1938-09-02 — Page 12

THE CHINA

FRIDAY

MENT, SEPTEMBER 2, 1988

In Whitechapel I Found

AN INTELLECTUAL POLICEMAN

Whitechapel found an intellectual policeman He was standing in Petticoat Lane, gazing around him with a drowsy nonchalance. He looked like a man who had dined very well and was, half-asleep in the warm afternoon sunshine.

When I asked him to direct me: to Petticoat Lane he lazily, indi- cated his feet, and said in a very cultured tone: "Right here, old boy."

I don't know whether he came from Oxford or Cambridge, but he bore the unmistakable Univer- sity stamp. He was refined and charming and loquacious,

He soliloquised on life and hu̟- manity, and on Whitechapel in particular.

"This is a colourful neighbour hood," he told me, meditatively, "and I often feel quite an author as I stand here and analyse all the different characters and types. Most of them I know by sight, and quite a few stop for a chat every day.

"I'd like you to see old Fagin, as I call him. He's supposed to be a tailor, but actually I've got a shrewd suspicion that he is a 'fence.' He's always got a num- ber of shady-looking fellows hanging around his shop, and I'm pretty sure that he sends them out on errands.”

The intellectual policeman told me to come around on Sunday when the East End turns out in morning its full glory for the market in Petticoat Lane.

"There is nothing to see here during the week," he said, "but. if you come along on a Sunday morning you'll find all the flot- sam and jetsam of humanity,”

I looked down the famous lane. It was deserted except for a few grubby urchins who were whis- tling some popular hit and play- ing about on roller skates. One of them came up to me. "He was small and pale and across his cheery, mischievous face there was a large black smudge. His hair, long and thick, peeped out from beneath his cap. He look- ed the perfect Puck.

"What about going down to Wapping this afternoon," my "and friend in blue suggested, y

and looking around the docks warehouses. There's always something of interest there." Then, as a sudden thought occur- red to him: "You've read W. W. Jacobs? Well, if you look hard enough you'll find his Russett and his Small, and you'll be able to have a chat with the night- watchman. You'll find him in the old Prospect of Whitby at this hour."

*.

When I reached Wapping, went to one of the sailor's river- side lodging-houses. I ruffled my hair, pulled off my tie and let a lips. cigarette dangle from my Then, assuming a tough expres- sion, I slouched against the door- way and knocked loudly.

་

Pall-bearers bring one of the victims of the tragic C.N.A.C. dis- aster ashore. ("Mail", photo).

A small child opened the door. She looked at me with awe.

"Is your Dad home, Girlie?" I asked her. She answered with a giggle, "Coo, if yer ain't a toff.". She went back into the house and I heard her saying, "Pa, there's a bloke 'ere what looks like an up- per."

After a few minutes she came back. Smiling now, in a shy, friendly way, she clutched my hand. "Say, Mister," she said eagerly, "Pa says I'm to show yer the rooms.

The room was small, dark, nar- row and neglected.

"Pa threw out a bloke from 'ere last week," she said, with apparent nonchalance, as if to explain the unmade bed. As I stood there, surveying this scene of utter desolation, a fat rat scur- ried across the room.

The rat looked sleek and well- fed. The child looked starved. She was consumptive. Her round, bony shoulders stuck through her thread-bare frock, and looked as though they might crack if you touched them, so brittle were they. She was an example of what slum-living can do to a hu- man being..

I felt like taking her out into the bright sunshine and pumping her pitiful young, lungs full of clean, fresh air.

HENNESSY

COGNAC BRANDY

HENNESSY AND SODA

លោ

TRY IT TO-DAY.

NNESSY