age, would've made him an upstanding (if not as well-paid) citizen. The hopeful, if (in my opinion) woefully over-optimistic, closing lines seem to reflect a belief in the perfectibility of humankind fairly common to the time, that if you could somehow crack the code of the soul, everybody could live a beautiful life.

Of course, there's a less-than-pleasant second flank to this argument, one which isn't necessarily said out loud in the book but which bubbles up when we take a gander at Alf's less-than-ideal mostly unsupervised upbringing: If those bloody lower-class parents knew how to raise their brats, I wouldn't have to lock my windows at night. And it poses the most valid question to the human perfectibility drive: Whose idea of "perfect" are we talking about, anyway? Because while this frame of mind led to a number of worthy charitable organizations striving for the betterment of awful situations, it also led to more sinister things like the imperialist concept of the "white man's burden". In that spirit, it probably says more than he intended about Rook's sense of social bias when he silently refuses to believe Alf's contention that some people steal because they have to steal to keep from going hungry, not just out of stubborn-minded up-yours rebellion.

Anyway, dragging our focus away from the subtext and back to the book itself: the early chapters' straight biographical narrative fades in and out like a bad TV signal, but the anecdotes and observations that make up the bulk of the book have the desired effect (suggested by the dominant framing device) of sitting down in the back room of a pub with a petty criminal while he gives you a loose account of his "brilliant career".

Would this have had the result of warning and deterrent? That's a question I'm not fully equipped to answer, since the reaction you have to the events of the book hinge on what mindset you have coming in. When Alf is telling his own story, you're given just the story, not cues on how to react...apart from Rook's occasional interjections. But it does fall into a longstanding gambit of condemning behavior while presenting it meticulously--almost lovingly--for the entertainment of people who want to feel superior but also want to wallow in second-hand sin. On that level, The Hooligan Nights is a success and points the way to, among other things, the Fox Network Saturday night lineup. Maybe not Mad TV, though.

In spite of the promises of the introduction, Rook didn't manage to completely hold off on the moralizing, unless by "story without a moral", he meant that Alf didn't reform and stayed true to his established nature all the way through. Maybe it was asking too much for him to completely resist the urge to interject his consternation, but I still maintain that Chapter 20's digression into civic pride was a genuinely sour note. Instead of the authorial hand gently pushing up from underneath to make certain things stand out, we got an authorial fist suddenly punching through the floor. He was doing so well up to that point, too. But again, there weren't that many wobbly spots of that variety, so it was just a hiccup on the race to the finish.

MVP Of The Book: It's Alf by default, since out of necessity he's front and center on almost every page. Take him away and it's just Rook sightseeing around some seedy neighborhoods.

Nagging Question: I've come to terms with the idea that Alf is at least partially based on a real young man, albeit one that's probably been embellished out the yin-yang for the page, but info on the author himself eludes me. I know Clarence Rook was a journalist/mystery writer/travel writer who originally wrote his Hooligan material for The Daily Chronicle. I have a birth and death year (1862-1915), and--here's a surprise--Bill Schwarz tells us that he was an American. Apart from that, all we have is what Rook left us on the page, and no, I haven't read him past this one book. Forget about Wikipedia, there isn't a trace of him in the Encyclopedia Britannica. Not even the 1911 edition, when he would've still been alive. There's no way he could've shuffled off the mortal coil without leaving a trace. A little help here? Part of my failing is using the Interweb as my primary research tool, I'm sure...

Would you recommend it to a friend? Sure. If they're interested in sneak thieves of days gone by, this should be on their list. The eternal question, though, is "Would I let an impressionable kid looking for imitatable acts read it?" Probably not. I've been exposed to too many sitcoms where the dad obliviously reels off his childhood misdeeds with a chuckle and a twinkle in his eye, while his kids pay rapt attention and silently take mental notes. And those were about building rafts and jumping things on your BMX bike, not bashing old ladies over the head to steal the money from their candy shops and fighting dirty. Having said that, there's nothing in Hooligan Nights that tops the Grand Theft Auto/Sopranos family of entertainment in terms of violence and nastiness, so use your own discretion.

Is this (still) a summer book? Emphatically yes. Don't let the fits and starts of my updates fool you; that was more out of frustration with my own working methods than anything the book was (or wasn't) giving me. It would've been a brisk read if I wasn't so insistent on anal-retentive note-taking and strike-while-the-memory's-hot recapping. For potential readers, keep in mind that any sex is implied (and even then it's strictly between-the-lines weasel phraseology) but the violence is right up front, so you'll get at least one of your basic food groups.

Next: Time to choose #3, folks. Take a close look at the list and see what you'd like to inflict on me this time.

The Hooligan Nights Chapters 21 and 22: Happily Ever After?

Well gang, we're finally approaching the end of The Hooligan Nights, and although a conventional plot has been beside the point as often as not, our author obviously feels he has to bring Alf's story to a suitable end...or at least a proper stopping point. To that effect, we've been teased on and off about Alice, and Alf's gradual realization that she's more than just "one of his girls", but the girl. It's been a pretty leisurely subplot, which is why it's such a jolt that the start of Chapter 21 ("The Course of True Love") starts the way it does...even if it's a perfectly logical development.

It was advisable that Alice should be married to young Alf forthwith. But there were difficulties in the way. Alice's father did not approve of the match even in the special circumstances, and threatened bashing. And Alice's father, if I may credit Young Alf's rapid sketch, is not a man to be trifled with. He is a book-maker of unbridled temper, and is accustomed to be master in his own house. Towards nightfall, when Alice's mother can still argue but can no longer stand, his remedy is ingenious and effective. He slings a rope - so young Alf tells me - round her chib, and fastens it to a hook in the wall. Then Alice's mother can stand, but can no longer argue. A man, I gather, of strong character, but not lovable. A husband and lather to inspire fear rather than affection.

The opposition of the book-maker was a serious difficulty, but, with the combined forces of Alice and her mother, not an insuperable one. Alice was very anxious for the wedding: Alice's mother, so long as she could stand, was insistent. Young Alf didn't care either way.

So the banns were put up without the knowledge of the book-maker with the unbridled temper, and young Alf was devising a scheme for sneaking the book-maker's pony and cart in order that the ceremony might be carried out with a bit of class. (pp. 256-7)

Rook does a nice job here of circling the fact that, if you'll pardon me for being so ungenteel, Alice is knocked up good and proper, but it says a lot about the era that he can be a bit more on the nose about her dad being a big booster of Angry Dad Violence, and that both mom and dad habitually drink until they can't stand. 'Twas ever thus: violence has always been more acceptable than sex. Of course, Alice has one up on Alf by having two parents, even if they're pretty much useless after last call.

Although Alf is singularly ambivalent about the prospect of marriage, he's willing to resort to extraordinary measures to make sure Alice has something resembling a decent home: if he can't furnish their love nest by his "usual" means, he's willing to pay cash. That would be my cue to sarcastically say "What a solid foundation to build a life together," but then he has to go and tell this story:

'Knows 'ow to 'old 'er tongue,' he continued, presently. 'I never told you 'ow she 'eld 'er tongue, did I?'

I said I had not heard the incident.

'Look 'ere, I'll tell yer,' he said. 'You know Ginger, - 'im what I fought the uvver night?'

'That was about Alice, wasn't it?'

'Nor it wasn't the first time there's bin a bit of a row over Ginger. I don't fink Alice liked Ginger; least, not like she liked me. But 'e was always messin' about after 'er. See? Well, one mornin' I got infamation that Alice'd gone to the Canterbury wiv Ginger the night before. I dessay there wasn't no 'arm in it, an' I ain't so sure in me own mind that she went wiv 'im at all. On'y that was 'nough for me. An', meetin' 'er next evenin' down China Walk, I arsts 'er what the 'ell she meant by walkin' wiv Ginger stead o' me. See? An' then I jest gives 'er two for 'erself; one in each eye. See? Well, Alice, she run off 'ome, an' got into bed quick as she could, an' made out as if she was asleep. 'Cause I'd marked 'er, you unnerstand. Presently, in comes 'er muvver, bein' a bit barmy, an' finds Alice layin' in bed makin' out as if she was asleep. So 'er muvver says - "Git up, you lazy 'ussy," she says, "layin' there like as if you was a lidy," she says.

'Alice says she wouldn't, an' put 'er face unnerneaf the cloves. An' wiv that, 'er muvver took an' fetched 'er a clip over the 'ead. See?

'Well, next mornin', Alice's eyes was stannin' out proper wiv the smack I'd give 'er. An' soon as 'er muvver see 'er, she fort of 'ow she'd landed Alice the night fore, an' nuffink'd do for 'er but she must mess Alice about, an' kiss 'er, an' 'ug 'er, an' say:

' "Oh, my darlin', to fink I should a' marked yer like that!"

' 'Course she was sober then, an' when she's sober Alice's muvver's as kind-hearted as you please.'

'And all the time it was you who had - marked her?' I said.

Young Alf stopped short.

' 'Course it was,' he said. 'That's what I mean; an' - look 'ere.'

We had halted under a lamp-post, and Young Alf's eyes were gleaming in this light.

'Alice never said nuffink about it. What you fink o' that?'

I groped in vain for the appropriate answer, while Young Alf's eyes were fixed on my face.

'I fort a lot o' that,' he said, magnanimously, and turned to resume the walk. (pp. 258-60)

All the makings of a happy ending right there. If she crosses his Ts, he'll dot her eyes. Sigh.

As they walk along, Alf confides his plans for the future. He had come across a pony and wagon--he tells us later that it's just a matter of liberating it from his future father-in-law--and will make his trade as selling "green-stuff". "See, there's lots o' boys makes a good livin' gettin' on to the tail o' market wagons, an rollin' off wiv somefink they can sell wivout a loss. Peas a tanner a peck! See?" So much for reformation through true love. Alice is a good girl, remember. After all, she doesn't ask questions.

Rook is ushered into the newlyweds' apartment (this time Alice has a voice of "liquid gold"), and get a look-around at the sparse belongings: three chairs and a table, a bedstead, a strip of carpet, and some crockery. Then our attention is directed to the souveniers on the mantel.

