Chapter Two: The Baker Street Irregulars
The day had turned dreary and blustery, and I threw a large woolen scarf around my neck and pulled it close around me. Watson squinted against the bombardment of the wind and turned his face up to me.
"The wind's so strong, I can almost hear the fighting in Germany!" Watson said over the howling wind. I pulled my neck into my shoulders in attempts to keep my face from being torn off by the gusts. I still had the money from Mr. Richardson clutched in my hands, seeing as I forgot to stick it in my wallet. There was the slap of bare feet on the pavement, and I turned to look behind me. Nothing. Shrugging I returned to looking forward.
"Where were you planning on eating?" I asked Watson. The boy slumped his shoulders.
"I've never been to London. I wouldn't know what kinds of establishments they run here." I realized that this was the truth for me as well. Holmes laughed.
"And just what is so funny?" I asked him quietly, feeling my stomach growl in hungry unrest.
'I realized that everywhere I ate when Watson and I lived here on Baker Street is most likely long gone. It has been a long time since I have lived here,' he told me in a quiet voice.
"What was that about?" Watson asked, rubbing his arms to keep them full of warmth.
"Sherlock doesn't know where to eat either," I told him shortly, keeping my voice low in case anyone might happen to listen in on our conversation. Again, I heard the low sound of feet behind me. I turned quicker this time, but still I saw nothing but empty street. I turned back to face the front.
"What's wrong, Holmes?" Watson asked, glancing behind us as well.
"I could have sworn I heard-"
The attack came from all sides at once. There were blurs of black, blue and brown approaching from every which way. I shielded my face with my hands, and suddenly, I was face-down on the sidewalk. I could vaguely hear Watson call out something, and then a stampede of feet thundering away from us. My back ached and my head was throbbing. Forgetting the pain, and realizing the money from Mr. Richardson was missing, I pushed myself from the ground and took off running after the sound of feet.
I couldn't see anything, but the sound of stampeding feet was ahead of me by a fair bit. I pushed on an extra spurt of speed, hearing our attackers turning sharply into a side alley. I turned not too soon after and ran straight into a warm body covered in yards of fabric. I grabbed onto whatever it was, and as soon as I latched onto the thing, the sound of feet ceased immediately. There was dead silence.
I looked at the creature in my hands. I was shocked to find that it was a small girl, probably no older than 8 years of age. Her mess of thick, ratty blonde hair was sticking from her skull in every odd direction possible. Her large blue eyes were misty with tears. The lumps of fabric on her person were what I assumed were her clothes, but they merely looked like bits of shirts, pants or burlap bags sewn together haphazardly. Her face was covered in grime, and so were her clenched hands and bare feet. Then the tears started to trickle down her dirty cheeks.
A rock struck my head, almost causing me to lose my hold on the urchin girl. I looked around me, at the pile of refuse strewn about the unused alley and found nothing. Then another rock came.
"Hoy!" came a voice, followed by a particularly large rock. "Let go of Judy, you rotter!" Suddenly, there was a barrage of stones, all of them pelting my body. The girl in my hands sobbed softly.
"Give me back my money and I'll let her free!" I tried to bargain. I didn't know where they were, but I knew that they had my money. Then I realized where they were hiding. I turned my face upwards, and I saw at least a dozen children crouching on the fire escapes above my head, hand-made slings in most of their hands. They were glaring death at me, for I held one of their own captive in my hands. One boy, with ebony-black hair, stood from where he crouched looking at me.
"A little rich boy don't need no money," he said, using poor grammar that made me wince. "We need to eat breakfast." There was a murmur of agreement from the rabble surrounding him. "So we're keepin' your money, and you're gonna give back Judy or we'll fight you for her." I looked again to the silently weeping blonde girl in my hands. I felt her shivering in my hands, whether from the cold or the fear, I couldn't be sure.
I wasn't sure what made me do what I did next. Maybe it had been Holmes. Maybe it had been something in my subconscious. Maybe it was my morals. All I know was, without second thought, I dashed from my spot, the girl still held firmly in my arms.
"Ronald!!" She shouted at the top of her lungs. There was a cacophony of yells from behind me as I turned back onto Baker Street, and I could tell that they were following me. Before I knew it, I was passing Watson, who had recently recovered, on the street. He called after me, then shouted in surprise as the horde of street children came dashing after me. I changed a glance over my shoulder, and I could see them running faster with each step. I pushed myself, wishing only to outrun them long enough to get to our flat. Watson was running as well, as I could single out his shoed footsteps from the myriad of barefooted children behind me. I could see the flat, I was running up the stairs, I was so close to the door...
