“Listen,” he cried. “I don’t agree with the Revolutionary Organization, but the man that killed McPhillip … no … no, no … I mean the man … can’t ye let me speak? … I mean the farmer that McPhillip killed, he was an agent of the capitalist class. Then it follows logically that he was an enemy of the working class. McPhillip was an agent of the working class. He was justified in killing the man. That’s the matter treated logically and brought to a logical conclusion. Everything must be approached logically. Listen. Taking the question from a wider standpoint we can get a broader judgment that will fit all cases of the kind that may arise”—he raised his voice to a scream to drown the noise of a scuffle at the door—“in the near future. We are at the base of a world revolutionary wave. According as that wave advances and gathers strength the whole process of capitalist society will crumble up. Then there will be a gradual increase in the number of these skirmishes, as it were on the …”
His voice was drowned suddenly by a big man who began to swing his arms about his head uttering a fearful torrent of oaths. He was drunk. Then Lydon shouted:
“Murder is murder, I say. Murder is always murder and the gospel of Our Lord Jesus Christ says—”
“There must be no mercy,” yelled a little man with a black moustache, who rushed into a corner where he had room to prance about. “There must be no mercy. To hell with everybody. That right, boys? Wha’?”
“What are ye talkin’ about?” cried Gypo, suddenly turning about.
Silence fell immediately. Everybody looked at him. His face was perspiring. He rubbed his hands on his chest. He curled up his lips. He gave his little hat a slight push towards the back of his head.
Then he was seized by another fit of strange humour. He yelled once more and staggered towards the crowd, with his arms hanging loose, pretending to be dead drunk. They fell away from him in amazement. He stood in the middle of the room and looked about him.
“What ye talkin’ about?” he drawled ponderously, swaying backwards and forwards.
He glared from face to face, but each pair of eyes was turned away as he sought them. He was delighted with the terror he caused. Behind the counter the Italian, still smiling, had grasped a large knife and stood perfectly still. The girl was crouching on the floor. Then Gypo broke into a loud laugh, stuck his hands in his trousers pockets and strolled towards the door.
He hesitated for a moment outside the door. Then he headed straight across the road. They all ran to the door to look after him. His huge long frame, clad in blue dungarees that clung to his thighs, shone in the light of the lamps as he crossed the wide road, one foot advancing past the other slowly, the trousers brushing with the sound of hay being cut with a scythe. Then the figure left the area of light and grew dim as he gained the pavement at the far side, and turned to the left under the shadow of an abrupt tall house. Then he fell away into the night.
Presently a lean slouching figure crept across the street in pursuit. He also disappeared under the shadow of the abrupt house. Nobody noticed him. It was Mulholland tracking Gypo.
IX
Around the corner Gypo halted. He put his hand against the wall behind him and stood motionless, with his head turned back, listening. He had heard a step following him. But the steps halted also. He listened for several seconds breathlessly and heard nothing further. Then he snorted and turned his head slowly to his front. He looked ahead into the darkness, dreamily. He stood perfectly still.
Then his face broke slowly into a sort of smile and his eyes grew dim. He trembled slightly. He glanced about him sharply and furtively several times. There was a strange, almost mysterious “significance” in his movements, slight, sudden, furtive movements.
Then he stared steadily down along the dark, narrow street that stretched ahead of him, ending at the far end in a high wall, with a dim lamp at one corner suggesting that another street branched off it to the left. He winked his right eye at the lamp and a roguish expression creased his face as he did so.
“Why not,” he muttered aloud. “Why shouldn’t I go an’ have a bit o’ fun? Wha’? A few bob on the women an’ a few drinks to keep me supper warm.”
A wave of passion surged through his body. He was on the point of opening his mouth to utter a yell, but instead he thrust his hand into his trousers pocket anxiously and groped for his wad of money. He found it. He sighed easily.
“They might have pinched it,” he muttered with a look of gravity in his little eyes. “That mob around there are a lot o’ wasters. Ye couldn’t trust yer shirt with ’em on a winter’s night. They’d take the charley from under a pope’s bed. Terrible lot o’ criminals around lately.”
Then his face lit up with eagerness as his mind swerved back again to the contemplation of that lamp at the far end … and where that street led. He swallowed his breath with a loud noise and
