By Thomas Burke
IT is a tale of love and lovers that they tell in the low-litCauseway that slinks from West India Dock Road to the darkwaste of waters beyond. In Pennyfields， too， you may hearit； and I do not doubt that it is told in far-away Tai-Ping， inSingapore， in Tokio， in Shanghai， and those other gay-lampedhaunts of wonder whither the wandering people of Limehousego and whence they return so casually. It is a tale for tears， andshould you hear it in the lilied tongue of the yellow men， itwould awaken in you all your pity. In our bald speech it must，unhappily， lose its essential fragrance， that quality that willlift an affair of squalor into the loftier spheres of passion andimagination， beauty and sorrow. It will sound unconvincing，a little... you know... the kind of thing that is best forgotten.
Perhaps...
But listen.
It is Battling Burrows， the lightning welter-weight ofShadwell， the box o’ tricks， the Tetrarch of the ring， who entersfirst. Battling Burrows， the pride of Ratcliff， Poplar andLimehouse， and the despair of his manager and backers. For heloved wine， woman and song； and the boxing world held thathe couldn’t last long on that. There was any amount of moneyin him for his parasites if only the damned women could be cutout； but again and again would he disappear from his trainingquarters on the eve of a big fight， to consort with Molly andDolly， and to drink other things than barley-water and lemonjuice.
Wherefore Chuck Lightfoot， his manager， forced him to fighton any and every occasion while he was good and a moneymaker；for at any moment the collapse might come， and Chuckwould be called upon by his creditors to strip off that "shirt”
which at every contest he laid upon his man.
Battling was of a type that is too common in the easterndistricts of London； a type that upsets all accepted classifications.
He wouldn’t be classed. He was a curious mixture of athleticismand degeneracy. He could run like a deer， leap like a greyhound，fight like a machine， and drink like a suction-hose. He was abully； he had the courage of the high hero. He was an open-airsport； he had the vices of a french decadent.
It was one of his love adventures that properly begins thistale； for the girl had come to Battling one night with a recitalof terrible happenings， of an angered parent， of a slammeddoor.... In her arms was a bundle of white rags. Now Battling，like so many sensualists， was also a sentimentalist. He tookthat bundle of white rags； he paid the girl money to get into thecountry； and the bundle of white rags had existed in and abouthis domicile in Pekin Street， Limehouse， for some elevenyears. Her position was nonde； to the casual observerit would seem that she was Battling’s relief punch-ball—anunpleasant post for any human creature to occupy， especiallyif you are a little girl of twelve， and the place be the one-roomhousehold of the lightning welter-weight. When Battling wascross with his manager... well， it is indefensible to strike yourmanager or to throw chairs at him， if he is a good manager；but to use a dog-whip on a small child is permissible and quiteas satisfying at least， he found it so. On these occasions， then，when very cross with his sparring partners， or over-flushedwith victory and juice of the grape， he would flog Lucy. But hewas reputed by the boys to be a good fellow. He only whippedthe child when he was drunk； and he was only drunk for eightmonths of the year.
For just over twelve years this bruised little body had creptabout Poplar and Limehouse. Always the white face wasscarred with red， or black-furrowed with tears； always in hersteps and in her look was expectation of dread things. Nightafter night her sleep was broken by the cheerful Battling’sbrute voice and violent hands； and terrible were the lessonswhich life taught her in those few years. Yet， for all thestarved face and the transfixed air， there was a lurking beautyabout her， a something that called you in the soft curve of hercheek that cried for kisses and was fed with blows， and in thesplendid mournfulness that grew in eyes and lips. The brownhair chimed against the pale face， like the rounding of a verse.
The blue cotton frock and the broken shoes could not breakthe loveliness of her slender figure or the shy grace of hermovements as she flitted about the squalid alleys of the docks；though in all that region of wasted life and toil and decay， therewas not one that noticed her， until...
Now there lived in Chinatown， in one lousy room over Mr.
Tai Fu’s store in Pennyfields， a wandering yellow man， namedCheng Huan. Cheng Huan was a poet. He did not realize itHe had never been able to understand why he was unpopular；and he died without knowing. But a poet he was， tinged withthe materialism of his race， and in his poor listening heartstrange echoes would awake of which he himself was barelyconscious. He regarded things differently from other sailors；he felt things more passionately， and things which they felt notat all； so he lived alone instead of at one of the lodging-houses.
Every evening he would sit at his window and watch the street.
Then， a little later， he would take a jolt of opium at the place atthe corner of Formosa Street.
He had come to London by devious ways. He had loafedon the Bund at Shanghai. The fateful intervention of a crimphad landed him on a boat. He got to Cardiff， and sojourned inits Chinatown； thence to Liverpool， to Glasgow； thence， by aticket from the Asiatics’ Aid Society， to Limehouse， where heremained for two reasons—because it cost him nothing to livethere， and because he was too lazy to find a boat to take himback to Shanghai.