I slammed the door behind me and locked it as fast as I could, the girl named Judy tucked in the nook of my arm. Only moments later, there was a great pounding on my door, and screams from the other side of it. The girl was squirming in my arms, and, as gently as I could, I sat her down at our dinner table. She sat in silence, dumbfounded. I set a plate in front of her and ladled the left-over mashed potatoes from dinner the night before onto her plate. I feared that she may have dived into her plate had I given her the fork a moment later. She ate as if she had been starved for weeks, which, I told myself, was probably the case. The pounding on the door did not subside as I watched the girl eat ravenously. Richardson limped into the room, his face a pale vision of fear.
"What in the name of the Seven Hells is going on out there?!" he bellowed. Judy jumped and hid under the table like a rabbit. The pounding continued. I turned to my caretaker and sighed.
"Mr. Richardson, may I present one of the urchins who stole my money. Her name is Judith. Her friends are outside, and you may want to step out of sight for a moment." Judy slowly emerged from under the table and began consuming the potatoes again. I strode to the door, waited until Mr. Richardson followed my instructions, and opened the door wide. The rabble, confused for only a moment, tore into the foyer with a yell. Soon after, they stopped moving altogether. They were all staring at their friend, who was breakfasting on mashed potatoes. There was a rather large smile on her dirty face as she stuck the last forkful into her mouth.
"More, please!" she said cheerfully, holding the plate out to me. I emerged from behind the door, taking the plate and adding another dollop to the licked-clean plate. The children near the door shuffled nervously, as if afraid to move. The only sounds came from the eating at the dinner table. Finally, the black-haired boy, who I presumed was the "Ronald" that Judy had called to, stepped forward, looking at his feet.
"D'you... D'you think... Could we have...?" He seemed unable to complete a full sentence, but I saw his meaning when he held out his hand and all of my money and my billfold were sitting undisturbed in his palm. I took the money, and offered the children seats at our table. And for those who could not fit at the table, they sat directly on the floor. I pulled whatever I could find out of our stores, trying to give the starving children an adequate meal. Just as I handed a plateful of green beans to a rather small boy, Watson charged into the room, chest heaving and fists balled in defense. Upon seeing our attackers eating in our flat, he became very articulate all at once.
"Holmes, these are the ruffians that attacked us! They stole our money! Look at the bruise they gave me! Could have broken my arm! Look at the state of them! The carpet's a mess! Holmes I-"
"Watson," I said calmly, providing Judy with another helping of mashed potatoes, "Calm down, you'll scare the children." His face grew red. "Besides," I came closer and lowered my voice so as not to be heard by the children. "I think I have a use for them."
"What could they possibly help you with?" Watson answered, his voice louder than expected. Ronald held his head up proudly from where he sat next to Judy.
"I can climb father and run better than you can," he told Watson. "Billy can shoot a sling stone 10 meters to a target. Judy and Ruthy know all the best places to find scraps and money. Norman knows just about everyone in London..."
"Hold, Ronald!" I said with a laugh. "I have a deal- no, a promise- to make with all of you." I knelt down onto the floor, sitting amongst the eating children. They all chewed their food while their grimy faces looked up at mine. "Every Monday and Wednesday, if you come to my door, I can give food to each and every one of you. The only thing that I ask in return is-"
"You want us to help you do detective things," Ronald said, licking not only his plate clean, but the plate of those around him. In answer to the confused look I gave him, he smiled. "Even us orphans can read a newspaper sometimes." He set down his plate and walked over to me, sticking out his dirt-encrusted hand. "I'm Ronald, and you're Jack Holmes. I heard about what you and weasel-boy over there did," he said, indicating Watson. Watson gritted his teeth in reply. "Me and my friends know the streets better than the guys what put 'em there. If you give us food like you say you will, I know I'll help."
"Me too!"
"And me!"
"Free food!"
"Free good food!"
It seemed that every child agreed, their mucky faces bright with joy and food. I felt it then. The same feeling I'd had when Watson had told me that he, too, heard someone inside of him. It was a feeling as if I was seeing an old photograph, aged by dust and time. I could see these children, only that they weren't the same children. Something told me that it was Holmes' doing. I smiled.
"And what should I call all of you?" I asked, looking at the group on the whole.
'The Baker Street Irregulars,' Holmes whispered. The name triggered a familiar feeling that stirred my heart.