Young Alf picked up the guttering light from the table, and held it aloft so that I might see and admire the pictures.

Nailed to the middle of the wall over the mantelpiece was a framed engraving of a pigeon, which young Alf had certainly not acquired by honest purchase. But there was a sentimental interest about it. For he had started the serious business of life, as you may remember, by sneaking pigeons. Beneath this, the photograph of a horse.

'That's a 'awse I got at Brighton,' said young Alf, holding the candle with one hand and with the other turning the light on to the picture. Sold it up 'ere in Lambef. It's workin' 'ere now.'

A photograph of young Alf and Alice, arm-in-arm, in very low tone, taken in Epping Forest. Another photograph of the book-maker with the unbridled temper. No. Certainly not a lovable man. A man to keep at a respectful distance. This piece of decoration was clearly Alice's idea, and young Alf swept the candle past it. To right and left of the book-maker a pair of coloured prints representing Christ Blessing the Loaves and Fishes, and Christ on the Sea of Galilee.

Alice retumed and the illumination was increased by a candle.

'Alf bought them,' said Alice, indicating the representations of Our Lord; ' 'cause I liked 'em.'

'Give a penny each for 'em,' said young Alf, in apology for being reduced to purchase.

Alice had resumed her seat by the table, and sat with her shawl drawn closely round her. In the clearer light of the extra candle, I had my first view of her face.

Fair hair, dressed low over the forehead and the ears, after the fashion in vogue among the girls engaged in the manufacture of aerated waters; soft grey eyes - long recovered from the imprint of Young Alf's fist; a mouth somewhat too large for absolute beauty, but well shaped; a figure which in a few months will be slim again. Altogether the sort of girl you may find by the hundred whereever there are streets and tramcars and factories. But her voice marked her off. (pp. 263-5)

And yes, Rook strung us along all this time without giving us a proper description of Alice until this point.

The wedding has been set for Boxing Day, when the threat of Angry Dad Violence is nullified by the book-maker being at some sort of race-meeting (and gives them a chance to swipe the horse and cart...guess he's taking the train), but Alf closes on a slightly ominous note by saying "Once before I've bin as far as the church door wiv a gal--and come away."

Therefore, we open Chapter 22 ("Holy Matrimony") not entirely sure that it'll come off when we join Rook on the South London-bound omnibus on Boxing Day.

'Blows like rain,' I remarked.

The conductor was swinging himself down again, but he halted on his way, and put a red face over the rail - a face designed for cheerfulness, but depressed by circumstances.

'Seems to me,' he said, 'the majority of people I've sin this mornin' wouldn't be much worse for a dash of cold water.'

'I'm just going to see a friend married,' I said; 'I hope the rain will hold off. Happy is the bride, you know-'

'Ah, your friend isn't the only one. Takes a bit of doin' to keep off being merried Boxing day. Talking of merriage-' The conductor leaned one arm on the rail, and kept one eye on the pavement for possible passengers. He did not squint; yet he gave me the impression of looking in two directions at once. 'Talking of merriage,' he said, I heard rather a rich bit the other night. There was a bit of a knock-up down there at the Coach an' 'Awses', and a chap there was doing his turn, talkin' and arstin' riddles; you know what I mean. Singing, you know, only puttin' a bit in on his own 'tween the verses. Follow me? "What's matterimony after all?" he says. "Matter o' money." See what he meant? I expect it is with these upper circles, eh? But I ain't got no cause to complain. Lived in 'armony five years come Easter Monday, and that's more'n most chaps can say. Well, 'ealth and 'appiness to your friend, - on'y, it's a bit too early, eh?'

He descended, looking a little more cheerful - cheerful enough to lean over and chaff the driver of a rival bus, which, being so far empty, was trying to pass him, and gather up any passenger that might be waiting at South Kensington Station. (pp. 268-9)

Finally, we reach the appointed church, but we have no bride or groom.

Couples walk up, flanked by humorous relatives; parties drive up, five in a hansom, brimming over the apron, a white ribbon tied in a tasty bow about the driver's whip. One couple come on bicycles, lean their machines against the wall by the porch, and enter, together with a gentlemanly-looking man who awaits them.

I watch them, and wonder if perchance young Alf is before his time and is already in the church. Into the dim church I peep, and there I see the surpliced clergyman tying human lives into knots, by the dozen at a time.

But young Alf and Alice were not among them.

The wind strengthens, and the churchyard trees are bending to it and dropping their tribute of twigs. From the church the couples emerge, their relatives more humorous than ever, and their cabmen, flourishing their whips tied tasty with a white bow, say things that make you giggle and shake with laughter and say 'Now, then, cheese it.'

The hour hand of the clock is creeping towards ten, closing time. For even a South London clergyman has his limits.

The hour strikes. The last couple has walked away under the blessing of the Church; and the church is empty, but for a fussing verger.

And still no young Alf. (pp. 271-2)

Rook's racing mind is silenced by the clatter of hooves as the "liberated" pony-cart rolls up bearing the wedding party. The book-maker had one cup of Christmas cheer too many the night before, which made it that much harder to get him out of the way on the day. On the way in, Alf shows Rook the ring--"thick, shiny, conclusive"--and really, you'd think the reporter would know by now not to ask how much it cost. Old habits die hard, I suppose. In the absence of her angry, violent dad, Rook agrees to give Alice away.

The verger came shuffling down to where the wedding-party waited. They rose and went forward.

'Come on,' I said.

Young Alf took a parting shot at a sparrow and we advanced together from the porch into the shadows of the aisle, up to the altar rails, where Alice stood expectant. The wind howled a bridal march.

The clergyman came wearily forward, hitching his surplice over his shoulders as he came, and we lined up; Alice's mother, uncertain of her position, and tearful; young Alf, with shoulders slightly hunched, and holding his cap squeezed in his left hand; Alice with her hands dropped and clasped before her.

It was soon over. The clergyman crossed the Prayer-book with the ring - that ring! We knelt. Pious hands waved in blessing over the kneeling pair; and Alfred Eric (the names gave me quite a start) and Alice Maud were pronounced man and wife in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.

The verger drove the wedding-party into the vestry. I dodged, and went without.

Outside, the wind was picking twigs from the churchyard trees, and sending them hopping down the path. It had been down all the side streets, gathering up waste paper and refuse of all kinds, which it sent careering round and round the church.

The minutes dragged heavily as I walked up and down, speculating upon the future of young Alf and his bride. I hoped he would be kind to her. (pp. 274-5)

Yeah, and I hope for the winning Powerball numbers and a trophy wife. Let's see whose ridiculous wish comes true first.

There was a bit of a delay in the group's departure as Alf haggled with the parson over what he was expected to pay for the service. Alice's mom had given Alf the amount the night before, but "I told the parson I adn't got no shillins an' 'e let me off. Reckon 'e makes is little bit awright."

Alice had climbed up behind again, her mother beside her. Young Alf and a male supporter mounted in front; and indeterminate friends filled the vacant places. My wedding present was offered and accepted.

Young Alf cracked his whip, and, as the pony started with a willing effort, Alice handed her mother her pocketbandkerchief. I stood watching them as they pounded up the road. They swung round the square, and young Alf, looking back, waved his whip at me. And so young Alf turned the corner. (p. 276)

Do I detect a whiff of sarcasm in that last line? Because if Rook's playing on the square with us, he's far too optimistic to be really effective on the crime beat.

Whether you swallow it or not, that's where we leave Alf the Hooligan: riding off into the sunset in a stolen pony-cart to his threadbare apartment, where he'll either launch his new wedded life of small-time thievery and domestic violence or follow his dad's example and run off on his pregnant wife when it dawns on him how totally screwed he is. Oh, happy day!

Next: sleep. After That: the post-game report.

The Hooligan Nights Chapter 20: And Here Comes The Sermonette

You might remember when we started this book that author Rook wasn't going to push for a moral. "I do not know that there is any particular moral to be drawn from this book," he said, "and in any case I shall leave you to draw it for yourself." You'll also remember that I took this as a good sign.

Well, I suppose Rook just couldn't resist. Chapter 20 ("Politics", which was Chapter 15 in the HTML text that gave me fits) gives us a concentrated bout of moralism. But first, a wonderland of scene-setting delight:

Young Alf was late for his appointment. We had arranged to meet on the Embankment in the neighbourhood of Cleopatra's Needle, at eleven; and the quarter past had just boomed from Westminster. It was a clear night, with a full moon shining and turning the Thames into a fairy river spanned by bridges of gossamer. Have you never seen Charing Cross railway bridge by moonlight? As I came up in the train I encountered a party of people who were going out to see the illuminations, for it was the Prince of Wales' birthday. Why do people not go out in parties to lean over the parapet of the Embankment and watch the Thames by moonlight? The river always has its fascination. On a dark night, when the drizzle drenches to the skin, and the Embankment is empty of its customary tenants, the river is mysterious, and a little bit awful. Awful, because you can see nothing of it. Only an occasional flicker of light through the rain. You hear the pull of engines, which cross the sky and now and then stop to whistle impatiently. Now and again the throb of a passing tug, which, unseen, steals out of hearing. Below you, the lap of the water against the concrete - the wash from the stern of the tug. You lean over, and look into blackness. You think of despairing women who cast themselves over bridges into the outstretched arms of death. A boat creeps into hearing; there are pauses between the strokes, as though the rower were given to meditation. The river-police. Yes; it is the Styx, and here is Charon.

But this evening it was fairyland. The tide was at the full, and the moonlight transfigured the sordid details of the Surrey side. Fairyland in front, as you leaned over the parapet and watched the silver path of the moon upon the river break into ten million diamonds as the tug crossed it. But turn, and you are facing the Inferno. (pp. 236-7)

Of course, this time all this dandy pinky-out cloud-gazing is setting the stage for a touch of social realism, which makes all that fairyland talk easier to take.

In the distance, somewhere, someone is playing a tune on a penny whistle:

' Oh! Come all ye Faithful,
Joyful and triumphant!'

