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The Record of Badalia Herodsfoot 161
piece, drew thence four shillings and threepence - the lawful earn-
ings of her trade - and held them out to the man who was rocking
in his chair and surveying the room with wide-opened rolling eyes.
'That ain't five poun',' said he drowsily.
'I ain't got no more. Take it an' go — if you won't stay.'
Tom rose slowly, gripping the arms of the chair. 'Wot about the
curick's money that 'e guv you?' said he. 'Lascar Loo's mother told
me. You give it over to me now, or I'll make you.'
'Lascar Loo's mother don't know anything about it.'
'She do, an' more than you want her to know.'
'She don't. I've bumped the 'eart out of 'er, and I can't give you
the money. Anythin' else but that, Tom, an' everythin' else but that,
Tom, I'll give willin' and true. 'Taint my money. Won't the dollar
be enough? That money's my trust. There's a book along of it too.'
'Your trust? Wot are you doin' with any trust that your 'usband
don't know of? You an' your trust! Take you that!'
Tom stepped towards her and delivered a blow of the clenched
fist across the mouth. 'Give me wot you've got,' said he, in the thick
abstracted voice of one talking in dreams.
'I won't,' said Badalia, staggering to the washstand. With any
other man than her husband she would have fought savagely as a
wild cat; but Tom had been absent two years, and, perhaps, a little
timely submission would win him back to her. None the less, the
weekly trust was sacred.
The wave that had so long held back descended on Tom's brain.
He caught Badalia by the throat and forced her to her knees. It
seemed just to him in that hour to punish an erring wife for two
years of wilful desertion; and the more, in that she had confessed
her guilt by refusing to give up the wage of sin.
Lascar Loo's mother waited on the pavement without for the
sounds of lamentation, but none came. Even if Tom had released
her gullet, Badalia would not have screamed.
'Give it up, you slut!' said Tom. 'Is that 'ow you pay me back for
all I've done?'
'I can't 'Tain't my money. Gawd forgive you, Tom, for wot
you're ,' the voice ceased as the grip tightened, and Tom
heaved Badalia against the bed. Her forehead struck the bedpost,
and she sank, half kneeling, on the floor. It was impossible for a
self-respecting man to refrain from kicking her: so Tom kicked with
the deadly intelligence born of whisky. The head drooped to the
162 Rudyard Kipling
floor, and Tom kicked at that till the crisp tingle of hair striking
through his nailed boot with the chill of cold water, warned him
that it might be as well to desist.
'Where's the curick's money, you kep' woman?' he whispered in
the blood-stained ear. But there was no answer - only a rattling at
the door, and the voice of Jenny Wabstow crying ferociously, 'Come
out o' that, Tom, an' come 'ome with me! An' you, Badalia, I'll tear
your face off its bones!'
Tom's friends had delivered their message, and Jenny, after the
first flood of passionate tears, rose up to follow Tom, and, if pos-
sible, to win him back. She was prepared even to endure an exem-
plary whacking for her performances in Hennessy's Rents. Lascar
Loo's mother guided her to the chamber of horrors, and chuckled
as she retired down the staircase. If Tom had not banged the soul
out of Badalia, there would at least be a royal fight between that
Badalia and Jenny. And Lascar Loo's mother knew well that Hell
has no fury like a woman fighting above the life that is quick
in her.
Still there was no sound audible in the street. Jenny swung back
the unbolted door, to discover her man stupidly regarding a heap
by the bed. An eminent murderer has remarked that if people did
not die so untidily, most men, and all women, would commit at
least one murder in their lives. Tom was reflecting on the present
untidiness, and the whisky was fighting with the clear current of
his thoughts.
'Don't make that noise,' he said. 'Come in quick.'
'My Gawd!' said Jenny, checking like a startled wild beast. 'Wot's
all this 'ere? You ain't — '
'Dunno. 'Spose I did it.'
'Did it! You done it a sight too well this time.'
'She was aggravatin',' said Tom thickly, dropping back into the
chair. 'That aggravatin' you'd never believe. Livin' on the fat o' the
land among these aristocratic parsons an' all. Look at them white
curtings on the bed.
We
ain't got no white curtings. What I want to
know is —' The voice died as Badalia's had died, but from a differ-
ent cause. The whisky was tightening its grip after the accom-
plished deed, and Tom's eyes were beginning to close. Badalia on
the floor breathed heavily.
'No, nor like to 'ave,' said Jenny. 'You've done for 'er this time.
You go!'
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