So father took Elijah, Enoch and me to the theatre. We sat in the luxury of the Dress Circle, listening to the shouts and the catcalls that came from the Gallery behind us. Enoch, who at fourteen was a fearless bright-spirited young devil with an angel’s corn-blond hair, could not resist the temptation of turning round and shouting back at the men and women who leaned over the balcony, calling out their ribaldries at whoever sat before them. But father pulled the lad down and gave him a stern look.
“None of that, me lad,” he said. “You put yourself in as dirty a sty as them!”
Enoch said, “They are higher than we are, father. They can throw orange peel at us but we can’t hit them!”
Elijah said laconically, “Throwing orange peel never did any good! When you fight, our kid, do it wi’ somet