"The Baker Street Irregulars."
The day had turned dreary and blustery, and I threw a large woolen scarf around my neck and pulled it close around me. Watson squinted against the bombardment of the wind and turned his face up to me.
"The wind's so strong, I can almost hear the fighting in Germany!" Watson said over the howling wind. I pulled my neck into my shoulders in attempts to keep my face from being torn off by the gusts. I still had the money from Mr. Richardson clutched in my hands, seeing as I forgot to stick it in my wallet. There was the slap of bare feet on the pavement, and I turned to look behind me. Nothing. Shrugging I returned to looking forward.
"Where were you planning on eating?" I asked Watson. The boy slumped his shoulders.
"I've never been to London. I wouldn't know what kinds of establishments they run here." I realized that this was the truth for me as well. Holmes laughed.
"And just what is so funny?" I asked him quietly, feeling my stomach growl in hungry unrest.
'I realized that everywhere I ate when Watson and I lived here on Baker Street is most likely long gone. It has been a long time since I have lived here,' he told me in a quiet voice.
"What was that about?" Watson asked, rubbing his arms to keep them full of warmth.
"Sherlock doesn't know where to eat either," I told him shortly, keeping my voice low in case anyone might happen to listen in on our conversation. Again, I heard the low sound of feet behind me. I turned quicker this time, but still I saw nothing but empty street. I turned back to face the front.
"What's wrong, Holmes?" Watson asked, glancing behind us as well.
"I could have sworn I heard-"
The attack came from all sides at once. There were blurs of black, blue and brown approaching from every which way. I shielded my face with my hands, and suddenly, I was face-down on the sidewalk. I could vaguely hear Watson call out something, and then a stampede of feet thundering away from us. My back ached and my head was throbbing. Forgetting the pain, and realizing the money from Mr. Richardson was missing, I pushed myself from the ground and took off running after the sound of feet.
I couldn't see anything, but the sound of stampeding feet was ahead of me by a fair bit. I pushed on an extra spurt of speed, hearing our attackers turning sharply into a side alley. I turned not too soon after and ran straight into a warm body covered in yards of fabric. I grabbed onto whatever it was, and as soon as I latched onto the thing, the sound of feet ceased immediately. There was dead silence.
I looked at the creature in my hands. I was shocked to find that it was a small girl, probably no older than 8 years of age. Her mess of thick, ratty blonde hair was sticking from her skull in every odd direction possible. Her large blue eyes were misty with tears. The lumps of fabric on her person were what I assumed were her clothes, but they merely looked like bits of shirts, pants or burlap bags sewn together haphazardly. Her face was covered in grime, and so were her clenched hands and bare feet. Then the tears started to trickle down her dirty cheeks.
A rock struck my head, almost causing me to lose my hold on the urchin girl. I looked around me, at the pile of refuse strewn about the unused alley and found nothing. Then another rock came.
"Hoy!" came a voice, followed by a particularly large rock. "Let go of Judy, you rotter!" Suddenly, there was a barrage of stones, all of them pelting my body. The girl in my hands sobbed softly.
"Give me back my money and I'll let her free!" I tried to bargain. I didn't know where they were, but I knew that they had my money. Then I realized where they were hiding. I turned my face upwards, and I saw at least a dozen children crouching on the fire escapes above my head, hand-made slings in most of their hands. They were glaring death at me, for I held one of their own captive in my hands. One boy, with ebony-black hair, stood from where he crouched looking at me.
"A little rich boy don't need no money," he said, using poor grammar that made me wince. "We need to eat breakfast." There was a murmur of agreement from the rabble surrounding him. "So we're keepin' your money, and you're gonna give back Judy or we'll fight you for her." I looked again to the silently weeping blonde girl in my hands. I felt her shivering in my hands, whether from the cold or the fear, I couldn't be sure.
I wasn't sure what made me do what I did next. Maybe it had been Holmes. Maybe it had been something in my subconscious. Maybe it was my morals. All I know was, without second thought, I dashed from my spot, the girl still held firmly in my arms.
"Ronald!!" She shouted at the top of her lungs. There was a cacophony of yells from behind me as I turned back onto Baker Street, and I could tell that they were following me. Before I knew it, I was passing Watson, who had recently recovered, on the street. He called after me, then shouted in surprise as the horde of street children came dashing after me. I changed a glance over my shoulder, and I could see them running faster with each step. I pushed myself, wishing only to outrun them long enough to get to our flat. Watson was running as well, as I could single out his shoed footsteps from the myriad of barefooted children behind me. I could see the flat, I was running up the stairs, I was so close to the door...
