members of the Gilliken Gang, who, in the slow, thick stream of traffic in Walworth Road, had been noticeable only for the peculiar whistle given when one happened to be for the moment out of sight of her colleagues, turned into Trafalgar Street, and the leader, a round, white-faced young woman of fifteen, upset a sieve of Brussels sprouts from a stall, with calm, methodical air, as though she were performing a duty for which she received generous State payment. Some of her followers had less than her years; all wore black braided jackets (pinned), maroon skirts, hats with plush decorations, and smart boots. It was near to being a uniform.
“Mord Em’ly!”
“Now, what?”
“Seen anything of them Bermondsey bahnders?”
“Not yet I ain’t,” replied Mord Em’ly. Mord Em’ly was a short girl, with a green plush bird in her hat, that nodded as she hurried up to the leader of the Gilliken Gang. She seemed pleased at being thus singled out for notice.
“You know a bit, Mord Em’ly,” remarked Miss Gilliken, in complimentary tones. “Seepose you do a scoot round near the Paragon, and see if there's any of 'em about. D'you mind?”
“I’ll do it,” said Mord Em'ly, re-pinning her jacket, “like a shot.”
“Don’t let 'em see you,” said a red-headed girl warningly.
“What d'you take me for, Ginger?” demanded Mord Em’ly, with some indignation. “A soft?”
“In 'arf a hour,” ordered Miss Gilliken, “be back at St. Peter's by the r'ilings. If they're comin' over -o night, they'll cut across the Old Kent Road, along the New, and down by one of them turnings near Rodney Street. I’ll get two of you other gels to go ’long East Street.”
“I'm off,” said Mord Em’ly.
“’Urry,” suggested Miss Gilliken. “I sha'n't be 'appy till we've give 'em what-for.”
Mord Em’ly started off at a run. At the corner of South Street she stopped for a moment to give the whistle of the gang. The other members answered, and Mord Em’ly, flushed with the proud joy that comes to a young scout sent by his officer on a matter involving the existence of his country, gave a wild shriek, snatched the cap of a small boy as he sipped at the supper beer he was carrying home, threw the cap high in the air, and, taking the middle of the street, ran swiftly.
She gave and answered many salutations as she hastened towards the Paragon, being, indeed, a young woman with many acquaintances, although with few friends. She had ever a certain defensive manner; and when other girls, as she ran swiftly, called out, “Where y' off?” she answered, “Fine out”—a reply that in no way compromised her or the gang. Once a lad jumped off the pavement and tried to catch her arm, and, by adroitly swinging round, she hit him so hard that, although he had the sturdy figure of a boxing-man, he staggered back to the kerb.
“Nice menners,” said the repulsed youth satirically; “nice menners, I don't think. Best of being well brought up, that is!”
At the Paragon end of New Kent Road she stopped to take breath. There is a decorum about New Kent Road, with its tree-bordered pavements and calm dwelling-houses, that constitutes a silent reproach to its noisy, restless, elder relative, and even on this Saturday night it was not without repose. Middle-aged couples, out for the purpose of buying forage for the home, and accompanied by the newest baby in order that it might thus early study economy, were going east to Old Kent Road, or west to the Elephant, as their fancy or their traditions dictated. Younger people walked arm-in-arm, and in these cases the lady had an ecstatic, far-away look that puzzled Mord Em’ly more than most things in this world.
There was a very fine hoarding near the point at which she had to remain on duty, and she looked at this with a critical eye. She liked best of all the poster for next week's drama at the Elephant and Castle Theatre, where a gentleman, who was obviously no gentleman, stood, with uplifted" dagger, over a kneeling lady in evening dress, her hair down and her hands clasped, whilst a masked lady in black stood at the doorway, covering him with a pistol.
“Looks as though the toff’s got hisself in a bit of a corner,” said Mord Em'ly, cheerfully. “Dessay, if the truth was known— Now then, clumsy!”
“Who are you calling clumsy?” asked the young policeman who had accidentally stumbled against her. He stepped to the kerb; their dispute went on over the heads of the intervening passers-by.
“Why, you,” said Mord Em’ly aggressively. “It's your name, ain’t it?”
“I’ll let you know what my name is,” shouted the young constable hotly, “if I have any of your lip. Move along, and don't block up the pathway.”