The Toff And The Curate

Rollison slid into his place and raced the engine, startling the people nearest him. They scrambled out of his way. He edged the car forward and Grice appeared at the other door, suddenly, and climbed in again. A man cuffed his head, another caught his finger in the door as it slammed and howled with pain. Grice opened the door and caught a glimpse of a man’s thumb, dripping blood, and a face which had gone white. The face dropped away. Rollison drove the car faster, bumping three people out of the way. He wound up his window as someone smashed a stave against it. Grice locked his door. The surging crowd surrounded the car but Rollison would not let them stop him. When half a dozen people put their weight against the radiator and the bumper he raced the engine and forced them aside. Men clung to the running-board, one sitting on the bonnet, battering at the windscreen with his fists. Rollison ignored him, craned his neck and managed to keep the canteen in view.

A giant with a crop of red hair was leaning over the counter and had caught Jolly’s wrist.

He was trying to pull Jolly into the crowd. Isobel was battering at his head with an enamel jug. A second man clutched her wrist and she snatched up a knife from behind the counter.

The man let go.

“Good for Isobel!” said Rollison.

The canteen was still twenty-five yards away and the crush around it seemed to be too great even for the car to get through. Tight-lipped, he sent two men down; they were dragged aside. The crowd swayed away and he was able to make another ten yards; then another ten.

The red-haired man had disappeared but two others were tugging at Jolly and now one man had his fingers buried in Isobel’s hair. Not far away, someone was swinging a stick but he was a short fellow whom Rollison could not see properly. He seemed to be battering his way towards the canteen. Two uniformed policemen were battling towards it.

The car reached the canteen, drawing up only two yards away from it. A dozen people were battering at the doors. Tight-lipped and pale, Rollison drew his automatic.

“Be careful!” Grice snapped.

“Careful be damned!” Rollison brandished the gun and it was enough to make the nearer men back away. He opened the door and leapt towards the canteen counter. Using the gun as a club, he cracked it on the heads of the men tugging at Jolly, forcing them to relinquish their grip. He struck the man who was pulling Isobel’s hair and heard the crack of the blow. The man dropped back and Isobel drew away, brushing the hair out of her eyes.

Rollison vaulted over the counter, nearly knocking Jolly over, and swung round, pointing the gun at the crowd. Grice joined in, the four of them a tight fit inside the canteen.

There were hundreds of men in front of them, roaring, swearing, cursing.

Above the din, Rollison could hear the stentorian voice of Foreman Owen. It was he who was brandishing the stick and forcing his way up. He burst through and turned to face the crowd.

“Get back to work, you . . .” he roared. “Get back, if a mother’s son of you stays another minute, I’ll—”

What he was going to add was drowned in another roar but it was caused by a different crowd, coming down Jupe Street—and, in the van, Rollison saw Billy the Bull and Bill Ebbutt. The members of the gymnasium club were coming in a solid phalanx, pushing everyone before them. Soon, the malice of the crowd was turned towards them.

By now the police had been reinforced and were appearing along side streets and from the wharf. Rollison, gasping for breath, watched the riot subside as the men began to slip away, many returning to the wharf. Owen chased after them, yelling his head off.

Rollison turned to Isobel.

“There’s your mild little man,” he remarked.

Isobel laughed, in spite of herself. Her face was scratched and a few strands of hair had been torn out but she was not seriously hurt. Jolly had an ugly gash in his right cheek and his wrists were swollen but he was smiling as he watched the crowd moving away.

“I was getting a little perturbed, sir,” he admitted.

“I was scared stiff!” said Rollison. “I bet Kemp will be sorry he missed this one. He’s in the clear, by the way.”

Isobel stared.

'By the way!” she echoed.

“Well, in a manner of speaking,” smiled Rollison. “He’ll be out within an hour, I should think. Eh, Bill?”

“Yes,” said Grice. “Why on earth did this begin?”

“As I understand it, sir,” said Jolly, “there was a sudden outburst of trouble at the wharf. A party of Irish were abused by some of the others and that started a free fight. It spread very quickly—the Irish have a reputation for being bellicose, as you probably know.”

Grice frowned. “The Irish—”

“Oh, let’s blame the Irish, by all means!” said Rollison, taking out cigarettes and proffering them. “But let’s be serious, Bill. The fact that a police cordon had been flung round a wide area leaked out—as it was bound to. Craik and the others tried a diversion. There’s bad blood between some Irish dockers and some English and it never takes much to start a fight, as Isobel and I saw the other evening,” he added.

“There are often scuffles,” admitted Isobel.

“Yes. The easiest way to start a row is for an Englishman to call an Irishman in England a neutral,” went on Rollison. “Our pretty bunch had always tried to draw attention to the wharf and the Irish workers. Today, they had a new idea and tried to cause trouble for Isobel. However, the distraction didn’t work, we went to Craik too quickly.

“Craik!” exclaimed Isobel.