Chapter the Fifth of Part the First
In which the narrative recounts acts from the life of Mark Streeter in Assid City, Hooglaan.
Mark made a furtive dash to the large building at the corner and stopped there. He snaked his face around the building just enough to see who was walking along the train tracks in front of the central train station. Everybody was rushing from the train to work or to a shopping place or to another train car. They all looked too busy to listen to a boy sing for his breakfast. So far, it had been a discouraging morning for Mark. His battered felt hat held very few coins to show for his efforts. But when a small group of women and a couple of men in business waist coats came within earshot Mark decided to try them. He made sure that no guards were close by, then popped out in front of the people singing:
Have you ever seen a ducky
With its tail cut loose?
Have you ever seen a lamby
Ride a raving moose?
No luck. The song charmed neither the ladies nor the men. The men yelled for the guards and Mark darted back into the sea of decaying houses that the grand buildings along the train tracks hid from view. Mark began to fear he would have to fall back on his other money making talent: picking pockets, but he was wary of taking chances that could result in trouble with the guards. Singing was dangerous enough and Mark never tried to pick a pocket while singing for fear that he would only increase his chances of being arrested and sent to work in a factory from which he would never emerge alive. Even Tormo Redhand, who Mark though was uncatchable, was caught nonetheless and was presumably slaving away at the iron works or something worse. Mark didn’t miss Tormo much, since Tormo had taken far more than his share of the money Mark earned by singing or stealing, a privilege claimed by the bigger and stronger children in what was called the city’s “cesspool.” With Tormo gone, other older children fought over who had the right to Mark’s earnings and Mark just slipped away while they fought. Mark himself was old enough to do the same thing to children younger still, but he found that if he shared his own earnings generously with younger children, they would stick to him and not to other bullies, and they shared with Mark what they themselves gained from snatching apples from fruit stalls, swiping handkerchiefs from men rushing to their offices, or singing lustily with Mark on a street corner.
Mark worked his way through the footpaths between wrecked buildings while plotting his next move, Here, there were only a few train tracks for those who wanted to go through the cesspool of Assid City to the factories. Only train cars filled with guards looking for boys like Mark ever stopped there. Every time Mark returned to the streets in the cesspool after singing or stealing in front of the fancy buildings, the stench of his own neighborhood hit him harder than usual. Both the grand buildings on Chancellor’s Avenue and the factories on the other side of the Cesspool poured sewage and waste into that part of town where nobody had the power to protest. Corpses of children and the few older people who escaped arrest only to drink themselves to death or get themselves knifed were piled in mounds here and there and left to rot and be eaten by wild dogs. Mark passed by the deserted warehouse where “his” two boys, Timmon and Guerry, were hiding and hoping for some breakfast. Mark did not look in their direction as he did not want to draw attention to them. As it was, two older girls and a boy spotted Mark and Mark had to run and throw them off.
Mark gradually worked his way back to Chancellor’s Avenue with its important buildings and train tracks criss-crossing in all directions. He saw two guards carrying muskets over their shoulders distance away. Mark did not like to sing when the guards were around, but he also saw a well-dressed woman come by who might be worth a try. He stepped out at a respectful distance and dropped his cap with its few coins onto the sidewalk. The woman slowed down and looked down into the cap. Just then, a train car stopped nearby and a gentleman with a gold watch chain connecting his pocket to his vest stepped out. Mark did not like the way the man looked at him and he was torn between getting trying to get a penny or two out of this woman by singing for her or running away from the gentleman. The urge to sing for a penny was too great and so he sang his song to the woman.
“You sing very well for a boy living on the street,” said the woman.
“Thanks for the saying it,” said Mark as he nodded down towards the cap.
The woman took the hint and dropped a three penny coin in the cap. That was almost enough to feed the little ones, Mark thought to himself. The man in the waistcoat came nearer to Mark and gave him a closer look than Mark liked.
“You should sing more often,” said the woman.
“I will if people drop pennies in my cap.”
“Perhaps I can give you better than a few pennies some day,” said the woman.
Mark was about to ask the woman what she could give that was better than a few pennies when the man stepped right up to him.
“Would you like to hear a song, sir?” Mark asked him uneasily.
“Guards! Guards!” yelled the man in reply.
Mark tried to run, but the man already had him caught in a tight grip. Using one of his many escape tricks, Mark slipped free, but the guards were already on top of him. Leaving the cap and the few coins behind, Mark ran as fast as he could but he did not have enough of a head start.
“Stop or we’ll shoot!” cried one of the arms men.
