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

threshold, the uneasiness upon his face turning slowly to dismay.
    “What are ye doing, lads?” His tone was pleading: the pathos of this misdirected violence hurt him. “Ye’ll get in trouble ower this.”
    Nobody took the slightest notice of him. He raised his voice.
    “Stop it, ye fools. Can’t ye see it’s the worst thing ye could do? Nobody’ll have any pity on us now. Stop. I tell ye, stop.”
    No one stopped.
    A spasm came over Robert’s face. He made to push into the crowd, but just then a sound behind caused him to swing round full in the lamplight. The police: Roddam from the Quay-side beat and the new sergeant from the station.
    “Fenwick!” Roddam shouted instantly in recognition and laid his hands on Robert.
    At that shout a louder shout went up from those inside:
    “The cops! Get out, lads, it’s the cops.” And an avalanche of living, inextricably mingled forms disgorged itself through the door. Roddam and the sergeant made no attempt to stop the avalanche. They stood rather stupidly and let it go past them; then, still holding Robert, Roddam entered the shop.
    “Here’s another, sergeant,” Roddam said in sudden exultation.
    Amongst the desolation of the looted shop, swaying helplessly astride the beer barrel, sat Slogger Leeming. He held to the bung-hole with one blissful finger. He was blind to the world.
    The sergeant looked at Slogger, the shop, then at Robert.
    “This is serious,” he said in a hard, official voice. “You’re Fenwick. The man who started the strike.”
    Robert returned his look steadily. Robert said:
    “I did nothing.”
    The sergeant said:
    “Of course you did nothing.”
    Robert opened his lips to explain; saw suddenly the hopelessness of it all. He said nothing. He submitted. He was taken with the Slogger to the cells.

SEVEN
    Five days later, at four o’clock in the afternoon, Joe Gowlan strolled easily along the Scottswood Road of Tynecastle, making scrutiny of those windows which displayed the card APARTMENTS . Tynecastle, that keen bustling city of the North, full of movement and clamour and brisk grey colour, echoing to the clang of trams, the clatter of feet, the beat of ship-yard hammers, had engulfed Joe graciously. Joe’s eyes had always been turned towards Tynecastle—it was only eighteen miles from his native town—as a place of possibilities and adventure. Joe looked well, a bright-complexioned, curly-haired young man with his boots dazzlingly brushed and a cheerful air of knowing his way about. But for all his shiny look Joe was broke. Since he had run away from home, the two pounds in silver, stolen from Murchison’s till, had been pleasantly dissipated in a style more sophisticated than Joe’s untarnished aspect might have suggested. Joe had seen the gallery of the Empire Music Hall, the inside of Lowe’s bar, and other places. Joe had bought beer, cigarettes and the most captivating blue postcards. And now, his last sixpence honourably spent in a wash, a brush and a shine, Joe was looking for a decent lodging.
    Down the Scottswood Road he went, past the wide iron pens of the cattle-market, past the Duke of Cumberland, past Plummer Street and Elswick East Terrace. The day was dull but dry, the streets pulsed pleasantly, on the railway lower down an incoming train whistled importantly, and was answered by the deep chord of a steamer’s siren as she warped out in the Tyne below. Joe had a stimulating senseof life around him and within him he felt the world like a great big football at his feet and lustily prepared to boot it.
    Beyond Plummer Street Joe paused outside a house which bore the sign,
Lodging House: Good Beds: Men Only
. He contemplated the house thoughtfully but, with a faint negation of his curly head, sauntered on. A moment later a girl, walking quickly in the same direction, came abreast of him and then passed by. Joe’s eyes glistened; his whole body stiffened. She was a neat little piece right enough, small feet and ankles,