The Stars Look Down by A. J. Cronin Read Free Book Online Page A

maker.’” Pause. “He said nowt for a bit, lads, but jest gien me that look. Then he says, like he wer speakin’ to a dog, ‘I’ll give ye nothin’, not even a rib of bone. Yer a disgrace te the town, you an’ yer lot. Ye walk out on your work for nowt, then come cadgin’ to decent fowks for charity. Get out of my shop afore a have ye thrown out’.” Pause. “So aw jest got out, lads.”
    Dead silence had come upon the company while Will spoke; and he finished in a mortal stillness. Bob Ogle moved first.
    “By God!” he groaned. “That’s too much.”
    Then Slogger jumped up, half-tight.
    “It is too much,” he shouted, “we’ll not put up wi’t.”
    Everybody started talking at once; an uproar. Slogger was on his feet, shouldering drunkenly through the crowd.
    “I’ll not lie down under this, lads. I’ll see that bastard Ramage for mysel’. Come on, Will. Ye’ll have the best for the lass and not a measly end o’ hough.” He caught hold of Kinch affectionately and dragged him to the door. The others surged round, followed, supported them. The pub cleared in a minute. It was a miracle: no “time, gentlemen, please” had ever cleared that bar so quickly. Full one minute—empty the next. Robert alone waited, watching the astounded Amour with his sad, disillusioned eyes. He had another drink. But at last he went, too.
    Outside, the crowd was swelled by a score of the younger men, the corner lads, the hangers on. They had no idea what it meant, but they scented excitement, trouble, a fight—since Slogger was laying his weight about. They marched in a body down Cowpen Street. Young Joe Gowlan shoved his way into the thick of it.
    Round the corner they went and into Lamb Street, but when they got to Ramage’s a check awaited them. Ramage’s was shut. The big shop, closed for the night, was blank, unlit, presenting nothing but a cold iron-shuttered front and the name above: James Ramage—Flesher. Not even a window to smash!
    Balked. Slogger let out a howl. The drink was in his blood; and his blood was up. He wasn’t done, no, by God, he wasn’t. There were other shops, here, next door to Ramage, shops without shutters, Bates, for instance, and Murchison, the licensed grocer’s, which had nothing but a plain bar and padlocked door.
    Slogger let out another yell.
    “We’re not beat, lads, we’ll take Murchison’s instead.” He made a run at the door, raised his heavy boot, smashed hard on the lock. At the same time somebody from the back of the crowd threw a brick. The brick shattered the window of the shop. That did it: the crash of the glass gave the signal to loot.
    They swarmed round the door, beat it down, burst into the shop. Most of them were drunk and all of them had not seen proper food for weeks. Tally Brown seized a ham and shoved it under his arm; old Reedy grabbed at some tins of fruit; Slogger, his maudlin sympathy for Will Kinch’s Alice completely forgotten, knocked in the bung of a barrel of beer. Some women from the Quay, attracted by the noise, pressed in behind the men and began in a panic to snatch at anything: pickles, sauce, soap, it didn’t matter so long as itwas something, they were too terrified to look, they simply snatched feverishly and thrust what they took below their shawls. The street lamp outside threw a cold clear light upon them.
    It was Joe Gowlan who thought of the till, Joe had no use for the grub—like his dad he was too well fed—but Joe could use that till.
    Falling on his hands and knees he squirmed between the legs of the pushing men, crawled round behind the counter, and found the cash drawer. Unlocked! Gloating over old Murchison’s carelessness, Joe slipped his hand into the smooth bowl, his fingers clutched at the silver in the bowl, a good round fistful, and slid it easily into his pocket. Then, rising to his feet, he darted through the door and took to his heels.
    As Joe came out of the shop Robert entered it. At least, he stood on the