A CHILD OF THE JAGO
pence set aside to back a horse for Tuesday's race. A little-regarded fight or two went on here and there as usual, and on kerbs and doorsteps sat women, hideous at all ages, filling the air with the rhetoric of the Jago.
Presently down from Edge Lane and the "Posties" came the High Mobsmen, swaggering in check suits and billycocks, gold chains and lumpy rings: stared at, envied, and here and there pointed out by name or exploit: "Him as done the sparks in from Regent Street for nine centuries o' quids"; "him as done five stretch for a snide bank bill an' they never found the 'oof"; "him as maced the bookies in France an' shot the nark in the boat"; and so forth. And the High Mob being come, the fight was due.
Of course, a fight merely as a fight was no great matter of interest; the thing was too common. But there was money on this; and again, it was no common thing to
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