“Then stop working and listen,” she commanded, and read the article out loud. When she was finished, she put the newspaper down. “Something must be done, Jack,” she said urgently. “Those men are innocent. They must be
“Freed?” Jack turned around, a cigarette hanging from his lips. It was warm that morning; the window was open and he was wearing an undershirt that revealed his chiseled muscles-wearing it deliberately, Lottie suspected, hoping that the sight of his masculine torso might tempt her to change her mind. “You mean to infiltrate the jury, I take it,” he remarked sarcastically. “And just how do you reckon to do that?”
Lottie tossed her head impatiently. “That’s ridiculous. There’s no way to infiltrate a jury. Our men will be found guilty, of course. I mean to find a way to free them from prison.”
Jack’s blue eyes glinted and he smiled, as if in spite of himself. “Anybody ever tell you that you’re beautiful when you’re passionate?”
She scowled. “Be serious, Jack. This is serious business.”
“Serious? It sure as hell is,” he agreed. He turned around and straddled his chair backward. “I’ve been in jail, and I know. And I’ll tell you, Lottie, it ain’t no easy thing to get a man out of jail, once he’s behind bars.”
“You’ve been in jail?” Lottie put her head on one side, regarding him thoughtfully. Jack had told her-endlessly, it seemed-about his adventures as a seaman, a gold-seeker, and a Socialist, but he had not mentioned jail.
“It happened in the Depression of ’94,” Jack said, launching into what Lottie had come to think of as his storytelling mode. “I was travelin’ with Coxey’s Army, a rabble-rousin’ bunch of the unemployed who marched on Washington to try to get things changed. But I got fed up and deserted when we got to the Mississippi River. Hopped a freight headin’ east. I ended up at Niagara Falls and got one good look at the river before John Law pinched me for vagrancy, along with a couple of other hoboes. They shoved us into a big iron cage and then hauled us off to a courtroom, where the judge gave us thirty days apiece without allowin’ any of us so much as a word in our defense.” Jack’s voice grew hard. “Trial was a farce. I was denied not only my right of trial by jury but my right to plead guilty or not guilty. Got my American blood up, I’ll tell you.”
Lottie stared at him. “I didn’t think things like that happened in America.”
“Neither did I,” Jack said. “All I did was walk along their sidewalk and gawk at their picayune waterfall. What crime was there in that? Next thing I know, I’m rolled up snug as a bug in the Erie County Penitentiary.” He paused. “I learned plenty from that experience, I’ll tell you. It was like going to school. I learned how to pass the punk, pick a lock, pick a pocket-”
“Pick a pocket?” Lottie interrupted eagerly.
“Yeah.” Jack grinned. “This old geezer shared my cell, Cardboard Clancy, his name was. They called him Cardboard because that’s where he liked to sleep on the road, in little houses he made out of cardboard boxes. Card, he was a masterful pickpocket.” Jack lit a cigarette from the end of the one he was smoking and stubbed out the butt. His eyes were sparkling with the memory and the telling of it. “One day, in the mess-hall, ol’ Card picked the keys clean out of the guard’s pocket. Slick as a whistle, it was. Fella never even knew they were gone.”
“And then what happened?” Lottie asked, regarding him curiously. The trouble with Jack was that you never knew how much of his tale to believe. He could recount a story so full of lively, real-life details that you felt you were actually there, then he’d laugh and tell you he’d made it all up and congratulate himself on having fooled you.
“What happened?” Jack shrugged. “Nothing happened. We were getting out the next week, so we didn’t bother using the keys. Might as well get a few more prison meals under our belts.” He grinned. “Anyway, Card just did it to show me how it was done. We had it all fixed up to go into partnership when we got out, y’see. Card thought I was a crook just like him, and I didn’t see any merit in disabusing him of the notion. So I let him think I was the real goods, so to speak, and he spent a fair amount of time teaching me what he knew. Especially picking pockets. As I say, he was real good at it. We practiced on one another until I was real good at it, too.”
“So you learned how to be a dipper,” Lottie said in a speculative tone.
“A dipper?”
Lottie laughed. “That’s what a pickpocket is called here. A buzzer, sometimes. A mobsman, if he’s well-dressed.”
“Well, I don’t think they’d’ve called me a mobsman in those days.” Jack chuckled briefly. “I was a tramp, pure and simple. And I wasn’t doing it to pick up story material, or study human nature, either, the way I’m doing now. I did it because of the life that was in me, the wanderlust in my blood that wouldn’t let me rest. But I hadn’t the price of the railroad fare in my jeans, so I-”
“Did you practice dipping while you were a tramp?” Lottie interrupted. Jack’s story was interesting, but he was taking a long time to tell it.
Jack gave her a shame-faced look. “Well, I wouldn’t admit it to anybody but you, but I have to confess to giving it a shot a time or two. It’s a useful trade, I’ve got to say. One time in Ogden, Utah, when I was dead broke and didn’t know where my next meal was coming from, I passed this dandified dude on the street and-”
“I wonder,” Lottie said, “if you’d mind showing me just how good a dipper you really are.” She stood up. For a change from her gypsy costume, she was wearing a pair of Jack’s spare trousers and one of his clean shirts. “Give me your wallet,” she commanded. She tucked it into a rear pocket and turned her back on him. “Now, show me.”
