Another Man's Shoes
By VICTOR BRIDGES
AUTHOR OF
"A Rogue by Compulsion," Etc.
A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers New York
Published by Arrangements with GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
Copyright, 1913,
BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
To M.
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED
ANOTHER MAN'S SHOES
CHAPTER I
When you are really hungry, and have precisely one and sixpence to
spend upon your dinner, the problem is one which requires a certain
amount of consideration. I hesitated for some time between ---- and
the ----. At ---- they give you four quite decent courses for a
shilling, which leaves sixpence over for a drink and a tip for the
waiter. On the other hand, the tablecloths are generally dirty, and
the atmosphere of the place about as poisonous as that of a Chinese
joss-house.
In this respect ---- is altogether its superior; but as a set-off,
you don't get anything like as good a shilling's worth in the way of
food. And food being my chief consideration at the moment, I finally
decided on Parelli's.
As I pushed open the door, the first person I caught sight of was
Billy Logan. For a moment I thought I must be mistaken, but a second
glance showed me the long red scar running down from the corner of
the eye, which Billy had brought away with him as his sole memento of
an unsuccessful insurrection in Chile.
He was busy eating, and I walked quietly up to his table without his
seeing me.
"Hullo, Billy!" I said. "What on earth are you doing in this
peaceful spot?"
He looked up with a start. "Why, it's Jack Burton!" he cried.
"Great Scott! man, I thought you were dead."
I pulled out a chair and seated myself opposite to him. "Sorry to
disappoint you, Bill," I observed, "but I'm not fit to die just yet."
"It was that ass, Goldley," explained Billy, reaching across and
gripping my hand, as though to make sure that I was really flesh and
blood. "He told me you'd been knocked on the head at some
God-forsaken place in Bolivia."
"Yes," I said dryly. "I believe there was a report to that effect.
It suited me not to contradict it."
Billy grinned. "Well, I was a bit doubtful about it at the time. I
couldn't see you getting wiped out by a dago."
"I precious nearly was, all the same," I said. "Here, waiter, table
d'hote, and a bottle of lager."
"You're dining with me," interrupted Billy.
"In that case," I said, "I'll have a bottle of burgundy instead of
the lager."
"Bring two," called out Billy. "And now let's hear all about it," he
added, as the waiter slid rapidly away. "Last time I saw you was at
that little dust-up we had in Buenos Ayres. D'you remember?"
"I do, Billy," I said. "It was on account of that I went for a
health trip to Bolivia."
Billy chuckled. "I gather you didn't exactly find it."
I lit a cigarette, pending the arrival of the _hors d'oeuvre_. "I
found something better than health, Billy," I said. "I found gold."
"Lord!" said Billy. "Where?"
"I don't think it's got a name," I replied. "Anyhow, I didn't wait
to find out I was on my own, and the whole country was stiff with
Indians. Look here." I pulled up my sleeve and showed him the
traces of a very handsome pucker left by a well-directed arrow.
"That's one of their visiting cards," I added.
Billy looked at it with the eye of a connoisseur. "You're lucky it
wasn't poisoned," he remarked. "What about the gold?"
"I can find the place again all right," I said, "but I want money.
It's not a one-man job. That's why I came to London."
"Got it?"
I shook my head. "On the contrary, I've spent what I had. They're a
shy lot here, Billy--and I wasn't going to give the show away
absolutely. I shall have to try New York."
"You're about right," answered Billy. "Unless you roll up in a
frock-coat with introductions, the average Britisher's got no manner
of use for you. You'll do better in the States. When are you going?"
"As soon as I can get a ship," I replied. "I've hung on here till
I've got just enough left to square my bill. To-morrow I shall go
down to the docks and sign on in the first boat that will take me."
"I wish I was coming with you," said Billy wistfully.
"Why not?" I suggested.
He shook his head. "I'm putting in for a job," he explained: "some
prospecting business in Mexico that Maxwells are running. They've
kept me hanging about for six weeks, so I may as well see it out now."
"Well, give me an address of some kind," I said. "In case my
business comes off and yours doesn't, I'd like to have you with me."
Billy pulled out a pencil and a bit of paper and scribbled down a few
words. "This is where I'm staying," he said: "34 Vauxhall Road.