An enterprising musician, with a sense of the fitness of things; for we are near the season of Advent, when our mood demands that hymn. Here comes one of them, too. Neither joyful nor triumphant, but shuffling along upon a leg that is manifestly inadequate to its task. He stops now and then; and then he comes on. You could have told him, having walked along from Charing Cross. The seats are full. He must be new to misery if he expects to find an empty seat on the Embankment after eleven at night, and not a cold night. Why, already there are some, less lucky than the rest, sleeping on the pavement, their backs propped against the parapet.

He passes on, and I see no more of him. No doubt there is plenty of room in Trafalgar Square, or if that by any chance is full, Hyde Park is a spacious bedroom.

Save for an occasional cab the Embankment is very quiet. Now and then an arm is flung, or a dim form shifts with a grunt into an easier position. But, on the whole, it is an abode of silence. Early rising is the rule among those who sleep on the Embankment, and that renders it advisable to go to sleep as early as possible. The lap-lap of the river against the Embankment wall was a sort of lullaby. (pp. 237-8)

And through this scene of quiet desperation comes Alf, fresh from a run-in with the local Salvation Army. As you can imagine, Alf isn't a big fan of would-be reformers, especially the ones who treat their field trip to the lower classes like a jaunt to the London Zoo.

'But,' I objected, 'I'm always hearing of Associations, and Societies, and Leagues, and so on, which aim at raising the - I mean they aim at giving you a chance. Why, there are young men who come from Oxford and Cambridge and live in settlements in the lowest quarters of London in order to - well - in order to give you a-'

'I know all about that,' said young Alf. 'There's toffs come down Lambef way, an' I've showed 'em round. One night two of 'em come an' arst me an' Maggots to show 'em round. Show 'em everyfink, they said. One of 'em was a orfer.'

'A - what?'

'Orfer, wrote about fings in the papers.'

'Ah, of course.'

'So me an' Maggots walked round wiv 'em, an' showed 'em where the fences lived, an' one or two uvver fings, you unnerstand. An' then they wanted to see some more, wanted to see where I kipped, if you please. So I fort it was time to pull down their ear. Wasn't likely we'd get much if we waited till the show was over. See? So I says there was a doss close by, an' what was they goin' to spring. Well, we couldn't pull down their ear for more'n 'arf a dollar. An' soon as we got that we nipped on to a tram and left 'em. No. They 'adn't seen nuffink. What you fink?'

'Well, I expect they were rather disappointed,' I said.

'Fort they was goin' to see 'orrors,' continued young Alf, 'an' they didn't see nuffink. I know that sort. Come down jest as if they was goin' to look at a lot o' wild beasties. I sin 'em, too, when a lot o' prisoners was bein' took from one jug to anuvver. Starin' at 'em, - somefink cruel. I bin there meself. Why can't they take the prisoners early in the mornin' when there ain't no one about; or else late at night when no one can't see 'em? Eh? They don't give us a chawnce. Not a 'arf chawnce.'

Young Alf's eyes gleamed rather savagely, and he spoke as though he meant what he was saying. I seemed to have struck a deeper layer of his nature.

'What'd be the good o' me tryin' to go straight?' asked young Alf. 'Fink they'd let me? not them.' (pp. 241-3)

And at this point, the chapter jumps the tracks...big time. For this is the point where the electric lights burning at Westminster inspires Rook to launch into a heavy-handed civics lesson.

'It's a big place,' I continued, looking up the river at the Houses of Parliament, with their rows of lighted windows and the little button of electric light on top. 'Inside, seven hundred of the finest men in Great Britain. Behind them, the civil service, the police, and the British Army and Navy - all bent on making you a good boy. It's long odds, young Alf Then there's the Church, too; with the archbishops and the clergy of the diocese, curates, and all; to say nothing of ministers of all denominations, district visitors and philanthropists. Vestries, too, and Parish Councils, and - Lord, yes! - the London County Council. The Lord Chamberlain and the Censor of Plays as well; the Lord Mayor and Aldermen, and the Common Councillors, and the Judges of first instance, and the Judges of- Good gracious me! young Alf! All this mass of authority against nine stone something of lawlessness. You can't fight it, young Alf. Parliament, police, Judges, Army, Navy, and Reserve Forces, with Her Majesty the Queen at the summit, - you had better step over to the other side and shout with the bigger crowd, young Alf.'

'What's the use o' talkin'?' said young Alf again. I looked around at him. His teeth were set hard. (pp. 244-5)

Which is the effect it had on me, coincidentally. But wait, there's more, because it turns out Alf has a few reform-minded ideas of his own if he was fronting his own Hooligan political party. He's got two main planks in his platform:

1. Catch 'em young before they get too big a mouthful of the sideways path. Before they start going crooked, take them entirely out of their neighborhoods and teach them a proper trade.
2. Do not send juvies to jail. His reasoning here is that jail only has the power to terrify if you haven't done a stint, and once it's not a mystery, it might be more of an inconvenience than a proper deterrent. Alf recommends reform school, which is totally different. *snort*

Which is all well and good, but does this stuff for the greater good sound like "our" Alf, the Alf who couldn't give a piss in the wind about the so-called "greater good" unless he was working an angle? As if to drive that home, this bit of pie in the sky is immediately followed by defeatism: "Oh, Parlymint's no good. That's what Jimmy's always said. You got to look after yerself. No one else won't. They don't give us a chawnce." He also doesn't view the prison option as entirely unbearable. Even solitary confinement gives you a bit of quiet to form more of your bad ideas.

'But what about this prison-gate mission?' I said. 'I always understood that when a prisoner came out of gaol, he was met at the gates, taken to have breakfast, and offered a chance of living an honest life.'

Then young Alf gave his opinion of the prison home which well-meaning philanthropists offer to the discharged prisoner. I fancy he was prejudiced, and I will not set forth his criticism in detail. But, in effect, his opinion was that there is not enough difference between the prison and the home outside the gates to induce a boy to choose the certainty of the latter rather than the chance of the former. Moreover, if you are not a skilled workman at some trade other than house-breaking or pocket-picking, you won't get wages enough to live on. If you are a skilled workman, you will get less than the ordinary rate of wages, because you are only taken on as a favour, being a discharged prisoner. Oh, no! Politics don't give you a chance.

'But there's always some pals to meet you when you done your time,' continued young Alf. You come out in the mornin', feelin' as if all the world was against you, an' there's free or four pals waitin' wiv a word o' welcome. Makes you feel you've got some frens left. See? An' then you 'ear what's bin goin' on, an' if anyfink big's comin' off. See? It's the symperfy.'

Young Alf's hands were dug deep into his pockets, and his shoulders were hunched about his ears. (pp. 251-2)

As it turns out, Alf actually did have a really and truly honest job once. It didn't end well, but it wasn't his fault.

'[...]It was a real honest job, strite. I 'ad a place at a general store, - coals an' grocery, and fings like that; an' fore long I 'ad the management of the ole show; I was as careful of every penny of me master's money as I was of me own, an' took a dam sight more care of it than what 'e did. An' then one day there comes a split pokin' 'is nose into the show. Sin me drivin' round wiv the pony cart. See? An' 'e tells my master that I done time. Then what appened?'

'Well?'

' 'Course I got the push.'

'That was hard lines.'

'Got a bit o' me own back, though.'

'How was that?'

'I see what was comin'. An' when I took the pony on me rounds, I taught 'im not to let anybody drive 'im but me. See? I can always get along wiv anyfink in the shape of a 'awse; an' fore I'd done wiv that pony 'e'd do anyfink I told 'im to. An' no one else couldn't 'andle 'im. I reckon they 'ad a fair ole time wiv that pony when I got the push. 'Arf killed the master, I unnerstand.'

Young Alf thought he must be going.

'Supposing someone were to offer you a job,' I said.

'I bin finkin',' said young Alf. 'If I could get a job as watchman.'

'Watchman!'

The idea seems ludicrous enough.

'Look 'ere,' he said. 'You know them spy-'oles they 'ave in shops - an' places - so's the copper can look in, eh? well, they ain't no good. 'Cause, if I'm workin' a shop like that, I've got me pal outside, an' when the cop comes along I get the wheeze, an' lay down unnerneath the spy-'ole, so's the cop can't see me. What they want's a man that'll setup all night an' keep a eye on the place. Don't you fink so? You fink I could get a job as watchman?'

It seemed doubtful.

And yet if I were quite sure that young Alf were on my side, I would ask no better guardian against burglars.

Young Alf watched me narrowly.

'That want's a bit o' c'rac'ter, I s'pose,' he said.

'I'm afraid it does, Alf,' I replied. (pp. 253-5)

Assuming victorianlondon.org was working from the original UK edition (which is being presumptuous, but that's my perogative), I can see why the presumed Chapter 15 ended up as 20 in my copy. After 200+ pages of simply relating the ins and outs of the crooked path, we're suddenly confronted with the most concentrated appeal to higher ideals and aspirations yet. It's not quite as jarring this close to the end as it would be midway through, but it's still waaaaaay out of left field.

Next: Alf has to get married...in a hurry. Wink wink, nudge nudge. We're almost done with #2 and this time I mean it!

The Hooligan Nights Chapter 19: Cops and Robbers

The topic of today's Hooligan dissertation (Chapter 19, "Outrunning The Constable") is playing games with the cops. We start with a simple trick.

A constable may not drink on duty. But most constables want a drink at about closing time, and reckon on getting it, and getting it without payment. It is etiquette for the policeman to tender a coin, whether he wants beer or a bus-ride. But bus-conductor and bar-man alike wave aside the proffered copper. Doubtless they have their reward. Young Alf tells of a constable who always uses the same penny for his nocturnal beer. That penny, he says, must already have purchased a dray load of four ale, and it will probably retain its purchasing power undiminished until the constable claims his pension.

With these facts young Alf plays.