Without hesitation, Jack brushed against her. She felt nothing, not even the touch of his fingers, but when she reached for the wallet, it wasn’t there.
He grinned at her mischievously, holding it up and reaching for her. “Is this what you’re looking for, lady?”
She evaded his grasp. “So much for the wallet,” she said. “How are you with keys?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Allow me here to give a word of caution about taking cold during the monthly period. It is very dangerous. I knew a young girl, who had not been instructed by her mother upon this subject, to be so afraid of being found with this show of blood upon her apparel which she did not know the meaning of, that she went to a brook and washed herself and her clothes-took cold, and immediately went insane.
Dr. Chase’s Recipes; or
Nellie Lovelace sat in front of the mirror in her dressing room in the theater, staring at her reflection and fighting back tears. Tonight was the last time she would sit in the room that had become so dear to her in the past few months, with its big gold star on the door, its clever little costume closet, and its prettily-flounced dressing table littered with theatrical makeup, the mirror framed with photographs of herself in various theatrical roles. For tonight was the last time she would star as Princess Soo-Soo. She had been fired. The director, who had given her not just one warning but several, had finally told her that there was no longer any need of her services.
At the recollection of that terrible humiliation, Nellie stopping fighting, dropped her head on her arms, and gave way to bitter tears. It was an appalling thing to be fired from a role, especially such a plummy role as the Princess. The theatrical world was a close-knit society. By tomorrow, everyone in the cast would know what had happened, and by the following day, word of her disgrace would have rippled through every theater in London. Every director would know that she had been fired for missing cues and forgetting lines, and it would be next to impossible to get new work in a decent theater. If she was lucky, she might get a job as a chorus girl in the music halls, but likely not the Hippodrome or the Alhambra, the leading variety houses. The Paragon Theater of Varieties, maybe, in Mile End Road. She might even end up back in Whitechapel, at the Wonderland. At the thought, her heart sank. Given how far she had risen, such a thing would be a terrible come-down.
That wasn’t all, of course. Working as a mere chorus girl or a bit-part player, she wouldn’t be able to keep her beautiful little West End house, with its garden and piped-in hot water in the bathroom. She would have to sell her beautiful furniture and move back to the theatrical rooming house where she had lived before she became Princess Soo-Soo. And there were her debts. She didn’t actually know how much she owed the dressmakers and jewelers in New Bond Street, but it must be hundreds and hundreds of pounds. Thinking that her stardom was ensured, she’d spent money far too freely on things that, she realized now, were not at all important.
And there was worse, much worse. Nellie had never read a medical book, and it probably wouldn’t have profited her if she had, for most of the advice that was available to late Victorian and Edwardian women about their bodies was simply wrong. William Buchan, for instance, in his book
But while Nellie might not have known what the learned doctors taught about the hazards of being female, she was not without experience where pregnancy (and its prevention) was concerned. From the 1830s on, newspapers had advertised “female syringes” designed to be used with various sperm-killing chemical douches, such as alum or sulphate of zinc and iron. Another commonly available contraceptive was the pessary, which Nellie’s friends gigglingly called the “pisser.” It was widely sold in chemists’ shops to “correct a prolapsed uterus,” but women knew that its real purpose was to prevent conception. They also fully understood the real and frightening implications of a missed menstrual period, and very few would have been silly enough to blame it on reading an intellectually-challenging book, or dancing at a ball for hours on end, or crying over a romance novel.
So when Nellie realized that she had missed the period that was due a week after her evening with Jack, it was certainly no wonder that she was upset, and no wonder that her anxiety caused her to miss a few more cues and bobble a few more lines, which only led to greater stress and more missed cues and bobbled lines, and to the final humiliation.
Perhaps Nellie should not be blamed for thinking that, even if by some miracle she wasn’t pregnant, falling into bed with Jack London was the cause, pure and simple, of her professional downfall. Of course, she could not hold him solely responsible, for she knew she should have been more watchful, more on her guard against him. But Kate Sheridan was right, she thought with a weary anger. Jack had taken advantage of her naive eagerness to have a good time, and should she be indeed pregnant, he was going to find himself confronted with the responsibility of fatherhood. And if he felt no moral obligation to accept that responsibility, perhaps a letter to his wife in California might make him see the light.
But these thoughts provided cold comfort, and certainly offered no answer to her current dilemma. Nellie knew that she would have to start looking for work first thing in the morning. With a heavy sigh, she rose from her dressing table and began to pack her few belongings.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
BURGLAR SENTENCED TO 7 YEARS FINGERPRINTS GET TRIAL BY JURY NEW POLICE WEAPON AGAINST CRIME!
The Daily Telegraph, 3 September 1902
The Central Criminal Court was adjacent to Newgate Prison, in an old stone building that was called the Old Bailey after the name of the street on which it stood. In 1086, at the time the Domesday Book was compiled, this particular site was next to a gate in the stone wall, or bailey, around the City of London. In 1188, Henry II ordered that a prison be built adjacent to the wall; it was
