rows and rows of Sunday suits at Price and Jones’s told their own tale. The suits belonged to Price: every week-end he hired them out to those who had bought them. And even those who didn’t pawn them daren’t wear them every evening. The clothes had to be made to last a twelvemonth, the procurement of which explained the presence of the Good Samaritan Clothing Club collectors in Hanky Park every Saturday noon. Two shillings a week for fifty-two weeks equals one new suit, etc.
But there was a point on which he still was puzzled. Take Billy Higgs, a typical example. Never, to Harry’s knowledge, had Billy been inconvenienced by his penury: contrary, Harry had vivid recollections of Billy’s throwing money about prodigally; he saw him oozing complacence and beaming good-naturedly on everybody.
‘How many times?’ he asked himself.
‘Aye,’ he murmured, ‘How many times?’ Once, and once only, when Billy had made that profitable bet.
Slowly the explanation crystallized. Billy’s extraordinary good fortune on that solitary occasion had made him a cynosure;
attention had been focused on him, nothing more. It was so unusual for anyone to have a temporary sufficiency of money that when such good fortune did fall an individual’s way, all the other penurious wretches saw a nimbus of glory glowing round the fortunate one’s head. It was a seven days’ wonder. You remembered them and their luck as you remembered the fire at Harmsworth’s mill. In the ordinary course of events you never looked at Harmsworth’s mill: it was a mill, part of the landscape and nothing more. But when it was blazing people rushed from all parts, and, ever afterwards, the memory of the conflagration stuck. When the fire was extinguished and the damage repaired, things resumed normalcy, nobody raised their eyes to the sooty buildings. The same with Billy Higgs. Nobody looked at him now; the nimbus had faded with the spending of his money. He was now unemployed. Only last night Harry had seen him lounging at the street corner with the rest of the dole birds feeling in his pocket for a fag-end that wasn’t there.
All in the same boat: all hard up; there was a sorry kind of consolation in being one of a crowd.
But he resented the intrusion of the new boys: they had stolen money out of his pocket with their coming. He felt resentful of everybody who was prosperous. Resentful of Sam Grundy, the bookie, of Alderman Grumpole the fat money-lender proprietor of the Good Samaritan Clothing Club, and of Price, J.P., the cadaverous pawnbroker.
Then fears and panic clutched him: he became afraid. Was this what was meant by growing older? And money. A shilling a week was impossible. Cigarettes, pictures and threepence for a bet and - broke until next pay day. Gosh! He must find a winner; must be extremely painstaking with his threepenny wagers. His heart contracted to remember that only once in two years had he won, and then only two shillings.
Ah, but he had been careless, then; hadn’t spent time studying form. Then there were the competitions in the newspapers: ‘£500 for First Four in the Derby’. ‘Spot the Ball and win £1,000’. But the prospect of winning here was remote. And, ten to one, if he did succeed in placing the Derby horses correctly, his prize would be like that of the man’s in the next street who had performed, successfully, the difficult prognostication and had received, instead of £500, a letter and a package from the Competition Editor, saying:’… therefore, owing to the huge number of successful competitors, list of which may be had on application plus cost of postage, it has been found impracticable to divide the money prize. Enclosed, however, is a magnificent photogravure plate of H.R.H. the Prince of Wales.’
‘Aw, blimey,’ he muttered: ‘Ah’m fed up, Ah am.’
Where was that feeling of confidence of the future? of the imminence of joys to be?
Where was Helen? He wanted her, urgently; wanted to
But there was a point on which he still was puzzled. Take Billy Higgs, a typical example. Never, to Harry’s knowledge, had Billy been inconvenienced by his penury: contrary, Harry had vivid recollections of Billy’s throwing money about prodigally; he saw him oozing complacence and beaming good-naturedly on everybody.
‘How many times?’ he asked himself.
‘Aye,’ he murmured, ‘How many times?’ Once, and once only, when Billy had made that profitable bet.
Slowly the explanation crystallized. Billy’s extraordinary good fortune on that solitary occasion had made him a cynosure;
attention had been focused on him, nothing more. It was so unusual for anyone to have a temporary sufficiency of money that when such good fortune did fall an individual’s way, all the other penurious wretches saw a nimbus of glory glowing round the fortunate one’s head. It was a seven days’ wonder. You remembered them and their luck as you remembered the fire at Harmsworth’s mill. In the ordinary course of events you never looked at Harmsworth’s mill: it was a mill, part of the landscape and nothing more. But when it was blazing people rushed from all parts, and, ever afterwards, the memory of the conflagration stuck. When the fire was extinguished and the damage repaired, things resumed normalcy, nobody raised their eyes to the sooty buildings. The same with Billy Higgs. Nobody looked at him now; the nimbus had faded with the spending of his money. He was now unemployed. Only last night Harry had seen him lounging at the street corner with the rest of the dole birds feeling in his pocket for a fag-end that wasn’t there.
All in the same boat: all hard up; there was a sorry kind of consolation in being one of a crowd.
But he resented the intrusion of the new boys: they had stolen money out of his pocket with their coming. He felt resentful of everybody who was prosperous. Resentful of Sam Grundy, the bookie, of Alderman Grumpole the fat money-lender proprietor of the Good Samaritan Clothing Club, and of Price, J.P., the cadaverous pawnbroker.
Then fears and panic clutched him: he became afraid. Was this what was meant by growing older? And money. A shilling a week was impossible. Cigarettes, pictures and threepence for a bet and - broke until next pay day. Gosh! He must find a winner; must be extremely painstaking with his threepenny wagers. His heart contracted to remember that only once in two years had he won, and then only two shillings.
Ah, but he had been careless, then; hadn’t spent time studying form. Then there were the competitions in the newspapers: ‘£500 for First Four in the Derby’. ‘Spot the Ball and win £1,000’. But the prospect of winning here was remote. And, ten to one, if he did succeed in placing the Derby horses correctly, his prize would be like that of the man’s in the next street who had performed, successfully, the difficult prognostication and had received, instead of £500, a letter and a package from the Competition Editor, saying:’… therefore, owing to the huge number of successful competitors, list of which may be had on application plus cost of postage, it has been found impracticable to divide the money prize. Enclosed, however, is a magnificent photogravure plate of H.R.H. the Prince of Wales.’
‘Aw, blimey,’ he muttered: ‘Ah’m fed up, Ah am.’
Where was that feeling of confidence of the future? of the imminence of joys to be?
Where was Helen? He wanted her, urgently; wanted to
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