Mr Kean owned about half the cottages in Saltbank Row, and the rent of each was two shillings a week, but when he reached the end of the Row all he had in the back section of his leather bag was twenty-five shillings and sixpence.
It was just turned twelve o’clock when he reached the main street and joined the stream of men pouring out of Palmer’s and the various side streets which led to different yards on the river. They were like streams of black lava joining the main flow, faces grey, froth-specked with their sweat. He was carried along in the throng until he reached the church bank gain by which time the blackness had dwindled into idividual pockets of men www.onlinecasinosvizzera.com/software/microgaming/.
He reckoned he should be back at the office by one o’clock. He never carried a watch, not on his rounds, because it could be nicked in the time he blinked an eyelid. A gang of lads supposedly playing Tiggy could rough you up. He had seen it done. But he told himself as he paused for a moment on the Don bridge and looked down at the narrow mud-walled banks of the river that there was no immediate hurry today, for old Kean was off on one of his duty trips to Hexham to see his old father. When this happened the day’s takings were locked up until Monday. Saturdays takings didn’t amount to very much, not on his part anyway. John George took more, for he did the Tyne Dock area and the better part of Stanhope Road.
He was getting a bit worried about John George. There was something on his mind; he supposed it was that damned ranter’s lass he had taken up with. Only last night he had told him to think hard about this business, for being her father’s daughter, she might turn out to be a chip off the old block and be ‘God-mad’ like the rest of them.