I'll tell 'em where to forward letters when I leave."
I put the paper in my pocket, and turned my attention to the sardines
and potato salad which the waiter had just dumped down in front of
me. Billy's two bottles of wine, which arrived immediately
afterwards, soon put us into a cheerfully reminiscent mood, and
throughout dinner we yarned away about old friends and old days in
the Argentine, where five years before we had first run across each
other.
I suggested winding up the evening at a music-hall; but Billy,
unfortunately, had some appointment connected with his job, which
prevented him from coming. However, he not only paid for dinner, but
insisted on lending me a couple of sovereigns, which, to tell the
truth, I was very glad to accept. But for this, by the time I had
paid my bill the next morning, I should have been practically
penniless.
I said good-bye to him regretfully at the bottom of Gerrard Street,
and then, walking across Leicester Square, made my way slowly down to
the Embankment. I was lodging in Chelsea, and I thought I might just
as well stroll home as waste threepence on a bus.
It was a fine, soft summer evening, with a faint breeze stirring the
trees, and now and then lifting a scrap of paper from the roadway and
dropping it again languidly after it had tumbled it a few yards.
There were not many people on the Embankment; those that were there
consisting chiefly of engaged couples, with here and there a tattered
piece of human wreckage apparently on the look-out for a comfortable
open-air lodging for the coming night.
I sauntered slowly on, clinking Billy's two sovereigns in my pocket,
and pondering idly over my own affairs. I had left Bolivia four
months before in high spirits, thinking that for the first time in my
life I had the chance of making some money. That I had found gold in
richly paying quantities I had no shadow of doubt, and I felt
confident that in London I should be able to raise sufficient capital
to get together a proper expedition for penetrating the interior. I
knew enough of the Bolivian authorities to be sure that, as far as
State permission went, a generous measure of bribery was the only
thing necessary.
Seven or eight weeks in England had been enough to dash all my high
hopes. I suppose English business men are naturally
cautious--requiring to know a great deal about a stranger's record
before they care to accept his statement. Now my record, though
highly interesting to myself, had been of a little too chequered a
nature to inspire confidence in the breast of a capitalist whose
ideas of life are bounded by Lombard Street and, shall we say,
Maidenhead. At all events, I had failed dismally in my purpose, and,
as I had told Billy, had reached the end of my resources without
getting any further in my quest than when I had started.
I was not sorry to feel that it was all over. My restless life had
ill fitted me for the humdrum respectabilities of London, and I was
beginning to regard the streets, the people, and indeed everything
about me, with an intense and ever-growing distaste. It is true,
that New York would be as bad or even worse, but I had no real
intention of wasting much time in that shrieking inferno. To start
with, my funds would not allow it; and, in any case, I was beginning
to get a bit tired of this dreary chase after wealth. If I could
find a sympathetic capitalist in a few days, well and
good--otherwise, I had quite made up my mind not to worry any more
about the matter. Let the gold stop where it was until some
traveller more suited to the job than I stumbled across it. Life,
after all, is the first thing, and I was not going to waste mine
hanging round office doors, and interviewing fat gentlemen in
frock-coats, when the whole world with all its fun and adventure lay
before me.
Stopping under a lamp, and leaning over the Embankment, I gazed at
the lights of a small steamer, puffing its way busily down the
Thames. A great desire to get out of this choking atmosphere of
so-called civilisation suddenly gripped me with irresistible force.
I seemed to taste the smack of the salt sea upon my lips, to smell
again the warm, sweet breath of the open pampas. My heart beat
faster and stronger, and I found myself muttering some lines of
Kipling--the only poet I've ever cared two straws about--
"The days are sick and cold, and the skies are grey and old,
And the twice breathed airs grow damp;
And I'd sell my tired soul for the bucking beam-sea roll
Of a south Bilbao tramp."
Yes, that was what I wanted: the sea, and the sun, and the plains,
and, above all, life--raw, naked life, with its laughter and its
fighting, far away from these stifling streets where men's hearts
grow smug and cold. I threw back my arms, and took in a deep breath.
"My God!" I muttered, half aloud. "I'm out of this for good and all."
"I congratulate you," said a voice.