30 лучших рассказов британских писателей / 30 Best British Short Stories

�The Gallows Ring’ was not popular in Wapping, for the reason that many of their depredations had been inflicted upon their own class. When Meadows and Harry Jones took it into their heads to do a little wild prancing they took the trouble to go up into the West-end. They considered �The Gallows Ring’ an ungentlemanly set; nevertheless, they always treated them with a certain external deference – an unpleasant crowd to quarrel with.

Ben Orming ordered beer for the three of them, and they leant against the bar and whispered in sullen accents.

Something had evidently miscarried with the Ring. Mrs. Dawes continued to whine above the general drone of the bar. Suddenly she said:

�Ben, you’re a hot old devil, you are. We was just ’aving a discussion like. Where was Wych Street?’

Ben scowled at her, and she continued:

�Some sez it was one place, some sez it was another. I know where it was, ’cors my aunt what died from blood p’ison, after eatin’ tinned lobster, used to work at a corset shop –’

�Yus,’ barked Ben, emphatically.

�I know where Wych Street was – it was just sarth of the river, afore yer come to Waterloo Station.’

It was then that the coloured man, who up to that point had taken no part in the discussion, thought fit to intervene.

�Nope. You’s all wrong, cap’n. Wych Street were alongside de church, way over where the Strand takes a side-line up west.’

Ben turned on him fiercely.

�What the blazes does a blanketty nigger know abaht it? I’ve told yer where Wych Street was.’

�Yus, and I know where it was,’ interposed Meadows.

�Yer both wrong. Wych Street was a turning running from Long Acre into Wellington Street.’

�I didn’t ask yer what you thought,’ growled Ben.

�Well, I suppose I’ve a right to an opinion?’

�You always think you know everything, you do.’

�You can just keep yer mouth shut.’

�It ’ud take more’n you to shut it.

’

Mr. Booth thought it advisable at this juncture to bawl across the bar: �Now, gentlemen, no quarrelling – please.’

The affair might have been subsided at that point, but for Mrs. Dawes. Her emotions over the death of the old lady in the street had been so stirred that she had been, almost unconsciously, drinking too much gin. She suddenly screamed out:

�Don’t you take no lip from ’im, Mr. Medders.