Chapter I

Down Lupus Street there is a little pub,
And there there worked a little bright-haired maiden,
Mornings the furniture she had to scrub,
Evenings she’d walk about with pewters laden;
But still she sang as did the birds in Eden:
In fact you would have said that there was no
More cheerful barmaid in all Pimlico.

She had eleven brothers and a sister,
A mother who had rheumatism bad,
And when she left o’ mornings how they missed her,
And when she stayed o’ Sundays weren’t they glad;
No other help or maintenance they had,
So that their mother often said, “God pink ’em,
Lucky for them Flo makes a decent income.”

“If ’t wasn’t for Flo’s fifteen bob a week,
Me and them brats would not know where to turn,
For some of ’em ain’t old enough to speak,
And none of ’em ain’t old enough to earn,
And as for ’er bright merry japes, why, durn
My bleedin’ eyes, if we’d no Flo to quirk us,
I’m sure we’d soon be droopin’ in the workus.”

“It’s only Flo’s ’igh spirits keeps me goin’,
The way she sings ‘My Pansy,’ it’s a treat,
And also ‘All a-blowin’ and a-growin’,’
Our Flo is fair top-’ole, she can’t be beat.
So give three cheers for Flo, it’s time to eat;
Mary, you just run out and fetch some jam,
And Bill, take down the pickles and the ham.”

So the years passed, so Florence earned the money,
And all the throng were happy as could be,
No air could blench or stain her cheeks so bonny,
No labour weigh upon her heart so free,
She was, in short, as chirpy as could be;
Until at last came Fate in Fate’s own time,
And ravelled her in the dark nets of crime.

Crime is the foulest blot on our escutcheon,
Crime draws mankind as the moon draws the tides,
Crime is a thing I’m rather prone to touch on,
Crime is a clanking chain that grins and grides,
A lure, a snare, and other things besides;
If crime should cease, I should not then be able
To furnish Austin with my monthly fable.

One foggy night it happened there were drinking
Within the bar a crowd of all the boys,
’Erb Gupps and Nixey Snell and Snouty Jinkin,
And Noakes with several friends from Theydon Bois
Visiting Pimlico; they made a noise
With call for booze and anecdote and curse,
And as the night wore on the row got worse.

“Wot sher,” “Wot ho,” “I don’t fink,” “Blast yer eyes,”
“That was a good ’un,” “Cheese it,” “’Arf a mo,”
“Ten pints of ’arf an’ ’arf,” “There ain’t no flies
On Nixey,” “Your’re a ---- welsher, Joe,”
“A quartern more, miss,” “---- lie,” and so
They kept it up with rapid thrust and answer,
In phrases neatly measured for a stanza.

Even when they yelled and fought, Flo did not mind,
She did not mind, for she was used to this,
Even when to sottish amorousness inclined
They called her “Floss,” or “Flo,” instead of “Miss”;
But when at last drunk Snouty snatched a kiss,
She felt her cheek flame with a flaming flame,
She felt her heart scorch with a hell of shame.

All the air howls when storms scourge the Atlantic,
All the wide forest shakes when falls the boar,
A wounded whale is often very frantic,
And jealous lions have been known to roar
Almost as loud as breakers on the shore;
But all these are tranquillity and rest
Compared with what went on in Florrie’s breast.

Red in her soul shame set its blazing seal,
Black in her heart strong hate swirled round in torrents,
Blue in her eyes the lightning shone like steel,
White on her lips rage mingled with abhorrence;
Against a barrel’s back leaned Barmaid Florence,
Watching with grinding teeth and eyeballs rolling,
Drunk Snouty who was belching forth “Tom Bowling.”

There while the boozers rocked in song obscene,
She stood like a tall statue marble-still,
And first she moaned, “I am smirched, I am no more clean,”
And then she rasped, “By God, but I will kill
That lousy stinkard, yes, by God I will.”
Fate flung the dice of Doom, her buckler buckled;
Life shrank, grew pale; Death rubbed his chin and chuckled.

So it draws on to closing-time; men go
By twos and threes; Flo washes pots and glasses,
Ranging them on the shelves in their degrees,
Wipes the wet counter dry, turns down the gasses;
And, locking up the doors, the portal passes,
Grasping with fervour of a frenzied bigot
Inside her muff a mallet and a spigot.

There Snouty was, fumbling his way along
Towards the bridge, blind-tight, alone and grunting,
And as he lurched he sang a maudlin song,
A foolish song beginning, “Baby Bunting,
For rabbit-skins your father’s gone a-hunting,”
And as Flo heard the melody undroughty,
She whispered, “Cripes, _I’ll_ bunt you, Mr. Snouty!”

So they went on, he foremost, she behind,
Until they got to the Embankment wall;
He leant against it; swifter than the wind
She smashed her wedge into his head, and all
His brains spattered the stones in pieces small.
“My kiss,” she hissed; then with a sudden shiver
Fled, tipping tools and Snouty in the river.

And like a fleet slim panther she did fly
Through the webbed streets of silent Pimlico,
Faithful the white stars glimmered in the sky,
Over the Lambeth bank the moon hung low,
A great round golden moon as white as snow.
Death cursed; Life smiled and murmured, “She will live,
The police will fail to track the fugitive.”

And the high stars looked down and saw her enter
The doorway of her home in the dark street,
Happy to think the cops would never scent her,
Proud for the godlike swiftness of her feet.
Cheek to her pillow cried she: “Yes, ’twas sweet.”
But God behind God’s curtain cogitated
About another end, and all things waited.