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The Record of Badalia Herodsfoot 159
— on'y she's so cunning long about it. Me! I'll live for twenty years
yet.'
Badalia shook her, more on principle than in any hope of curing
her, and thrust her into the night, where she collapsed on the pave-
ment and called upon the devil to slay Badalia.
He came upon the word in the shape of a man with a very pale
face who asked for her by name. Lascar Loo's mother remembered.
It was Badalia's husband — and the return of a husband to Gunni-
son Street was generally followed by beatings.
'Where's my wife?' said Tom. 'Where's my slut of a wife?'
'Upstairs an' be to her,' said the old woman, falling over on
her side. ' 'Ave you come back for 'er, Tom?'
'Yes. 'Oo's she took up while I bin gone?'
'All the bloomin' curicks in the parish. She's that set up you
wouldn't know 'er.'
"Strewth she is!'
'Oh, yuss. Mor'n that, she's always round an' about with them
sniffin' Sisters of Charity an' the curick. Mor'n that, 'e gives 'er
money - pounds an' pounds a week. Been keepin' her that way for
months, 'e 'as. No wonder you wouldn't 'ave nothin' to do with 'er
when you left. An' she keeps me outer the foodstuff they gets for
me lyin' dyin' out 'ere like a dorg. She's been a blazin' bad un has
Badalia since you lef'.'
'Got the same room still, 'as she?' said Tom, striding over Lascar
Loo's mother, who was picking at the chinks between the pave-
stones.
'Yes, but so fine you wouldn't know it.'
Tom went up the stairs and the old lady chuckled. Tom was
angry. Badalia would not be able to bump people for some time
to come, or to interfere with the heaven-appointed distribution of
custards.
Badalia, undressing to go to bed, heard feet on the stair that she
knew well. Ere they stopped to kick at her door she had, in her
own fashion, thought over very many things.
'Tom's back,' she said to herself. 'An' I'm glad . . . spite o' the
curick an' everythink.'
She opened the door, crying his name.
The man pushed her aside.
'I don't want none o' your kissin's an' slaverin's. I'm sick of 'em,'
said he.
160
Rudyard Kipling
'You ain't 'ad so many neither to make you sick these two years
past.'
'I've 'ad better. Got any money?'
'On'y a little - orful little.'
'That's a lie, an' you know it.'
"Taint — and, oh Tom, what's the use o' talkin' money the minute
you come back? Didn't you like Jenny? I knowed you wouldn't.'
'Shut your 'ead. Ain't you got enough to make a man drunk
fair?'
'You don't want bein' made more drunk any. You're drunk
a'ready. You come to bed, Tom.'
'To you?'
'Ay, to me. Ain't I nothin' — spite o' Jenny?'
She put out her arms as she spoke. But the drink held Tom fast.
'Not for me,' said he, steadying himself against the wall. 'Don't
I know 'ow you've been goin' on while I was away, yah!'
'Arsk about!' said Badalia indignantly, drawing herself together.
"Oo sez anythink agin me 'ere?'
"Oo sez? W'y, everybody. I ain't come back more'n a minute fore
I finds you've been with the curick Gawd knows where. Wot curick
was 'e?'
'The curick that's 'ere always,' said Badalia hastily. She was
thinking of anything rather than the Rev. Eustace Hanna at that
moment. Tom sat down gravely in the only chair in the room. Ba-
dalia continued her arrangements for going to bed.
'Pretty thing that,' said Tom, 'to tell your own lawful married
'usband - an' I guv five bob for the weddin'-ring. Curick that's 'ere
always! Cool as brass you are. Ain't you got no shame? Ain't 'e
under the bed now?'
'Tom, you're bleedin' drunk. I ain't done nothin' to be 'shamed
of.'
'You! You don't know wot shame is. But I ain't come 'ere to mess
with you. Give me wot you've got, an' then I'll dress you down an'
go to Jenny.'
'I ain't got nothin' 'cept some coppers an' a shillin' or so.'
'Wot's that about the curick keepin' you on five poun' a week?'
"Oo told you that?'
'Lascar Loo's mother, lyin' on the pavemint outside, an' more
honest than you'll ever be. Give me wot you've got!'
Badalia passed over to a little shell pin-cushion on the mantel-
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