Mark knew the threat was not a bluff. Since he was too far from any shelter from their bullets, he decided to stop. One of the guards grabbed him roughly and snapped a pair of handcuffs on him.
“I didn’t take anything,” Mark protested.
The other guard frisked Mark and found nothing but the rags, skin and bones Mark knew was all he would find. All this time, the woman who had listened to him sing stood by, but showed no sign that she was about to take his part.
“Nothing on him,” said the arms man.
“That boy stole my watch two days ago!” charged the man as he caught up with the arms men. “I’d know him anywhere.”
“Are you willing to say that to the judge?” asked the arms man.
“You bet your last fish hook I am,” said the man. “The watch he stole was handed down in my family for eight generations. I demand that you take him in. His singing on the street corner is just a front for old-fashioned thievery.”
“I sing on this corner a lot,” said Mark. “I sing on other corners around town. You probably saw me singing.”
“Are you sure I didn’t see you reaching into my pockets?” asked the man.
Mark had a good memory for his victims and he didn’t remember robbing this man, but he could hardly be sure of that. Noting the gold chain on the man’s vest, Mark wished he had taken it.
“I’m sure I was too busy singing to pick your pocket,” said Mark, putting on his innocent act.
“Guards!” said the woman Mark sang to. “This boy is indeed guilty of singing on the street corner. I insist that he be charged and convicted of that offense.”
Mark gave the woman a bewildered look, not knowing what to think of her.
“Are you willing to tell that to the judge?” asked the guard.
“Yes, I am indeed willing to tell that to the judge.
“Surely, stealing a gold watch is a more serious offense than singing on the streets!” insisted the man.
“Surely singing on the streets is a more significant charge,” the woman rejoined.
“Who are you to say that your charge is more significant than mine?”
“I am Renssa Reader, assistant to and intellectual associate of the Venerable Nemor Gray.”
“Well, I am the Illustrious Vincent Metterling. That is a higher rank than a Venerable.”
“That will be for the judge to decide at this boy’s trial,” said Renssa Reader.
And so Mark was hauled over to the nearest police train car and thrown in for a ride to the municipal building.
“One more city rat down,” sneered a man who saw the arrest, “ several hundred to go.”
After a miserable time in a tiny jail cell that lasted longer than Mark would have liked, Mark was taken down to the judge’s chamber. The judge, wearing his purple robe of honor, was wearily listening to a shouting match between the Illustrious Vincent Metterling and a bearded man who wore a large golden medal on his chest. With Renssa Reader sitting nearby, Mark assumed that the bearded man was the Venerable Nemor Gray. As Mark was left to stand, still handcuffed, while each man argued that his charge was prior to the other, Mark began to fear that his fate might be decided before he himself was even questioned. Suddenly the judge noticed Mark standing between the two guards and he pounded his desk with a wooden hammer.
“Bring the boy forth,” he demanded.
Mark was thrown at the judge’s bench, hard enough to bruise his thigh.
What is your name?” asked the judge.
“Mark.”
“Say ‘Mark, your fairness,’” prompted a clerk who was writing everything down at the judge’s side.
“I’m Mark, your fairness.”
“Is that your only name?”
“Yea.”
“Say ‘yes, your fairness,’” the clerk reminded him.
“Yes, your fairness.”
“Have you no family name?”
“I’ve got no family, unless kids who take my bread from me count as family. I’m a streeter.”
“Hmm. Then Mark Streeter it is,” said the judge. “You are charged with singing on the street. Do you accept this charge?”
“Uh—accept it? I was singing this morning. I’m always singing for pennies. How else am I supposed to get any bread? I don’t think I should be punished for that.”
The judge pounded his hammer.
“I am the one who decides what you should be punished for. That is the Law.”
“Address the judge as ‘your fairness,’” the clerk reminded Mark.
“Well, yes, your fairness. I was singing on the street this morning. What are you going to do about it?”
“I sentence you to the discretion of the Venerable Nemor Gray. The case is final.”
“You can’t do that!” yelled the Illustrious Vincent Metterling. “Just look at him! You can see for yourself that he’s a common street rat, the sort we need to pull off the street and into throw productive jobs. Surely his theft of my golden watch that was handed down in my family for eight generations is of greater significance than his singing on the street! I respectfully demand that this pick-pocket be sentenced to my factory in reparation of the watch he stole from me!”
The judge pounded his hammer.
“I said, the case is final.”
“Address the judge as ‘your fairness,’” the clerk reminded the Illustrious Vincent Metterling.
“You won’t get away with this!” the Illustrious Vincent Metterling yelled. “You—!”