You take the constable's penny - for of course he does not make personal application at the bar - and, instead of returning with the beer, you slope out by another door. Thus you gain a penny, and have the laugh of the constable, who dare not make a fuss about it. That is the simplest way of working the trick. You may complicate it by scoring off both cop and publican. You enter the house, and, tendering a penny, ask for the policeman's beer to take outside; selecting a moment when there is no policeman outside. You return the penny to your pocket, take the beer outside, and drink it. Then you bring back the tankard, and depart in peace - to the next public-house, if you are still thirsty. By this means you get your drink for nothing, and have the additional joy of knowing that the copper will probably miss his beer that night. (pp. 222-3)

And establishing that the faces of the cops and the "splits" alike are soon as "familiar as the clock-face at Westminster", we move on to more practical applications.

'There was a ole split that used to hang abart the gallery at the Canterbury,' said young Alf, an' he was always arstin' me wevver I couldn't sell 'im somefink. An' now an' then I'd give 'im a little bit that I could do wivout for a bob. See? Well, me an' four uvver boys'd got raver a big job on down Dulwich way, an' we wanted the splits put off it. 'Cause I was sure in me mind that they'd been smellin' around. So I took on the job of keepin' the coast clear, finkin' I could ring in me tale awright. An' jest as I fort, the split was hangin' abart outside the gallery at the Canterbury.

'Soon as he sees me, he says, "Good evenin', me lad."

' "Goin' to 'ave somefink wiv me?" he says. "Thanks," I says. "I don't mind if I 'ave a cocoa."

'An' wiv that I walks up to a stall 'andy.

' "Got anyfink nice you can sell me tonight?" he arsts, while I was drinking me cocoa.

' "Not for tonight," I replies.

' "When? he says.

' "I fink I know of somefink for temorrer," I says.

' "Fink?" he says, suspicious.

' "Well, is it good enough?" I arsts.

'Long an' short of it was, I told 'im just the time we'd got our job down for, on'y tellin' 'im a place on Clapham Common, stead of Dulwich. See? I couldn't pull his ear down for more'n a bob on'y he promised me somefink good if it come off awright. End of it was that 'im an' four or five more splits met me jest at the right time down Clapham Common. 'Alf-past eight, it was. An' it wasn't till close on ten that they began to show they fort they'd been made a mark of. Goin' strong on the wrong scent they was, wiv no error. Be that time our lads'd done their little job proper. Course, I didn't get nuffmk furver for me infamation, an' I expect the splits fort a lot, eh? On'y there wasn't no evidence. See? Case of clean pick; don't you fink so?' (pp. 224-6)

Then there was the time Alf and a few of the lads chucked an officer who was making a move to break up their card game in a dustbin, then shut the lid on him and put his muck-filled helmet on top. Alf didn't do this type of horseplay out of specific malice towards this particular constable, understand. It was only part of "the game", as if he viewed housebreaking and other thievery as a sort of team sport, which in a way it is. And if you're playing a team sport, there has to be an opposing team; you can't just play with yourself.

But to carry the analogy a bit further (no not that one, the other one), if you're going to play the game, it's only fair to play by the rules. If Alf or someone else was sent down the river fair and square, given a fighting chance (and maybe a running head-start), doing a squat in jail would be shrugged off as an occupational hazard. But to have the deck stacked against you utterly, with entrapment and other sneaky tricks, is a bit more than our boy is willing to accept as due course. The regular officers did fine on that point, but apparently the detectives were another matter. (And before we push on, I would like to remind you that we're talking "fair and square" in relation to pickpockets, scam artists, and burglary, so it's strictly a relative term the way we're using it here.)

Alf relates a story of a police lineup he participated in after being run in for disorderly conduct one night. A woman was brought in to identify another prisoner, and as she entered Alf overheard the detective prompting her ("Fourth from the end.") . Since witness tampering has always been monumentally bad form, the situation was a little more than Alf's sense of justice could take.

Before the woman had time to reach the fourth from the end young Alf had stopped the proceedings.

'Look 'ere, guv'nor,' he said to the inspector, 'I'm in 'ere meself for fightin', an' I want to see fair play.'

Then he told the inspector what he had heard. Thereupon the inspector ordered the woman out, and shuffled his pack of malefactors. One changed scarves with another, and young Alf clad himself in the coat of the fourth from the end and took his stand beside him.

Re-admitted, the woman failed to recognize any one, and the fourth from the end, having recovered his coat, went to his own place.

In due course young Alf came before the beak, and, as he had anticipated, it was forty shillings or a month. For young Alf is an expert in the arithmetic of crime, and knows quite well how far he may go for forty shillings, and what will cost him a stretch. But young Alf had not forty farthings upon his person. This would not have mattered if it had been Lambeth, or Southwark, or perhaps even Wandsworth. For the lads would have been there to limber up. Unfortunately, young Alf was in a district where he was, so far as he knew, friendless. He felt it must be a month.

And then the extraordinary thing happened.

A woman stepped forward and paid the fine. A woman who was quite unknown to young Alf. Outside the court he met her.

Young Alf is not an adept in the language of courtesy and compliment, and from his own account of the incident I gather that he simply stared at her.

'That was my old man you got off,' said the woman.

Then she kissed him.

I got that out of young Alf with some difficulty; but she kissed him.

So virtue found its reward. So, too, is the character of the policeman vindicated. He plays fair. (pp. 230-2)

That is, the policeman isn't dumb enough to pull a stunt that would get the case thrown out of court, although standards of evidence were probably different then. Doesn't speak too highly of Victorian era police detectives, however. Sherlock Holmes would hand you your ass if he caught you pulling that nonsense on his side of the street.

We wrap up this lesson with an exercise in misdirection.

'One night some of the lads was workin' on a job on some flats up Bloomsbury where there was repairs goin' on. I was down in the street below, keepin' a eye, an' I fort they wasn't workin' so quiet as they oughter 'ave. An' jest as I stopped to listen, a cop come up be'ind me wiv 'is silent shoes.

' "D'you 'ear anyfink up there?" 'e says, givin' his elmet a nod towards where the lads was workin'.

' "I fort I did," I says. "I was jest listenin'."

' "I want you," he remarked, "to go up wiv me to the top of this yer buildin'; I've got my suspicions that there's somefink wrong."

' "Well," I says, "that's a job I don't care about, guv'nor. I don't want to 'ave a 'ole bored froo me wiv a six-shooter. Wouldn't be 'ealfy for me."

'Course I wanted to make 'im skeered. See?

' "I don't much relish it meself," 'e says. "But if I arst you in the Queen's name, you got to come. An' if we make a capture, it'll be worf your while."

'I see be his manner 'e was skeered. So I made out as though I was gettin' up me pluck, an' then I says to him- "Well, I says, "I'm a bit used to roofin' be trade. You gimme your lantern, an' I'll nip up an' crawl round an' see what's goin' on."

He was more'n willing. Handed over 'is lantern, an' went an' hid 'isself round the corner where 'e couldn't see nuffink. Wiv that I nips up one of the ladders that was stannin' 'gainst the flats, an' give the lads the wheeze. Told 'em to grease off be anuvver ladder at the back soon as I'd rung in me tale to the cop down below. See? Then I worked me way back to where the cop was hidin', an' rang in me tale 'ow they was layin' be'ind a chimbly an' we could catch em if we went sawft an' made a spring.

'Didn't 'arf fancy the job, the cop didn't. But 'e come up awright, me carryin' the lantern in front. An' there we was, crawlin' round the roof like a bloomin' pair of cats. An', when we come to the chimbly, there wasn't nobody there.

' "Well," I says, "I fort I see somebody layin' be'ind there; but I s'pose it was on'y me fancy."

'So down we come again, an' I cracked on to the copper about 'is pluck goin' on to the roof like that, an' 'e thanked me for me 'elp an' sprung a bob for me trouble. Oh, you can kid a cop soon as look at 'im. Don't you make no meestike.' (pp. 232-4)

When it's mentioned that Jimmy had nothing to do with that adventure, Rook asks what's become of him lately. It turns out that since he was getting cautious in his old age, he's been conducting his goods-fencing business by Parcel Post instead of face-to-face. "He maintains that there is no safer and surer service in the world." I can't help but smirk, since I read this chapter on the same day that it was announced that some dumb chump got busted for trafficking marijuana via Federal Express. Seriously, there are ways to absolutely, positively get your weed overnight, and that isn't one of them. But I suppose you have to try certain things just to make sure they don't work. And if you get stuck in the hole to the tune of $29,500 bail...hey, consider that the price of your education.

Next: more on the true love tip, as I try to wrap this book up in the next 24 hours, hopeless fool that I am...

The Hooligan Nights Chapter 18: Don't Forget The Loser

It's fight night in Chapter 18 ("All For Her")! But first, some more scene-setting and wool-gathering...

It was Saturday night, and eight o'clock, and life in the Walk was at its zenith. I was first at the rendezvous, and strolled slowly along watching the haggling and chaffering at the barrows, wondering at the bawling butchers, and delighting in the children who danced to the jangle of the piano-organ. Lambeth Walk, as I have already told you, will provide you with everything you can reasonably require in life. Even when you die you need not go farther afield for your requirements, for the undertaker flourishes in the Walk, and rival artists set forth the advantages you will gain by placing yourself unreservedly in their hands. A series of photographs showed me what I could expect for five pounds, and the additional respectability I could attain for an extra two pound ten. Ornaments for my tomb beckoned me; I was especially attracted by the white artificial flowers in glass cases, and hovered from one undertaker's window to another making the final selection of the glass case that should mark my final resting-place.

Poetry, too, you may have; elegies to celebrate your virtues and waft after you the regrets of your relatives. Possibly you might have a specially hand-made elegy if you liked to pay extra for it. Those in the window are machine-made, and there are half-a-dozen varieties from which you may choose. They are stamped in black letters on white plaques fancifully wrought in the shape of a shield, a heart, or the section of a funeral urn. I had some difficulty in deciding, but I think this is the one that I should like my household to hang up in their drawing-room when I am no more--

A Light has from our Household gone,
A Voice we loved is still;
A Place is vacant in our Home
That never can be filled.

From the display in the window I inferred that this was the most popular of the obituary verses. The rhymes fascinated me. Besides, it would be rather piquant to choose and pay for my own panegyric. I was absorbed in the contemplation of these verses, and trying to make up my mind to go in and ask the price, when I was recalled to the hubbub and tumult of the Walk by a voice at my elbow.

