They passed tall houses-"rookeries"-mostly of wood, which slumped upon their own foundations as if tired of standing; houses whose gaping windows were devoid of glass and patched, instead, with paper or cloth or broken pieces of wood; windows from which slops and cracked chamber pots were emptied; from which defeated eyes gazed blankly.

Lines of rope stretched across the alleys, decorated with flea-ridden rags; clothes put out to be washed by the polluted rain, later to dry in the rancid air, but currently marinating in the toxic vapour.

Time and again the two men were approached by girls barely out of childhood, who materialised out of the fog with matted hair and bare feet, smeared with excrement up to their knees, covered only by a rough coat or a thin, torn dress or a man's shirt which hung loosely over their bones; who offered themselves for a few coppers; who lowered the price when refused; who begged and wheedled and finally cursed viciously when the men pushed past.

Time and again they were approached by boys and men in every variety of torn and filthy apparel, who demanded and bullied and threatened and finally, when the pistols appeared, spat and swore and sidled away.

Time and again they passed skeletal women sitting hunched in dark corners clutching tiny bundles to their breasts; poverty and starvation gnawing at them; too weak and hopeless even to raise their heads as the two men walked quietly by.

Burton, the author, the man who'd described in minute detail the character and practices of cultures far removed from his own, felt that he could never find the words to depict the utter squalor of the Cauldron. The dirt and decay, the putrescence and rot and garbage, the viciousness and violence, the despair and emptiness; it was far beyond anything he'd witnessed in the darkest depths of Africa, amid the so-called primitives.

Thus far tonight, the two men had drunk sour-tasting beer in four malodorous public houses. It was the fifth that delivered what they were looking for.

They were approaching Stepney when Burton mumbled, "There's another public house ahead. I have to get this foul taste out of my mouth. We'll take a gin or rum or something; anything, so long as it's not that pisswater they call ale."

The cabbie nodded wordlessly and stumbled on, his big feet squelching through the slime.

The pub-the White Lion-halfway down a short and crooked lane, bulged out over the mud as if about to collapse into it. The orange light from its windows oozed into the fog and was smeared across the uneven road surface and opposite wall. Shouts, screams, snatches of song, and the wheeze of an accordion came from within the premises.

Burton pushed open the door and they entered, Penniforth bending to avoid knocking his head on the low ceiling.

"Buy us a drink, Dad?" asked a man of Burton before he'd taken two paces toward the bar.

"Buy yer own fuckin' drink," he replied, in character.

"Watch yet mouth, you old git!" came the reply.

"Watch yours!" warned Penniforth, his massive fist pushing up under the man's chin.

"Steady, mate, no 'arm done," whined the individual, turning away.

They shouldered through the crowd to the counter and ordered gins.

The barman asked to see their money first.

Leaning on the scarred wood, they gulped down the spirit and immediately ordered another round.

"Thirsty, aint'cha?" commented the man beside Penniforth.

"Yus," grunted the cabbie.

"Me too. I always gets a thirst on after fightin' with the missus."

"Been givin' you earache, 'as she?"

"Not 'alf, the bleedin' cow. I ain't seen you in 'ere before."

"I ain't been 'ere afore."

"That your old fella?" The man nodded toward Burton.

"Yus," answered Penniforth, gruffly. "Nosey, ain'tcha?"

"Just bein' neighbourly, that's all. If yet don't wanna talk, it ain't no skin off my nose!"

"Yer, well, fair enough. I thought I'd get 'im out o' Mile End for an 'oliday!"

The other man laughed. "An 'oliday in Stepney! That's rich!"

"At least you don't 'ave bleedin' monsters runnin' around at night!" exclaimed the cabbie.

Burton smiled appreciatively into his glass. Good chap, Monty! Quick work! He ordered more drinks and included a beer for their new acquaintance.

"`Ere yer go, mate-get that down yer neck," he rasped, sliding the pint over.

"Ta, Dad, much appreciated. The name's Fred, by the way. Fred Spooner."

"I'm Frank Baker," offered Burton. "This is me son, Monty."

They drank to each other's health.

Over in the corner, the man with the accordion began to squeeze out another tune and the crowd roared its bawdy lyrics, which, as far as Burton could make out, told of the various places visited by a pair of bloomers belonging to Old Ma Tucker.

He waited patiently, the odour of old sweat and bad breath and acidic beer and stale piss clogging his nostrils. He didn't have to wait for long.

"So they're in Mile End now, are they?" shouted Spooner above the noise.

"Yus," said Penniforth.

"They'll be 'ere next, then," said the East Ender, with an air of resignation. "My mate over in Wapping lost 'is tenant to 'em last week."

"Wotcher mean, `lost'?"

"They snatched one of the kids what roomed at 'is place. That's what they do-they steal the nippers, though most of the kids what were taken 'ave come back since. They took 'em from Whitechapel first, then Shadwell, Wapping these weeks past, and now I guess it's Mile End's turn."

"Bloody 'ell. What are they?"

"Dunno, mate. Dogs. Wolves. Men. Summick in-between. You know they explode?"

"Explode?" uttered Burton. "What do yer mean?"

"I've 'eard of three occasions when it's 'appened: they burst into flames for no reason and burn like dry straw 'til there ain't nuffink of'em left! I wish the 'ole lot o' them would go up like that. It's hell draggin' 'em back, if yer arsk me!"

"It's a rum do, that's fer sure!" said Burton.

"Come on, Pa-we'd better be off," urged Penniforth.

"I'll finish me drink first," objected Burton.

"'Urry it up, then!"

"You seen an artist around?" Burton asked Spooner.

"Aye. Slick Sid Sedgewick is the best in the business. Why, you got a scam?"

"No, mate. Not a con artist. I mean an artist what draws and paints."

Spooner spluttered into his glass. "You gotta be jokin'! A paintin' artist around 'ere!"

"I just 'eard there was one, that's all."

"What is it, Dad? You wanna get yer portrait done 'n' hanged in the National bleedin' Gallery?"

"All right, all right!" protested Burton.

He and Penniforth swigged back the last of their gin and bid Spooner farewell.

"Good luck to yer!" he said as they pushed away from the bar and heaved their way through the throng to the door. They burst out into the alleyway hoping for a breath of fresh air and getting quite the opposite.

It was well past midnight. The atmosphere was thick, loathsome, and catarrhal.

"Wapping's about a mile away as the crow flies," said Burton in a low voice. "Probably considerably farther through this maze."

"Don't worry, guv'nor, I knows the way."

"Are you up for it?"

"In for a penny, in for a pound."

"Good man! And well done-the way you got information out of that Spooner fellow was admirable! Thanks to you, we now know where the loupsgarous are hunting."