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The Record of Badalia Herodsfoot
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bund laundress, or scheming for further mission-grants to re-sole a
consumptive compositor's very consumptive boots. There was a
rector that lived in dread of pauperizing the poor, would fain have
held bazaars for fresh altar-cloths, and prayed in secret for a large
new brass bird, with eyes of red glass, fondly believed to be car-
buncles. There was Brother Victor, of the Order of Little Ease, who
knew a great deal about altar-cloths but kept his knowledge in the
background while he strove to propitiate Mrs Jessel, the Secretary
of the Tea Cup Board, who had money to dispense but hated Rome
- even though Rome would, on its honour, do no more than fill the
stomach, leaving the dazed soul to the mercies of Mrs Jessel. There
were all the Little Sisters of the Red Diamond, daughters of the
horseleech, crying 'Give' when their own charity was exhausted,
and pitifully explaining to such as demanded an account of their
disbursements in return for one half-sovereign, that relief work in
a bad district can hardly be systematized on the accounts' side
without expensive duplication of staff. There was the Reverend
Eustace Hanna, who worked impartially with Ladies' Committees,
Androgynous Leagues and Guilds, Brother Victor, and anybody
else who could give him money, boots, or blankets, or that more
precious help that allows itself to be directed by those who know.
And all these people learned, one by one, to consult Badalia on
matters of personal character, right to relief, and hope of eventual
reformation in Gunnison Street. Her answers were seldom cheer-
ing, but she possessed special knowledge and complete confidence
in herself.
'I'm Gunnison Street,' she said to the austere Mrs Jessel. i know
what's what, I do, an' they don't want your religion, Mum, not a
single . Excuse me. It's all right when they comes to die, Mum,
but till they die what they wants is things to eat. The men they'll
shif' for themselves. That's why Nick Lapworth sez to you that 'e
wants to be confirmed an' all that. 'E won't never lead no new life,
nor 'is wife won't get no good out o' all the money you gives 'im.
No more you can't pauperize them as 'asn't things to begin with.
They're bloomin' well pauped. The women they can't shif for
themselves - 'specially bein' always confined. 'Ow should they?
They wants things if they can get 'em anyways. If not they dies,
and a good job too, for women is cruel put upon in Gunnison
Street.'
'Do you believe that - that Mrs Herodsfoot is altogether a
150
Rudyard Kipling
proper person to trust funds to?' said Mrs Jessel to the curate after
this conversation. 'She seems to be utterly godless in her speech at
least.'
The curate agreed. She was godless according to Mrs Jessel's
views, but did not Mrs Jessel think that since Badalia knew Gun-
nison Street and its needs, as none other knew it, she might in a
humble way be, as it were, the scullion of charity from purer
sources, and that if, say, the Tea Cup Board could give a few shill-
ings a week, and the Little Sisters of the Red Diamond a few more,
and, yes, he himself could raise yet a few more, the total, not at all
likely to be excessive, might be handed over to Badalia to dispense
among her associates. Thus Mrs Jessel herself would be set free to
attend more directly to the spiritual wants of certain large-limbed
hulking men who sat picturesquely on the lower benches of her
gatherings and sought for truth — which is quite as precious as sil-
ver, when you know the market for it.
'She'll favour her own friends,' said Mrs Jessel. The curate re-
frained from mirth, and, after wise flattery, carried his point. To
her unbounded pride Badalia was appointed the dispenser of a
grant — a weekly trust, to be held for the benefit of Gunnison Street.
'I don't know what we can get together each week,' said the
curate to her. 'But here are seventeen shillings to start with. You
do what you like with them among your people, only let me
know how it goes so that we shan't get muddled in the accounts.
D'you see?'
'Ho yuss! 'Taint much though, is it?' said Badalia, regarding the
white coins in her palm. The sacred fever of the administrator, only
known to those who have tasted power, burned in her veins. 'Boots
is boots, unless they're give you, an' then they ain't fit to wear
unless they're mended top an' bottom; an' jellies is jellies; an' I
don't think anything o' that cheap pork-wine, but it all comes to
something. It'll go quicker 'n a quartern of gin — seventeen bob.
An' I'll keep a book - same as I used to do before Tom went an'
took up 'long o' that pan-faced slut in Hennessy's Rents. We was
the only barrer that kep' regular books, me an' - 'im.'
She bought a large copy-book - her unschooled handwriting de-
manded room — and in it she wrote the story of her war; boldly, as
befits a general, and for no other eyes than her own and those of
the Reverend Eustace Hanna. Long ere the pages were full the mot-
tled cover had been soaked in kerosene - Lascar Loo's mother, de-
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