DERELICTS OF THE NIGHT

New Zealand Times, Volume L, Issue 11423, 20 January 1923, Page 12

DERELICTS OF THE NIGHT

SCENES AT A COFFEE STALL A WELLINGTON SKETCH. (By “8.C.R.” for the “Times.”) The wind whistles and whirls in lit* tie eddies of dust as it hurries along, and the street is practically deserted. A sickly moon slips by scudding clouds, and the night i 6 cold. A knot of men stand with coat collars upturned around a coffee stall, with both hands to their face grasping their food. Wild, unkempt looking men, with unshaved faces and tattered garments. A derelict poises with a saucer to his lips aud blows upon its placid surface. , “Yus,” he says, “it’s a blamed cold night, ’Erb, hut me for’t gtables ter’night.” The other spits viciously upon the pavement, and wipes his hand upon his sleeve. “I never could stick them stables,” he said, “but I’m wiv yer.” The other sets his saucer upon the counter, pulls out a stump of blackened cigarette, lights it, and the two saunter off. The keeper,of the stall wipes a cloth upon the coffee stained counter, plunges* the cups and saucers into a pail of water and sets them upon the ledge above his bead. A strange looking object looms out of the night, his two hands plunged deep into his trousers pockets. Ho lumbers up the rickety platform, and raises red glazed eyes to the proprietor. “Give us a cor fee, Boss,” he sniffles, and changes his hands from his pockets and beats them round his shoulders. “Pretty cold,” he remarks. The boss sets down the cup against the stranger. ‘"Tuppence,” he says. The stranger makes a futile effort to find the coins, but I toss them for him. “Nought ter eat?” the boss asks, but the stranger produces a hunk of bread from his pocket and munches it with zest, alternately varying the procedure with long noisy draughts of coffee. “Yer a pom, aint yer,” he asks as he lumbers up against me; “out of work?” “No, I missed the last tram.” He eyed me curiously. “1 ain’t worked fer nine years.” He spat at a scurrying leaf that was blowing past, and drew his coat higher round his shoulders. He looked it. “I ain’t never going to work,” ho continued; “only fools and horses work. So long.” He waves a knotted and l withered hand at me, and disappears in the night. “Yes, we gets 6ome queer birds here, ail right,” the boss says, reading my thoughts, as he picks up the cup and saucer, “and the later it gets, the queerer they are.” A youthful figure now looms into sight, whistling, with his hands dug into his pockets. He is a regular customer, and the boss knows.him. “Ow’s she going?” he asks, as he sets a pie and coffee before him. “No so bad,” the youth replies, as he digs into the pie. As he munches he eyes me up and down. He moves over to me and casts a furtive look round. Particles of food adhere to his mouth, and he mumbles, “Want to buy a ting, boss: it’s a good ’un, and worth fifty quid.” He dives a hand into his pocket and produces a ring that sparkles and renects the lights from the coffee stall. He hands it to me. “Only a quid, boss; it’s pinched.” He looks round cautiously, and the boss of the stall tips, me a wink. “Come on now, a -quid and it’s yovirn.” “No, I don’t want to buy,” and pass it back to him.

“Bet he ’asn’t got a bloomin’ quid, Ted,” he appeals to the coffee stall keeper, hut the latter shakes his head. “How many ’ave yer sold ter night?” he asks, “ ’E’s wise ter yorur brass rings.” He indicates me with a jerk of his thumb over his shoulder. “Two,” the youth replies, “one to a sailor and one to a swell.” He commenced to whistle the air of a musio hall tune, then—- “ How’s trade?” he asks, wishing to change the subject from this shop talk. “Pretty bad ter night,” the boss answers; "‘it’s too cold and they’re not coming out to-night.” A man in evning dress passes the coffee stall and strides with heavy tread down the street. “So long, Ted,” the youth calls out, as he slips away, and two feet in regular rhythm die faintly away until they stop in the distance. “He’s sellin’ ’im one,” the boss mutters, and he gathers up my plate and cup. and I step down from the platform. Overhead, the yellow moon is hidden by dark rolling clouds, and the wind blows in strong gusts, as I button up my coat tighter. A light shows through a crack in a door as I move down the street, and a hahy cries through the stillness of the night. I pass two figures in earnest conversation. “It’s a real ’un, boss,” I heat him say, as I hurry homeward.