'Wotcher!' (pp. 202-4)

Which is Alf's way of saying "hi". Social niceties aren't his thing, man.

He's a bit more high-strung than usual for two reasons: because he's finally realized he's in love with Alice, and he has a rival for Alice's affections. The rival is a paper peddler named Ginger, and while Alice made it clear she preferred Alf's company, Ginger just wouldn't let it go. So they decided to settle their beef in the ring, which is where Alf is heading with Rook on this night.

'Frippence extry cross there,' cried another boy. I paid the threepence, and found myself entitled to a seat on a carpeted bench at the corner of the ring, which is not a ring, but a square. I looked round, a little dazzled by the sudden glare of gas.

Three or four hundred faces, packed in tiers, which rose from each side of the ring. In the lowest tier small boys, in all varieties of undress, who stood and rested their chins on the rope. Above them, row upon row of faces, mostly young and frequently dirty, with here and there the pink shirt and pallid complexion of a flashily-dressed Jew, - and not a woman's face among them.

The piece of the evening was not yet on; but we were mildly interested in the curtain-raiser.

In the sawdust a couple of youngsters were sparring - boys of thirteen or thereabouts - glorious in the small-clothes of the ring, and enjoying themselves hugely. It takes a smack in the face to make a Lambeth boy laugh, and these infants laughed aloud as the gloves (strictly regulation gloves, as we were assured) got home upon their faces.

The genial proprietor stood, slightly swaying, in one corner, giving words of encouragement.

'Garn, yer young devils,' he said, pleasantly. 'You can get 'ome oftener'n that. When you see a place, you 'it it, 'ard; bleed'n' ard. That's the way.'

He nodded approval, and the boys with their chins on the ropes wagged their heads, knowing that old Mugs has stood up to Jem Mace in his time, and that the words that fall from his lips are golden.

No millionaire in London was prouder that night than those two small boys who had concentrated the eyes of their world upon them. And the proudest moments were when they retired on the call of time to their respective corners, laid themselves back in their respective chairs, and had a full-grown man to flap a towel in their faces. Only one man, who walked from one to the other. For boys of thirteen cannot expect more than half a second. But he flapped the towel; and the little boys, as you could see, lay back, opened their mouths, dropped their arms, and thought of Jem Mace. (pp. 206-8)

In a ritual which will be repeated after each fight, Mugs calls out for the crowd to show their appreciation, which the crowd answers by pitching coins at the ring.

I think it's safe to skim the next match, which involves Sammy of Stockwell and Spooney of Bermondsey. The match gets rejiggered on the fly when Sammy proves that he's too much of a puss to actually fight after two rounds and is thrown out of the ring by Mugs, to be replaced by Sparkey of Lambeth. The meat and potatoes is in the next bout.

Suddenly, I was aware of young Alf by my side, in his chair at his own corner. But young Alf translated. Young Alf in pink breeches, white stockings and shoes. Young Alf holding out his hands superciliously for his second, a bullet-headed ruffian, to put his gloves on. Young Alf paler than ever, but with eyes that whipped round the ring and settled with a blaze of fury on Ginger in the other corner. He neither spoke to me nor looked at me, but dropped his gloved hands and waited.

The master of the ceremonies stepped forward, cleared his throat, and braced his voice for an effort. The buzz of comment dropped.

Was there any objection to our old friend Mat Mullins as timekeeper?

None whatever. And Mat Mullins was entrusted with a watch. Mat Mullins was a heavily-built man in a grey muffler. The good-humoured lines of his face were strongly marked out with coal-dust.

As to judge, there could be no objection to old Spooney, if he didn't mind being called old Spooney, seeing that his son-

Carried by acclamation. And old Spooney, who turned out to be the shrewd-eyed man who sat behind me, deprecated the compliment, and accepted the office.

'I don't shove meself forward,' said old Spooney, 'but if there's no better man--' That settled it, for we drowned his apodosis in a shout.

Again the master of the ceremonies braced himself for an effort.

'I beg to interjuice to your notice,' he said, resting one hand on the ropes and fixing an eye on a corner of the ceiling, 'Paddy of Lambeth, and Ginger of-- of----'

'Camb'well,' prompted Ginger, from his corner.

'And Ginger of Camb'well. A six-round contest, fought strictly under the Marcus o' Queensberry's rules. Dunng this 'ere contest I must arst you to keep silence, gen'l'men all. Tween the rounds you can shout.'

We were all very silent now. (pp. 213-4)

When Round 1 is called, "Paddy" and Ginger tap gloves and Alf springs at his opponent "with a tigerish gleam in his eyes." Alf is going for a quick KO, but Ginger isn't about to lie down. While Ginger is a taller boy, Alf is stronger, and yet Ginger has the sweet science on his side. Every body blow raises the red on Alf's pale skin.

Young Alf's breath is coming thick and fast now, as he lies back in his chair, and permits the bullet-headed ruffian to mop his face, and squirt water upon it from his mouth. He turns his head, and catches encouragement from eyes.

'I'll do it, if I bust me guts,' pants young Alf.

'Stick tongue aht, an' don't talk,' says his second. 'Blarst yer,' he adds, as he pursues his kindly office. And again the conscientious coal-heaver who holds the watch calls-

'Time!'

Again young Alf leaps upon Ginger. Hard pounding this time, though Ginger is still smiling ominously. Hard shouting, too, for we are getting near the end. But suddenly someone shouts louder than the rest. It is old Spooney behind me. Someone also leaps into the ring, and pulls young Alf off Ginger, whom he has driven into a corner.

'Glove slipped.'

It is tied up. Young Alf looks furtively round him during the operation, and I wonder if it was an accident.

At it again, both trying to drive the final blow home.

Old Spooney leans down to my ear.

'I never see a comicker, bleed'ner fight in all me life,' he says.

'Time!'

Young Alf is very pale, and struggling for breath. His second fills his mouth with water and sends it as from a fire hose into young Alf's face. Flap-flap with the towel, and at the word young Alf can just rise to his task. Ginger has to be propelled into the ring by friendly hands.

In less than half-a-minute Ginger slips,-- he is down. We rise in our seats, and howl. But young Alf is too pumped to reach him before he has staggered to his feet again. The boys have fought themselves out; and when time is called, young Alf is feebly patting Ginger on the left ear, while Ginger is gently tickling young Alf in the ribs. (pp. 217-8)

The judge's decision goes to science and Ginger, but is it really over? Not by a long shot, as Spooney tells Rook they'll settle it "in the raws," and sure enough, neither Alf nor Ginger are to be found. The rematch clause obviously has a quicker turnaround on the Walk than it does even in WWE.

Having seen what he came to see, Rook finds his way out, but under a streetlamp he finds a familiar young woman.

'Are you looking for Alf?' said the girl. I recognized the voice instantly. It was the voice I had heard at the end of Irish Court. 'I sin you with him lots of times,' she added, in explanation.

'You must be Alice,' I said. Where is Alf?'

'In there,' she replied, pointing with her finger. I can't go an' look at it. You go. Say I'm 'ere.'

A couple of lanterns gave light enough to show me a stable-yard. A dozen or so of partisans formed a ring. This time there was no noise, no seconds, no towel-flapping. Also there were no rules. They were fighting in savage silence. We, too, stood round tense and earnest, making no sound; for now at last we were breaking the law and disturbing the Queen's peace. It seemed to me a long time that I stood there watching the flicker of the lanterns on those two struggling figures. But probably only a or so passed before young Alf brought off his favourite manoeuvre in the kind of fighting where nothing is barred. With a quick butt of the head, and a raised elbow, he caught Ginger under the chin, and bore him to the ground, falling on top of him.

Young Alf rose and passed his arm across his lips. Ginger remained where he was.

That is an effective stroke, if you have cobbles underneath on which to crack your adversary's skull.

Someone brought a pail of water and threw it over Ginger, who presently sat up and looked about him. (pp. 219-21)

Back on the street, Alice adjusts Alf's neckerchief and they leave together. And boy, is she proud of her man! So remember, even scruffy street fighters can find romance...with violence! No no, not romance with violence. Romance...with violence! Okay, I'll stop while I'm behind...

Next: Outrunning the constable. Yeah, I'm not too clever tonight. I'm fighting the urge to backslide yet again. And dammit, I screwed up the chapter number in the heading again...and for the exact same reason as the other time.

The Hooligan Nights Chapters 16 and 17: Dammit, You're Learning the Wrong Lessons From This Chapter!

...or "Rattle Them Bones." Break's over...back to business.

Chapter 16 ("Strange Dwellings") finds Alf at Rook's place, which he not only found easily but promised he could enter without the aid of the servant who opened the door for him. This type of talk, naturally takes us back to the topic of burglary.

Young Alf spoke with scorn of the burglar who boasts of the time he has done. This is no legitimate ground for boasting. It is as though the fighting man should boast of being knocked out, or the bookmaker take pride in his losses. If you are caught you have shown your incompetence. And though young Alf has been pinched once or twice for minor offences, such as passing snide coin, he has never done a stretch for burglary.

'I come near it more'n once, but I never fell,' he said. 'Once I should have fell, on'y I got up the chimbly. I was workin' a job at a country 'ouse, 'bout fifteen miles out of Lunnun. I fort it was awright, 'cause the famb'ly was away. But I s'pose I must have made more noise than what I oughter 'ave, an' 'earing a sort of rushing about, I made a dash for the chimbly. It was one of them old chimblys - in the 'all - wiv pigeon-holes for the climbin' boys to put their 'ands an' feet, so I could keep up awright while they was wonderin' what it was they'd 'eard. Raver 'ealfy, wasn't it? On'y they never fort of lookin' up the chimbly.'

That was the narrowest squeak that young Alf ever had, in his own opinion. But he is particularly anxious that no one should think the less of him for never having done a stretch for burglary. He argues, quite reasonably, that the perfect burglar is never caught, and consequently never does a stretch. It is to his immunity from arrest that he owes his position as leader of his gang. (pp. 180-1)

And from this point, we take another trip through the Crimestarter Notebook, with some dandy tips on preparing for an exciting career in housebreaking!

