CHAPTER L. THE PURSUIT AND ESCAPE

NeartothatpartoftheThamesonwhichthechurchatRotherhitheabuts,wherethebuildingsonthebanksaredirtiestandthevesselsontheriverblackestwiththedustofcolliersandthesmokeofclose-builtlow-roofedhouses,thereexiststhefilthiest,thestrangest,themostextraordinaryofthemanylocalitiesthatarehiddeninLondon,whollyunknown,evenbyname,tothegreatmassofitsinhabitants. Toreachthisplace,thevisitorhastopenetratethroughamazeofclose,narrow,andmuddystreets,throngedbytheroughestandpoorestofwatersidepeople,anddevotedtothetraffictheymaybesupposedtooccasion.Thecheapestandleastdelicateprovisionsareheapedintheshopsthecoarsestandcommonestarticlesofwearingappareldangleatthesalesman’sdoor,andstreamfromthehouse-parapetandwindows.Jostlingwithunemployedlabourersofthelowestclass,ballast-heavers,coal-whippers,brazenwomen,raggedchildren,andtheraffandrefuseoftheriver,hemakeshiswaywithdifficultyalong,assailedbyoffensivesightsandsmellsfromthenarrowalleyswhichbranchoffontherightandleft,anddeafenedbytheclashofponderouswaggonsthatbeargreatpilesofmerchandisefromthestacksofwarehousesthatrisefromeverycorner.Arriving,atlength,instreetsremoterandless-frequentedthanthosethroughwhichhehaspassed,hewalksbeneathtotteringhouse-frontsprojectingoverthepavement,dismantledwallsthatseemtototterashepasses,chimneyshalfcrushedhalfhesitatingtofall,windowsguardedbyrustyironbarsthattimeanddirthavealmosteatenaway,everyimaginablesignofdesolationandneglect. Insuchaneighborhood,beyondDockheadintheBoroughofSouthwark,standsJacob’sIsland,surroundedbyamuddyditch,sixoreightfeetdeepandfifteenortwentywidewhenthetideisin,oncecalledMillPond,butknowninthedaysofthisstoryasFollyDitch.ItisacreekorinletfromtheThames,andcanalwaysbefilledathighwaterbyopeningthesluicesattheLeadMillsfromwhichittookitsoldname.Atsuchtimes,astranger,lookingfromoneofthewoodenbridgesthrownacrossitatMillLane,willseetheinhabitantsofthehousesoneithersideloweringfromtheirbackdoorsandwindows,buckets,pails,domesticutensilsofallkinds,inwhichtohaulthewaterupandwhenhiseyeisturnedfromtheseoperationstothehousesthemselves,hisutmostastonishmentwillbeexcitedbythescenebeforehim.Crazywoodengalleriescommontothebacksofhalfadozenhouses,withholesfromwhichtolookupontheslimebeneathwindows,brokenandpatched,withpolesthrustout,onwhichtodrythelinenthatisneverthereroomssosmall,sofilthy,soconfined,thattheairwouldseemtootaintedevenforthedirtandsqualorwhichtheyshelterwoodenchambersthrustingthemselvesoutabovethemud,andthreateningtofallintoit—assomehavedonedirt-besmearedwallsanddecayingfoundationseveryrepulsivelineamentofpoverty,everyloathsomeindicationoffilth,rot,andgarbagealltheseornamentthebanksofFollyDitch. InJacob’sIsland,thewarehousesarerooflessandemptythewallsarecrumblingdownthewindowsarewindowsnomorethedoorsarefallingintothestreetsthechimneysareblackened,buttheyyieldnosmoke.Thirtyorfortyyearsago,beforelossesandchancerysuitscameuponit,itwasathrivingplacebutnowitisadesolateislandindeed.Thehouseshavenoownerstheyarebrokenopen,andentereduponbythosewhohavethecourageandtheretheylive,andtheretheydie.Theymusthavepowerfulmotivesforasecretresidence,orbereducedtoadestituteconditionindeed,whoseekarefugeinJacob’sIsland. Inanupperroomofoneofthesehouses—adetachedhouseoffairsize,ruinousinotherrespects,butstronglydefendedatdoorandwindow:ofwhichhousethebackcommandedtheditchinmanneralreadydescribed—therewereassembledthreemen,who,regardingeachothereverynowandthenwithlooksexpressiveofperplexityandexpectation,satforsometimeinprofoundandgloomysilence.OneofthesewasTobyCrackit,anotherMr.Chitling,andthethirdarobberoffiftyyears,whosenosehadbeenalmostbeatenin,insomeoldscuffle,andwhosefaceboreafrightfulscarwhichmightprobablybetracedtothesameoccasion.Thismanwasareturnedtransport,andhisnamewasKags. “Iwish,”saidTobyturningtoMr.Chitling,“thatyouhadpickedoutsomeothercribwhenthetwooldonesgottoowarm,andhadnotcomehere,myfinefeller.” “Whydidn’tyou,blunder-head!”saidKags. “Well,Ithough