DUNGAREE'S BELT.
Digby Street, so named after a former governor of the presidency, is
not more than three miles from the tabernacle. Probably in no part of
the world does vice cover itself with so hideous a garb as here. An
atmosphere of evil hangs over the dingy houses, packed closely to each
other, whose inhabitants follow nameless occupations. When the night
comes the street lamps shine on strange scenes. In the day all is
silent as the grave. At the corner of the street is a small house. A
faded sign-board, with the words "Hotel Metropole" in yellow letters
on a blue field, explains its character. The landlord is a Parsee,
or fire-worshipper, who has added an English word to his Eastern
name, and is known to his customers, and to the police, as Kavasji
Pain-killer. Mine host stands at the open entrance to his house. A
misshapen figure, with dull eyes and bloated features, he reminds one
of the strange bird-eating spiders of the forests of the East and West
Indies.
As this man gazes aimlessly down the road, he sees a few dim figures
flitting in front of him. They move on rapidly for a few yards and
stop. Suddenly there is a flash of light above them, and as each
street lamp is lit, a small halo is formed in the evil night haze now
beginning to envelop the street. It is not yet time, however, for the
inhabitants to awaken from their drunken slumbers. It is later on that
the lost legion rises.
As the figures disappeared from view the landlord turned slowly and
moved into the bar-room, where there was a thick odour of stale liquor
and staler tobacco. The room was empty, save for the figure of a man
lying asleep at a small marble-topped table, his head resting on his
arms. From a smaller room beyond, the door of which was closed, came
the sound of voices, and now and then an oath, or a hoarse laugh.
Kavasji made a movement as if to approach the door, but changing his
mind passed behind the bar, and settling himself into a cane chair,
dozed off comfortably.
In the meantime the conversation in the next room grew louder, and
apparently more mirthful. There were two men there, sitting at a
table, over which a well-thumbed pack of cards was scattered in some
confusion. The room was littered with the _debris_ from empty pipes
and the remains of half-burnt matches. A reflecting lamp, glaring from
the wall, exactly opposite the door, threw out the figures in strong
relief.
"And so, messmate, I scooped in the dust--every dollar of it."
And the speaker, a tall, powerful man, whose shirt-sleeves, pulled up
to the elbow, showed the tattoo marks on his arms, brought his fists
on the table with a crash that made the glasses clink.
"It was hellish cute," said his companion, as he leaned back and
laughed heartily, showing an even row of strong white teeth through
the masses of red hair with which the lower portion of his face was
covered. "I don't know a man, Dungaree," he added, "who could have
done it save yourself."
The giant grinned in response to the compliment, and, pulling out a
jack-knife, began to pare some tobacco from a twist lying on the table
beside him.
"That," said he, nodding his head at the knife as he finished the
operation, "was the tickler."
"Rayther light for the work," said the red-haired man, as he picked
the knife up and poised it in his hand.
"There's the weight behind it," answered Dungaree Bill, puffing away
at his short pipe.
"True, but I prefer a brace and bit. I did something like that myself,
'bout--let me see--six years ago, I think; but it don't matter. Whole
shipload went down. No time to lower boats, except captain's gig.
Lord, how I did laugh! You know the old trick--_sabe?_"
"And blowed the oof after," laughed his companion.
"Not much," was the reply. "Some shad-belly of a lawyer began to ask
questions--curse him!--and the work--well done, too--went for
nothing."
"And you?"
"Went under."
"And serve you right for a chowder-headed clam. I was wise enough to
take my share in advance--and stick to it, too." The giant tapped his
hand over his waist as he spoke, and reaching for the bottle began to
pour out another drink for himself.
"God's curse," said he, "there's nothing in here."
The red-haired man's small eyes were twinkling under the skull-cap
pulled well over his brows.
"I'll play you for another," he said.
"Done with you; but let us have the drink first."
"All right; what shall it be?"
"Monkeys," replied Dungaree, "and let their tails be curled. After
this I'm off--we sail with the tide."
The red-haired man rose from his chair, and, opening the door, passed
into the bar-room. A hanging lamp was burning in the centre, and
Kavasji slept peacefully. Walking with a slightly unsteady gait he
reached the bar, and, leaning with both hands on it, shouted out:
"Two monkeys; and mind you, Kavasji, lift up your elbow."
Kavasji scrambled from his chair, and, placing two tumblers on the
table, half filled them with rum. He then turned to a rack where there
were a number of bottles of aerated water. As his back was turned the
man at the bar pulled out a small phial containing a colourless
liquid, and emptied it into one of the tumblers. He had just time to
replace the phial in his pocket when Kavasji turned and filled the
glasses with what he called tonic water.
"That'll do, sonny," said the red-haired man, placing some silver
coins with a smart click on the bar. "This settles the shot," and
seizing a glass in each hand he lurched forward to rejoin his friend.
Kavasji tested the coins carefully with his teeth and rang them on a
table. Then opening a drawer, he shut them up with sundry companions.
The man sleeping at the table rose, and, after staring vacantly about
him for a moment, walked out slowly into the street. As his friend
entered the room Dungaree Bill took one of the "monkeys" from his
outstretched hand. They, clinked the glasses together above and below.
"Here's luck," said Bill. The other nodded, and they drained the
glasses.
"Tails curly enough?" asked the red-haired man.
"I guess so," said Dungaree, wiping his mouth with the back of his
hairy hand.
"And now," said he, "for the game."
They arranged the cards; Dungaree cut, and the red-haired man dealt.
After a few rounds the effect of the drug began to tell. The giant's
head sank upon his breast, and the little man's eyes twinkled with a
vicious glee.
"Wake up, Dungaree," he said; "you're asleep, man."
"By God," said the other, "you've----"
His head dropped once more, and the long, powerful arms hung
listlessly by his side.
The red-haired man had started from his seat at Dungaree's words, and
in his hand held an open knife, which he had drawn like lightning.
He heaved a sigh of relief as he saw Dungaree's head sink back.
Then rapidly approaching him, he rifled him with a practised hand. He
undid the canvas belt from his waist, and felt it heavy as he raised
it and transferred it to his own person.
He then moved toward the door, but a sudden thought struck him, and he
returned. He took up Dungaree's knife from the table.
"Might as well ease him of this," he said; "he will do somebody a hurt
when he awakens."
Opening the door, he stepped into the barroom, and, reeling up to a
table near the door, called for another drink. Kavasji once more
turned his back, and with the noiseless rapidity of a cat the robber
vanished into the street, which was already beginning to awaken.
He dashed down a small alley, and only stopped after he had run for
about half an hour. "I guess," said he, "Steve Lamport, you are born
again." Then turning down a broad street, he walked slowly forward in
the direction of the nearest railway station.