• Make yourself acquainted with the layout of your target by pretending to be a plumber or by sending one of your gang around as a flower peddler with an eye for detail.
• While the previous generation's concept of a master criminal, Charles Peace, was a big fan of the rope ladder, Alf prefers climbing on another guy's shoulders or lassoing a chimney. Of course, he's young enough to get away with nonsense like that.
• Window smashing shows a failure of imagination. Put a diamond in the business end of a drawing compass and go to town.
• Finally, booby trapping the lawn with trip wires will only bite you in the ass if you have to make with a quick scoot. And don't stop in the kitchen for a bite of something...even though we've already seen Alf do that. Do as I say, not as I do...
  

Remember, this entry is for moral instruction only. You should be horrified. Why are you taking notes?

As we learned in a previous chapter, it never hurts to have a confederate on the inside...and if you can double-cross them later on, well, all the better.

So it happened, that, being flush of brass, young Alf frequented the bars in the neighbourhood of Oxford Street at the hours when the houses of business closed, and stood drinks, with discrimination, casting his bread, as it were on the waters, in the hope that it would return as buttered toast.

' 'Fore long,' said young Alf, 'I'd marked me young man; sawft-'eaded bloke, he was; fort a lot of me. Got quite pals like, we did, meetin' every evenin' be 'pointment at the same ole 'ouse. 'Course for all me ole swank I didn't say nuffink about bein' on the crooked. See? Least not at first. On'y, one night I remawked I was on for a bit of a game, an' wouldn't he come up to the Oxford wiv me? So we goes along to the Oxford togevver, an' gargled a bit, an' then we looked in at one bar an' annuver, garglin' as per before, an' time it was twelve o'clock, me young man was - 'e was jest 'ow I fort e'd be. 'Cause, you unnerstand, I'd settled it all in me mind 'ow I was goin' to work.

'So I says to him, " 'Ow'd it be if you was to land a nice little lump on yer own? "

'Well, 'e says 'e could do wiv a bit of ready, on'y 'e didn't see where it was to come from. An' wiv that I rang in me tale, 'ow there was stuff in 'is awfice that 'e could put 'is 'ooks on, an' 'ow I knowed a way to help 'im if he'd stan' in wiv me.

'That skeered 'im, like, at first, an' he said he didn't want to frow away 'is employment.

' "Garn," I says, "there's you at your graft day in an' day out, an' gettin' five-an'-twenty bob a week; an' here's me, livin' like a toff, an' doin' a job 'ere an' a job there, jest as the fancy takes me. See?" More'n that, I told 'im he'd 'ave nuffink to do 'cept 'andin me 'is keys.

'Well, he didn't fall that night, nor the next night. But he fort a lot of avin' me for a pal, an' what wiv one fing an' annuver he was gettin' short of ready. Long an' short of it was the job was worked awright.'

'How did you work it?' I said.

The method was simple. Young Alf strolled into the emporium just before closing time, found an opportunity of secreting himself, obtained all the necessary keys from his friend, and cleared off with something over a hundred pounds as his reward.

'And what became of your friend?' I inquired.

'Never see 'im since. I unnerstand he got the push,' replied young Alf.

'And he did not get his share of the spoil?'

Young Alf's under jaw denoted impatience at the absurdity of the question. (pp. 187-9)

We also come back to the question of guns, and Alf makes it clear that if he takes a pistol with him, it will always be unloaded to avoid actually killing somebody. Of course, it's not a bright idea to test that theory today. Sure, it worked a hundred years ago, but so did your granny's granny's phonograph, and that won't go anymore, either. Not since the winding spring broke in the winter of '25, anyway.

Besides, he has great faith in the efficacy of an unloaded revolver which is not compromised by the discovery of any cartridge whatsoever on the person. He holds that the mere look of the inside of a pistol barrel is enough to bring the average householder to his senses. This theory he enunciated as he crossed one leg over the other and accepted a second cigar. It is based on the assumption that the average householder, even though he sleep with a loaded revolver under his pillow, has not the pluck to pull the trigger on an emergency. This theory he had an opportunity of testing one night when he found himself utiexpectedly in the bedroom of a householder who was a bit too sharp for him. Young Alf found himself covered with a revolver.

'Move, and you're a dead man,' said the householder, who was seated on the edge of his bed.

Young Alf was compelled to temporize.

'For Gawd's sake don't murder me, mister,' he pleaded. 'It's my first offence, an' you wouldn't send my soul to 'ell?'

The householder advanced slowly upon young Alf, giving him an excellent view of the inside of the pistol barrel. Young Alf determined to act on the assumption that the man was afraid to fire at him. He whipped out his own revolver.

'Now, guv'nor, it's your life or mine,' said young Alf. 'And it shan't be mine.'

In a moment the householder was down on his knee begging young Alf to spare him for the sake of his little ones.

Young Alf consented to spare him, kept him covered while backing out of the door, and then scooted for all he was worth.

My own theory is that the householder's revolver was unloaded, and that he allowed himself to be bluffed. But in this young Alf does not agree with me.

'That didn't skeer me,' continued young Alf, ' 'cause I was sure in me own mind that the bloke wouldn't let fly at me. Time I was skeered was one night at Glasgow - subbubs of Glasgow, it was. That was one of the curiousest fings ever I come across.' (pp. 192-3)

Alf and Jimmy found themselves in Glasgow after liberating the cashbox from a traveling circus they had been using as cover for their sneakthiefery. Not ones to hang around with other people's money, they decided to see what the city had to offer.

'It was when we was at Glasgow,' said young Alf, 'that it happened what I was goin' to tell you about. Jimmy'd kep' 'is eyes skinned for chances, an' one night 'e put me on to a job to work on me own. He'd got a 'ouse waxed in the subbubs, seem' it stood by itself, wiv a lawn all round an' French windys. Reg'lar burglar's frens, French windys, wiv no error. Didn't take me 'arf a mo to get inside; but soon as I was inside I fort I 'eard a step comin' down the stairs. So I got be'ind the curtains an' stood quiet. Course, you unnerstand it was quite dark. Well, the steps come down the stairs, an' the door opened, an' in come a young man in 'is night fings wiv a lamp. I stood quiet as I could, peepin' out tween the curtains, an' I see 'im put the lamp down on the table, an' go up to a box that was stannin' in the corner of the room close to where I was.'

Young Alf took his hands from his pockets and leaned forward, looking at me obliquely.

'He opened the box an' put 'is arms inside, an' I see 'im take out - what you fink I see 'im take out?'

'Gold - spade guineas?' I suggested.

'Bones.'

Young Alf shivered.

'Bones?' I exclaimed.

'Heap o' bones,' continued young Alf; 'sure as I'm settin' 'ere. Then 'e put 'em on the table, side o' the lamp, an' began settin' 'em one atop of the uvver, an' fittin' 'em togevver, careful like, an' after a bit there was a real skilliton stannin' up in the room. 'Ealfy, eh? Then the young man began playin' wiv is skilliton, like, pullin' out 'is arms, an' makin' 'im work is legs. That upset me, raver. On'y, course, I dursn't move from where I was. An' then 'e picked up the lamp an' went out again, leavin' me alone wiv the skilliton in the dark. Gawd's trewth, I nipped out quicker'n I come in, wiv no error.'

'But - did you ever find the explanation?' I asked.

'I told Jimmy bout it, an' Jimmy said from what 'e'd 'eard there was a lot of young doctors livin' in the house. It was a sort of lodgin'-'ouse, you unnerstand. An' Jimmy fort the young man'd been studyin' too 'ard, an' it'd got on 'is napper. See? Walkin' in his sleep, 'e was; that's what Jimmy finks. D'you fink so?'

I said the explanation seemed a reasonable one.

'But it made me feel - made me feel gashly,' said young Alf.

Even the memory was so gashly that young Alf consented to break through his rule and have a little whisky before he went, and under its influence he told me tales of gallantries that I would gladly set down if by any means they could be printed. As it is, you must take my word for it that young Alf has been loved by many, and has loved not a few. (pp. 194-6)

With that, Alf leaves the way he came in...after advising Rook that leaving a light burning is doing a housebreaker a favor instead of deterring him. Because knowing is half the battle. Yo Joe.

See! The book is moral! Admit I'm right!

Chapter 17 ("The Constable Speaks") gives us a brief interlude with a constable who did a few years on the Lambeth patrol. After a brief bit of dog talk, the topic turns to Hooligans...and Alf.

'I wonder if you ever came across a young friend of mine who does something in that line,' I said.

'The constable set down his glass.

'Begging your pardon, sir,' he said. 'Meaning the young feller I see going away from here the other night?'

'You know him?'

'I was intending to ask you if you knew the sort of young feller he is. I've known him since he was that high.'

The constable indicated a point at about the level of his waistbelt.

'There's a many of his sort about here,' continued the constable. 'But down Lambeth way they're - well - they're a treat. And that young feller was about the warmest I ever did come across. Sneak anything he could see, that boy would. Cheeky, too. My word!'

The constable nodded reflectively.

'I remember seeing him hanging round a fish shop one day, and so I says to him, "Be off now," making like as if I was going to cuff him. Catch him? Couldn't get near him. And then he looks back with his hands stuck in his pockets, and says, "None of your bleedin' interference, constable, cause I won't tolerate it." Those were his very words. Not four foot high, he warn't, at the time. Not that. Well, so long as you know the sort of young feller he is, there's no harm done.'

'I don't think he'll try to burgle me,' I said. (pp. 200-1)

Tellingly, the constable doesn't respond. Considering Alf isn't exactly a sentimental softie, and isn't afraid of selling outsiders down the river for a quick payday, he's exercised an amazing amount of restraint so far...but of course, Rook knows where to find him if his silverware goes for a stroll. Or thinks he knows, anyway.

Next: Boxing! Alice! Boxing over Alice! And yeah, the permalink says Chapters 17 and 18. That's what I get for having the rearranged chapter numbers from the HTML version in plain sight.

