FALSE FRIENDSHIP
Jack had no great liking for Cummings. In fact, at the time the latter
lost his job on the _Tropic Queen_, he had left in a rage, swearing that
he would “get even.”
But now he held out his hand with a frank smile, or one that was
intended to be frank but was not, for Cummings hadn’t that kind of a
face. He was about Jack’s age, with sandy hair, low, rather receding
forehead and shifty, light eyes that had a habit of looking on the
ground when he spoke.
“Well, well, Ready,” he exclaimed. “It’s good to see a face from home.”
“Thanks,” said Jack, “but if I recollect rightly you were not so crazy
about seeing me again, the last time we met.”
He instinctively distrusted this fellow. There was something assumed,
something that did not ring true about his apparent heartiness.
“Oh, come now, Ready, here we are thousands of miles from home and
you’re still holding that old grudge against me! Shake hands, man, and
forget it.”
Jack began to feel rather ashamed of his brusqueness. After all,
Cummings might be more unfortunate in manner than intentionally
unpleasant.
“That’s all right, Cummings,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m glad to
see you, too. Here on a ship?”
“Yes, a small one, though. Not a liner like the _Tropic Queen_, but it
was the best I could get.”
Jack felt a twinge of remorse. Cummings said this uncomplainingly and
yet with an emphasis that made Jack feel uncomfortable. The man was
incompetent, it was true, but still, Jack almost began to think that he
ought to have given him another chance.
“When did you get in?” pursued Cummings.
“This morning. We’ll lie here two days, I guess. We’ve got a big cargo.”
“Is that so? Well, I hope we’ll see a lot of each other.”
“I hope so, too,” said Jack, without, however, very much cordiality.
“Well, come and have a drink before you go,” suggested Cummings.
“Thanks, but I never drink. I think it would be better for you, too,
Cummings, if you did not touch liquor.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean that. I wanted you to try some cola. It’s a native
drink. They make it here. It’s very cool and nice.”
Jack had been walking fast and was hot. The idea appealed to his
thirsty, dust-filled throat.
“All right, Cummings. Where do you go?” he said.
“Down here. We could get it at a soda fountain in the drug store yonder;
but it’s better in the native quarter right down this street.”
He motioned down the side street from which he had emerged when Jack
encountered him.
“All right; but I can’t stay long. I’ve got a friend waiting for me.”
“That’s all right,” Cummings assured him. “It’s not more than a block
and you can take a short cut back to the hotel to save time.”
They walked down a curious narrow street with high-walled gardens on
either side. Over the tops of the walls, in some places, great creepers
straggled, spangled with gorgeous red and purple flowers. In other
spots, drooping above the walls could be seen the giant fronds of banana
plants, or tenuous palm tree tops.
Cummings stopped in front of a plaster house, badly cracked by the
earthquake.
“Right in here,” he said.
Jack followed him into the dark, cool interior. After the blinding glare
of the sun outside, it was hard at first to make out the surroundings.
But Jack’s eyes soon became accustomed to the gloom, and he saw that
they were in a small room with a polished floor and that two or three
chairs and tables were scattered about.
An old negro woman of hideous appearance, with one eye and two solitary
teeth gleaming out of her sooty, black face, shuffled in. She wore a
calico dress and a red bandana handkerchief and was smoking a home-made
cigar.
Cummings, who seemed quite at home in the place, greeted her as Mother
Jenny. He ordered “two colas.”
“Great place this, eh?” said Cummings with easy familiarity, leaning
back. “You know I’ve made several voyages to the tropics, and when I’m
in Kingston I always like to come in here. There’s a sort of local color
about it.”
“And a lot of local dirt, too,” commented Jack, rather disgustedly
sniffing at the atmosphere, which was an odd combination of stale
tobacco smoke, mustiness and a peculiar odor inseparable from the native
quarters of tropical cities.
However, the cola, when it arrived, quite made up for all these
deficiencies. It was served in carved calabashes and tasted like a sort
of sublimated soda pop.
“Great stuff, eh?” said Cummings, gulping his with great relish.
“It is good,” admitted Jack. “You’d be a lot better off, Cummings, if
you only drank this sort of stuff.”
“Now don’t preach, Ready,” was the rejoinder. “You can’t be a man and
not drink liquor.”
“That might have been true a hundred years ago, but it certainly isn’t
to-day,” retorted Jack. “The great corporations won’t hire men who
drink. It’s gone out of date. The man who drinks is putting himself on
the toboggan slide.”
“Say, you ought to have been in the Salvation Army,” said Cummings, with
what amounted to a veiled sneer.
Strangely enough Jack did not resent this. His head felt very heavy
suddenly. The bright patch of sunlight outside began to sway and waver
queerly.
“I—I don’t feel very well,” he said presently in a feeble tone.
“Must be the sun,” said Cummings. “I’d better call a hack and take you
to the hotel. The sun often effects newcomers like that.”
“I wish you’d get a rig,” said Jack feebly, preventing himself from
falling forward on the table only by a rigid effort.
Cummings jumped to his feet and hurried from the place.
“That native stuff worked quicker than I thought,” he muttered. “Now to
get a rig and meet Jarrold. I guess he’ll think I’ve done a good job.
Anyhow, I’m getting square on that conceited young fool for losing me my
position.”