“CAPTAIN DAN”
Half an hour later, as I sat in the inner room before the great
dressing-table laboriously removing my disguise--for I was utterly
incapable of metamorphosing myself like Harley in seven minutes--I
heard a rapping at the outer door. I glanced nervously at my face in the
mirror.
Comparatively little of “Jim” had yet been removed, for since time was
precious to my friend I had acted as his dresser before setting to work
to remove my own make-up. There were two entrances to the establishment,
by one of which Paul Harley invariably entered and invariably went out,
and from the other of which “Bill Jones” was sometimes seen to emerge,
but never Paul Harley. That my friend had made good his retirement I
knew, but, nevertheless, if I had to open the door of the outer room it
must be as “Jim.”
Thinking it impolite not to do so, since the one who knocked might be
aware that we had come in but not gone out again, I hastily readjusted
that side of my moustache which I had begun to remove, replaced my
cap and muffler, and carefully locking the door of the dressing-room,
crossed the outer apartment and opened the door.
It was Harley's custom never to enter or leave these rooms except under
the mantle of friendly night, but at so early an hour I confess I had
not expected a visitor. Wondering whom I should find there I opened the
door.
Standing on the landing was a fellow-lodger who permanently occupied
the two top rooms of the house. Paul Harley had taken the trouble to
investigate the man's past, for “Captain Dan,” the name by which he was
known in the saloons and worse resorts which he frequented, was palpably
a broken-down gentleman; a piece of flotsam caught in the yellow stream.
Opium had been his downfall. How he lived I never knew, but Harley
believed he had some small but settled income, sufficient to enable him
to kill himself in comfort with the black pills.
As he stood there before me in the early morning light, I was aware of
some subtle change in his appearance. It was fully six months since I
had seen him last, but in some vague way he looked younger. Haggard
he was, with an ugly cut showing on his temple, but not so lined as
I remembered him. Some former man seemed to be struggling through the
opium-scarred surface. His eyes were brighter, and I noted with surprise
that he wore decent clothes and was clean shaved.
“Good morning, Jim,” he said; “you remember me, don't you?”
As he spoke I observed, too, that his manner had altered. He who had
consorted with the sweepings af the doss-houses now addressed me as
a courteous gentleman addresses an inferior--not haughtily or
patronizingly, but with a note of conscious superiority and self-respect
wholly unfamiliar. Almost it threw me off my guard, but remembering in
the nick of time that I was still “Jim”:
“Of course I remember you, Cap'n,” I said. “Step inside.”
“Thanks,” he replied, and followed me into the little room.
I placed for him the arm-chair which our friend the fireman had so
recently occupied, but:
“I won't sit down,” he said.
And now I observed that he was evidently in a condition of repressed
excitement. Perhaps he saw the curiosity in my glance, for he suddenly
rested both his hands on my shoulders, and:
“Yes, I have given up the dope, Jim,” he said---“done with it for ever.
There's not a soul in this neighbourhood I can trust, yet if ever a man
wanted a pal, I want one to-day. Now, you're square, my lad. I always
knew that, in spite of the dope; and if I ask you to do a little thing
that means a lot to me, I think you will do it. Am I right?”
“If it can be done, I'll do it,” said I.
“Then, listen. I'm leaving England in the Patna for Singapore. She sails
at noon to-morrow, and passengers go on board at ten o'clock. I've got
my ticket, papers in order, but”--he paused impressively, grasping my
shoulders hard--“I must get on board to-night.”