The Hooligan Nights Chapters 14 and 15: GO BACK INSIDE! WE'RE FIGHTING!

Okay, once again I pay the price for not reading ahead... Chapter 14 ("Lambeth Lasses") isn't really about Lizzie so much as it's inspired by her, and so as not to wound his intended audience's turn-of-the-century sensibilities, Rook chooses to recap Alf's thoughts on Lambeth women. Which is a damn shame, because he assures us the unvarnished version was absolutely awesome. Too bad you middle-class Victorians can't deal.

The first thing we're told is that the typical young woman of Lambeth doesn't go in for thieving or whoring. Alf's lot doesn't like for prostitutes, since whores never send their clients home unfleeced. There's also another set of dots you could connect: remember the whole "If I want something, I just take it" from earlier on? Good luck taking "it" from a prostitute for free.

We're told the Lambeth women of 1898 earn their money through honest, hard labor, and if she casts her lot with guys who go sideways instead of straight (I love that turn of phrase), they don't worry their pretty little heads about it (that's a sentiment I could do without). Sure, he's amazing with his hands and doesn't have any visible means of support, but really, as long as he stays off the topic, that's his problem. If it comes to a head and she's forced to make a choice between a dude and being honest...well, too bad for the law in that case. However, she does have a kind of virtue...if you squint and hold your head a certain way.

The women of the Walk knew how to fight, too. None of this hair-tearing, bodice-ripping catfight stuff...you cross one of these ladies, she'll go all Joe Frazier on ya. Maggots found that out the hard way one day, but not in the way he was hoping for.

'More'n 'alf the time it's jealousy what leads to scrappin',' said young Alf. 'Say there's two or free gals messin' about after the same boy; well, they 'ave a set to so's to settle which is goin' to 'ave 'im. See? On'y sometimes it comes out the uvver way, same as it did wiv Maggots.'

'What happened to Maggots?' I asked.

'Why, Maggots was walkin' wiv more'n one gal, - more'n two or free, if it comes to that, and 'e fort it was about time to make some change. Getting a bit too fick for Maggots, it was, specially as it'd come to is knowledge that some of the gals'd been fighting to see which of 'em should 'ave 'im. Well, one afternoon one of the gals says to Maggots that she'd be down the Arches after she'd 'ad 'er tea. Maggots 'e'd 'ad enough of the gal, so it came into his 'ead that 'e'd 'ave a bit of a game wiv 'er. So he says e'd be down the Arches after tea, too. Then he nips round an' makes a 'pointment wiv one gal after anuvver to be down the Arches after tea, an' they all promised they'd come.'

'And they all came?'

'Eight of em, one after the uvver. An' as each one come the uvvers arst 'er who she'd come to meet, an' she says Maggots. An' there was all of em stannin' down the Arches waitin' for the same boy. See? 'Course that was jest what Maggots wanted, cause 'e fort there'd be a rare old beano, cause all the gals'd been messin' about after 'im.'

'And was there a fight?'

'It didn't turn out quite like Maggots expected; but there was a fight, in a way of speaking, an' Maggots see it all, wiv no error. Silly like, 'e goes down to the Arches quiet as 'e could, finkin' 'e'd like to see the gals an' if they'd come to meet 'im an' wevver they was scrappin'. See? On'y the gals they'd been layin' their eads togevver, an' seein' as Maggots'd been playin' a game wiv 'em, they 'greed they'd give Maggots what for. An' soon as Maggots showed 'is chivvy one of the gals says, "Fink we're Mormons?" she says; an' wiv that she lands him one; an' quicker'n anyfink the ole lot chips in back an' front an' dusts 'im over proper. Oh! 'e see a fight, Maggots did, that evenin', but it wasn't the sort of fight that 'e'd set out to see. They could put in a bit o' work too, them gals could, cause Maggots always fancied big gals. Sort of obby of 'is. An' fore they'd done wiv 'im Maggots wished 'e was safe at Wormwood Scrubs. See? Nor I don't think any Lambeth boy'll play on the ikey like that wiv them gals again.' (pp. 168-70)

This somehow gets steered into the art of slipping a guy a mickey. Alf offers the suspicious Rook a cigar, and when he hesitates, it turns out to be "fiddled"...that is, you take a drag off of it, it'll take a drag off of you in return.

[...]'There's been a lot o' talk about druggin' liquor in pubs, puttin' snuff in, y' know. Well, even if you got a mug that you fink you can skin easy, it ain't so easy to fiddle is drink in a bar where there's lots of uvver people; you can take it from me. It ain't the drink that gets fiddled. The way a mug gets struck senseless is be ceegars. And cigarettes. See?'

Young Alf sat back and regarded me obliquely. 'It wasn't on'y a week ago,' he continued, 'I come across a toff in a bar that was 'avin' a bit extry, an' gettin' extry good-natured wiv it. So course I got into conversation wiv 'im, an' 'e stood drinks. Wasn't boozed, 'e wasn't, an' I reckon 'e was pretty fly, cause 'e kep' 'is coat buttoned tight. On'y he was talkin' free about the brass 'e'd got. Says 'e could buy up the ole bar an' all the bleed'n' crowd in it. Well, I finks I must run froo 'im if I see me way, on'y I couldn't see no pals stannin' around, an' I couldn't see me way until sudden like it come into me 'ead 'ow to work the job. An' me wiv me ceegar in me pocket all the time! See?

'Well, presently I brings out me ceegar an' offers it to him, be way of returnin' the compliment of the drink 'e'd stood. See? An' course 'e takes it an' lights up.

' "That's a nice smoke," 'e says.

' "Oughter be," I chips in. "It come a long way fore it got 'ere. You don't get a smoke like that every day of the week, an' countin' Sundays," I says. An' that was Gawd's trewth.'

The contortion of Young Alf's face denoted intense amusement.

'Well, fore long,' continued young Alf, 'the toff began to get queer in 'is 'ead. Cause, you unnerstand, it was a faked ceegar what I'd give 'im. So I looks round at the uvver people in the bar, an' I says that my fren's a bit overcome an' I fink I'll take 'im into the fresh air. See? An' wiv that out we goes togevver, me tellin' 'im 'ow the fresh air'll liven 'im up like. An' time I'd got a 'ansom an' put 'im inside, the job was worked. Went froo 'im, carm an' easy, I did, while we drove along. An' then, soon as we come to a pub that I knew was awright, I stopped the cab an' says I was goin' to get some brandy for my fren' that wasn't feelin' well. Course I nips froo an' out at the back.'

'And what happened to the man in the cab, and the cabman?' I asked.

'Never see eiver of em again,' said young Alf. 'Don't want to.' (pp. 171-3)

Rook asks where he might be able to get one of those goof-gas cigars, presumably as an easy way to settle editorial disputes, but Alf once again refuses to give everything away.

Chapter 15 ("A Bit of an Argument") details the toughest fight Alf ever had, against a "damn big lab'rin' chap". They were engaged in a pub argument about how fast Alf could run, so they decided to settle the matter in the obvious way. No, not by actually running. With violence!

When they stripped to fight the next Sunday at Barnes Common, Alf discovered that while he was going to be much quicker, his opponent had about two stone on him. Of course, it was a bit late to back out then...

'We 'adn't 'ardly got into the third round 'fore I see I'd got a reg'lar sneezer to 'andle. An' 'bout 'arf way froo I got a flattener on me razzo that pretty nigh laid me out, an' 'fore I knew anyfink more my right eye went in for early closin'. 'Ealfy, wasn't it? Much as I could do to keep stannin' up, that round.

'Well, I settled in me mind that round four was to be my look in if I wasn't to go under, so I went for the lab'rer wiv all me bloody might, an' got in free hot 'uns on 'is ribs that fair made 'is timbers crack, an' 'fore the round was finished I'd landed a couple of stingers on 'is dial that seprised 'im proper.

'The fifth round was 'ammer an' tongs again, an' the lab'rer got one of my teef to give notice, but I got one back on 'is jore, an' there was the lab'rer comin' at me wiv 'is tongue angin' right out of 'is mouf. Well, I see me chance then, an' I give 'im a upper cut that made 'im fair bite into 'is tongue an' go down full length on the grass. The next round was the last, an' a little 'oliday for me it was, wiv no error. 'e couldn't 'ardly put up 'is dukes be that time, an' I knocked 'im out first time I smacked 'im.

'I've 'ad a good many scraps in me time, nor it wouldn't seprise me if I was to have some more. But I don't never expect to 'ave a tougher fight than I 'ad that mornin' on Barnes Common. It was 'ard sloggin' all froo; an' if I didn't fair earn me five bob that mornin',--well, I never earned five bob in all me life. Don't you fink so?' (pp. 177-8)

Nice to see he finally brought the thunder. It'd be a shame if we had to rename this book "The Knocked-On-Your-Ass Nights".

(And yeah, I know victorianlondon.org's text has "Politics" as Chapter 15. I'm going by the page scans of the US edition here. Don't worry, it's still there, just in a different place. I'll get to it soon enough.)

Next: More burglarly! And this time I'm sure of it!

The Hooligan Nights Chapters 12 and 13: Dick Tracy's Crimestarter Notebook

Yeah, I'm such a punk for letting my side of the bargain down...this entry promises to be a quick scoot, especially Chapter 12 ("The Boot-trick and Others"), which isn't much more than a tutorial of (wink wink) what to look out for. In sections like these, it's all too apparent the fine line that author Rook is walking, especially since his stated goal is to be totally honest about the world of young criminals. As Lenny Bruce once said about sex ed in schools, telling kids about syphilis isn't the same as ordering them to go out and get it. Likewise, telling kids how some people engage in the art of dognapping (especially detailing the unspoken threat of poisoning the pet of an owner who stiffs on a reward) isn't the same thing as walking them through their first caper. But you know how parents can be about giving children bad ideas. Especially if they're secretly afraid that they've raised the types of amoral monsters the previous eleven chapters have been telling us about.

Of course, it could be like those card counting books which the Vegas/Atlantic City dealers were afraid would give the game away, but in practice gave the lightweights just enough misplaced confidence to blow twice as much as they would without "the system"...which they didn't bother to learn correctly in the first place.