The judge pounded his desk once more.
“Guards, escort the Illustrious Vincent Metterling from the court.”
As two guards came forward, the Illustrious Vincent Metterling shook his fist silently at the Venerable Nemor Gray and stalked out of the court.
Mark Streeter, as he was now styled, wanted to know what it meant to be sentenced to the discretion of the Venerable Nemor Gray, but nobody seemed about to tell him anything. Mark could only assume, and hope, that being sentenced to work in a factory owned by the Illustrious Vincent Metterling would be worse than anything the Venerable Nemor Gray would do to him. While the judge signed some papers for the Venerable Nemor Gray, Renssa Reader ordered the guards to release Mark from the handcuffs. That was a good sign.
Later in the day, Mark was sitting in a padded seat on a train car with Renssa Reader and the Venerable Nemor Gray sitting opposite him. Instead of the rags that Renssa had ordered him to take off, he was wearing a loose-fitting garment that Renssa made him put on in a tiny room. He swallowed the second sandwich that Renssa Reader had just given him and washed it down with a liquid that was sweet and pleasant. Mark had never eaten so well in his life. He thought this, too, was a good sign.
“Mark,” said Renssa Reader. “I wish to ask you a few questions that will help us decide what to do with our discretion.”
“What’s that?”
“Oh, your being sentenced to my discretion means that I have to decide what to do with you,” said the Venerable Nemor Gray.
Mark was not sure that he liked that, but he didn’t have much choice. He figured that if things took a sudden turn for the worse, he could jump the train, since he was no longer handcuffed.
“Mark,” said Renssa Reader, “if you steal five apples from a fruit stand—“
“I wasn’t charged with stealing five apples!”
“Mark, the question is: if you steal five apples from a fruit stand, and a bigger boy or girl takes two of those apples away from you, how many apples do you have left?”
“Don’t you know?”
“Yes, I know the answer,” said the woman. “I want to know if you know the answer.”
“If a bigger bloodhead takes two apples, that leaves three, but I’ve got little boys to take care of—or I did until now—so I let them split two apples, and that leaves one for me.”
“Hmm. That is a good and interesting answer. Now, suppose you are hungry and you see a loaf of bread in the window of a bakery, and you decide to steal the bread. You break the window with a heavy stick and reach for the bread, but at that point the baker jumps out at you. Do you kill the baker with the stick, or just run away with the bread?”
“I run away—with the bread.”
“Why?”
“If I kill the baker, he won’t bake any more bread for me to steal when I’m hungry. So, I’m better off running away and not killing the baker.”
Both Renssa Reader and the Venerable Nemor Gray raised their eyebrows.
“That is an interesting answer,” said Renssa Reader. “You seem to know what side your potato is fried on.”
“I don’t get potatoes much,” said Mark.
Renssa Reader winced.
“Will you please sing a song for the Venerable Nemor Gray and me?”
Mark was tempted to sing “Three Drunkards Barfing” but decided his interests were better served by singing the song he sang that morning for Renssa Reader, and so he sang it. The two listeners looked at each other and nodded.
“Mark Streeter,” said the Venerable Nemor Gray. “We will feed you many potatoes fried on both sides and much else besides if you are willing to sing in a boys choir that a friend of mine has started.”
“What’s a choir?”
“It’s a group of people who sing,” Renssa explained. “This is a group of boys who sing and you will be one of them. Unless you would rather be sentenced to the discretion of the Illustrious Vincent Metterling.”
“Is that going to be your dis—your dis—“
“Yes, that is my discretion,” said the Venerable Nemor Gray.
Mark sat quietly for a bit. The train car was speeding past houses that were like nothing Mark had ever seen before as he had never ventured that far from the Cesspool of Assid City. He tried to imagine what it would be like to spend the day singing. Mark had a feeling there was going to be more to that than singing about little duckies or drunkards drowning in their vomit. He also began to think about Guerry and Timmon. The Venerable Nemor Gray seemed to be thinking about something as well.
“Did you say there were two boys you were taking care of?” asked the Venerable Nemor Gray.
“Yea. I guess other older kids will take care of them—if you know what I mean.”
“I’m afraid I do know what you mean. Do you want to have them come with you?”
“Uh—er—well—uh—I don’t want to make you do any more dis—discretion than you want to,” Mark stammered. “But I think I can make them sing if you want them to and—uh—I’d feel better about them if you used your dis—discretion with them.”
The Venerable Nemor Gray smiled sadly.
“I think I can exercise a little more discretion today.”
Proceed to Chapter the Sixth of Part the First