I slammed the door behind me and locked it as fast as I could, the girl named Judy tucked in the nook of my arm. Only moments later, there was a great pounding on my door, and screams from the other side of it. The girl was squirming in my arms, and, as gently as I could, I sat her down at our dinner table. She sat in silence, dumbfounded. I set a plate in front of her and ladled the left-over mashed potatoes from dinner the night before onto her plate. I feared that she may have dived into her plate had I given her the fork a moment later. She ate as if she had been starved for weeks, which, I told myself, was probably the case. The pounding on the door did not subside as I watched the girl eat ravenously. Richardson limped into the room, his face a pale vision of fear.
"What in the name of the Seven Hells is going on out there?!" he bellowed. Judy jumped and hid under the table like a rabbit. The pounding continued. I turned to my caretaker and sighed.
"Mr. Richardson, may I present one of the urchins who stole my money. Her name is Judith. Her friends are outside, and you may want to step out of sight for a moment." Judy slowly emerged from under the table and began consuming the potatoes again. I strode to the door, waited until Mr. Richardson followed my instructions, and opened the door wide. The rabble, confused for only a moment, tore into the foyer with a yell. Soon after, they stopped moving altogether. They were all staring at their friend, who was breakfasting on mashed potatoes. There was a rather large smile on her dirty face as she stuck the last forkful into her mouth.
"More, please!" she said cheerfully, holding the plate out to me. I emerged from behind the door, taking the plate and adding another dollop to the licked-clean plate. The children near the door shuffled nervously, as if afraid to move. The only sounds came from the eating at the dinner table. Finally, the black-haired boy, who I presumed was the "Ronald" that Judy had called to, stepped forward, looking at his feet.
"D'you... D'you think... Could we have...?" He seemed unable to complete a full sentence, but I saw his meaning when he held out his hand and all of my money and my billfold were sitting undisturbed in his palm. I took the money, and offered the children seats at our table. And for those who could not fit at the table, they sat directly on the floor. I pulled whatever I could find out of our stores, trying to give the starving children an adequate meal. Just as I handed a plateful of green beans to a rather small boy, Watson charged into the room, chest heaving and fists balled in defense. Upon seeing our attackers eating in our flat, he became very articulate all at once.
"Holmes, these are the ruffians that attacked us! They stole our money! Look at the bruise they gave me! Could have broken my arm! Look at the state of them! The carpet's a mess! Holmes I-"
"Watson," I said calmly, providing Judy with another helping of mashed potatoes, "Calm down, you'll scare the children." His face grew red. "Besides," I came closer and lowered my voice so as not to be heard by the children. "I think I have a use for them."
"What could they possibly help you with?" Watson answered, his voice louder than expected. Ronald held his head up proudly from where he sat next to Judy.
"I can climb father and run better than you can," he told Watson. "Billy can shoot a sling stone 10 meters to a target. Judy and Ruthy know all the best places to find scraps and money. Norman knows just about everyone in London..."
"Hold, Ronald!" I said with a laugh. "I have a deal- no, a promise- to make with all of you." I knelt down onto the floor, sitting amongst the eating children. They all chewed their food while their grimy faces looked up at mine. "Every Monday and Wednesday, if you come to my door, I can give food to each and every one of you. The only thing that I ask in return is-"
"You want us to help you do detective things," Ronald said, licking not only his plate clean, but the plate of those around him. In answer to the confused look I gave him, he smiled. "Even us orphans can read a newspaper sometimes." He set down his plate and walked over to me, sticking out his dirt-encrusted hand. "I'm Ronald, and you're Jack Holmes. I heard about what you and weasel-boy over there did," he said, indicating Watson. Watson gritted his teeth in reply. "Me and my friends know the streets better than the guys what put 'em there. If you give us food like you say you will, I know I'll help."
"Me too!"
"And me!"
"Free food!"
"Free good food!"
It seemed that every child agreed, their mucky faces bright with joy and food. I felt it then. The same feeling I'd had when Watson had told me that he, too, heard someone inside of him. It was a feeling as if I was seeing an old photograph, aged by dust and time. I could see these children, only that they weren't the same children. Something told me that it was Holmes' doing. I smiled.
"And what should I call all of you?" I asked, looking at the group on the whole.
'The Baker Street Irregulars,' Holmes whispered. The name triggered a familiar feeling that stirred my heart.
"The Baker Street Irregulars."