Anyway, the maxim of this section is something that even an honest person can appreciate: a little diversity in your skill set doesn't hurt your opportunities, and you'll lose your determination if you're too idle too long. With that in mind, a quick trip through the chapter tells us about:

• blackmail, which Alf won't usually touch unless he's got nothing in his pocket but a handkerchief.
  
• charity scams.
• the best way to rob a church on a Sunday.
• offering to clean out a store's empty boxes and crates...while making sure to slip a full one in your bundle.
• fun with unattended carts and horses.

And then, a few that are worth covering a bit more completely, starting with the "boot trick". Well, it is in the chapter heading...

Maggots and Alf had a hankering for some new boots, and Maggots' landlord (who, like most derelict landlords, doesn't recognize one of his tenants on sight) ran a shoe shop. That the caper would put one over on him would be a bonus.

'[...]So we nips down to the shop, an' goes in, an' I arsts to be showed a pair of boots. First pair I tried on fitted me a treat; but I fair nicked that they were too tight for me corns.

' "Easy, guv'nor," I says, "easy. I want a pair of boots for walkin' in," I says. "I can't ford to sit wiv me trotters on a sofy smokin' ceegars all day. See?"

'The ole Jew snob says, "Why, they're a splendid fit," he says.

' "After you, guv'nor," I replies. "They'd cripple me fore I'd walked a dozen yards."

' "You talk sense," he says. "An' don't your fren want a pair too?" he says.

' "I don't say I won't look at a pair, now you mention it," says Maggots. "On'y, don't you clamp up my trotters like what you 'ave my fren's," he says.

' "I'll do you bofe a good turn," says the Jew snob. Wiv that 'e brings out anuvver pair of boots, an' Maggot tries 'em on. "There," says the ole Jew, "I never in all life see such fits."

' "Fits it is," says Maggots. "Why, I couldn't 'obble in 'em, let alone walkin'."

' An' wiv that 'e makes a show of 'obblin cross the floor of the shop, an' me after 'im, makin' out as if I couldn't 'ardly put one foot down fore the uvver. An' soon as we come to the door, Maggots flings it open an' scoots, an' me after 'im. Pace we went was a testermonial to the ole Jew's boots, wiv no error. I like to fink 'ow we got a bit of our own back off that bleed'n' ole Jew.'

Young Alf kicked the toes of his boots viciously against the parapet of the bridge. Then he turned again suddenly to me, and his eyes gleamed, while his mouth worked convulsively.

'I'll see meself righted, if I do five years for it,' he said. (pp. 149-51)

There's also the matter of till-lifting, and the very cozy tip that the combination of a woman shopkeeper and a cashbox under the counter is a recipe for disaster.

As an illustration of the folly to which a woman shopkeeper will stoop, young Alf recounted to me his last exploit in the till-lifting line. It was at Peckham. The day was cold, wet, and foggy. And young Alf was going round with a piano-organ, which was wheeled by one of the lads that worked with him. Young Alf finds that a piano-organ gives excellent cover, and enables a boy to see the world without incurring the world's suspicion.
He had ground out a couple of tunes in front of a small shop which dealt in sweets and newspapers, when the woman came out and gave him twopence. Moreover, seeing that his clothes were thin and poor, she said it was a shame that a boy should face such weather without a decent coat to his back. Young Alf was invited into the shelter of the shop, while the kind-hearted woman went upstairs to fetch a coat which had belonged to her son. She had no longer a son to wear it; so she told young Alf.
Young Alf stood alone in the little shop, amazed at the folly of the woman who had left him there. He leaned over the counter and slid the till out.
About fifteen shillings!
He had the choice of fifteen shillings and a few odd coppers, or a second-hand coat which might be worth a good deal less, and was certainly not worth more than that sum. Such was the problem that presented itself to our young friend, nor do I think it was complicated by any other data.
He chose the fifteen shillings - with the odd coppers, and scooted, leaving the other lad to find his way home with the organ.
Once, as young Alf told me this story, I fancied I detected a touch of shame, a mere hint of an apology, in his tone. But I was mistaken.
When he had ended, I hinted that it would have been at least courteous to await the return of the good-hearted woman.
Young Alf saw my meaning; for he is sharp-witted enough.
He explained that when a boy gets hanked by softheartedness he is better off the business.
After all, this is a very sound commercial maxim, and lies at the root of bigger businesses than till-snatching. (pp. 151-3)

While the previous chapter was a veritable rainy-day fun book for the crooked child, Chapter 13 ("Playing For the Pocket") opens with Alf running a pickpocket clinic on his companion.

'Supposing you wanted to pick my pocket, how would you set to work?' I asked young Alf.

The question produced a most disconcerting answer.

I had not walked two paces farther when young Alf had me helpless. He had seized the lapels of my unbuttoned overcoat, one in either hand, and with a swift jerk pushed the garment back as far as my elbows. My arms were pinioned.

'That's one way,' said young Alf, as his eyes gleamed in my lace.

'But I could kick,' I said.

'Not fore I'd got yer ticker.'

'But I should chase you.'

'You wouldn't see me. I should be be'ind, an' me pal'd go froo the pockets.'

'But you haven't got a pal.'

'I shouldn't work wivout a pal, p'r'aps two, where there wasn't a crowd,' said young Alf, releasing my arms.

I shuffled back into my coat.

'Quarter to ten,' said young Alf, looking at something in his hand, as we came under a lamp-post.

I stopped short.

'I got the ticker,' said young Alf, handing it back to me. His cheeks were puffing convulsively. He was mightily amused.

Replacing the watch in my pocket - though my claim to its possession seemed a poor one - I buttoned up my coat, and walked on, somewhat crestfallen. (pp. 154-5)

We find out that while a minimum of two are necessary to pick pockets properly, a single act can have a go if he's brazen enough. The accidental bump we're all familiar with, but Alf also mentions that putting a sack over the guy's head(!) works just as well for a distraction. And really, I can't imagine a guy for whom a sudden bag over the head wouldn't be at least a minor inconvenience. Anyway, solo work is what it is, but having two or three confederates assists you with an essential element of the pocket sneak's field strategy: keep the goods on you for as short a time as possible, in case you get collared.

He tells us that crowds can work to your advantage in a number of different ways. The most obvious way is staging a street brawl and working the spectators while they're properly agitated. While it may seem counterintuitive, an angry mob can help your getaway, too.

He was strolling in the city, and looking for any stray articles that could be picked up. Walking down Leadenhall Street, in the direction of Aldgate, he noticed a lady who was looking in at a shop-window. In her hand was a purse which took Young Alf's eye.

He snatched it, and ran off at full speed.

'Stop thief!' shrieked the lady.

Several other people took up the cry; and a toff, who nearly succeeded in heading him off, followed close at his heels.

It was an exciting race, for the toff could run a bit. However, young Alf headed eastwards, and felt he was gaining. By this time, the crowd behind him had gained in numbers and in shouting power, and as he turned a corner at Aldgate he noticed that something like a hundred pursuers intervened between him and the toff.

Now there is this curious feature about the crowd that takes part in a man-hunt: most of the pursuers do not know whom they are chasing or why they are chasing him. For the newcomers join in at the front of the mob instead of at the rear, where those who are likely to know most about the matter are falling behind. Moreover, even if the original pursuer can spring decently, he soon finds his path blocked by a mob of excited and useless runners.

Young Alf thinks quickly in an emergency, and this was an emergency to stimulate the most sluggish intelligence. The peculiar characteristic of the crowd that chases a pick-pocket flashed across his mind as he turned the corner at Aldgate, and he concluded that since he could no longer see the toff, the toff could no longer see him.

'Stop him!' cried the crowd behind him, and, as they swept along, others stood ready to join in the pursuit.

Young Alf shouted with the crowd.

'Stop 'im! Stop 'im!' he yelled, waving his arms in invitation to the waverers.

'Stop oo?' said one and another, attracted by Young Alf's excitement, and joining him as he ran.

' 'im,' said young Alf. 'Jest turned the corner. I'm blowed, I am. Can't go much furver.'

The crowd swept on, gradually engulfing young Alf.

By this time he had reached a country that he knew. A city of refuge was at hand. There is nothing like a public-house with an entrance in one street and an exit in another.

Young Alf slipped in, nodded to the landlord, and emerged into a quiet street, while the shouts of the crowd pursuing a phantasmal quarry died away in the distance.

Purse-snatching, you will perceive, has its risks. You require special gifts for the pursuit. (pp. 161-2)

We end on one of the few times Alf worked with a female--Lizzie, who came with credentials. Alf insinuated himself with a toff at a pub one night, then brought in Lizzie into the group as his "wife". Using jealousy as an excuse, Alf moved from one side of the gent to the other, striking nothing but lint in either pocket. His brass was obviously in the inside pocket...and Alf decided he wouldn't mind the coat, either.

' "How you fink," I says, "how you fink I'd look in a coat like that?"

' "How can I tell wivout I see you wiv one on?" says Lizzie.

' "That'd be a sight too big for me," I says, looking at the toff's coat. "The gen'l'man's broader cross the chest than what I am."

' "Not me," he says. He wanted to get back into my good graces. See? "I bet you drinks," he says, "you fill it as well as I do."

'An' wiv that 'e off with the coat an' I put it on; 'im elpin'.

' "What you fink of that?" I says, walkin' up an' down the bar.

' "It's a mile too big," says Lizzie. "Shouldn't ardly know you was there."

' "Well, I ain't there," I says, comin' to the door and doin' a scoot.'

Young Alf's cheeks denoted intense amusement at this sally.

' 'Cause I was somewhere else,' he explained, on recovering his power of speech. 'An' one or two days afterwards there was a rare old liquor up at that pub wiv some of the boys that'd watched the performance. Lizzie come in for 'er share, too. Matter o' ten pounds there was in the inside pocket.'

Young Alf sat with legs extended, his hands in his trouser pockets, and sighed at the recollection.

'And--and about Lizzie--' I said. (pp. 164-5)

Yes, what about Lizzie?

Next: About Lizzie. You think I've said it enough times?