Harry Blew stands in the doorway of the "Sailor's Home," watching the
two gentlemen as they walk away, his eyes glowing with gratitude and
sparkling with joy. And no wonder, considering the change in his
situation brought about by their influence. Ten minutes before, his
spirits were at the lowest and darkest. But the prospect of treble, or
quadruple pay on board a snug ship, though it be a trading-vessel, with
the additional chance of being mate instead of foremast-man, has given
him a fillip, not only restoring them to their ordinary condition of
cheeriness, but raising them to the highest exaltation.
The only damper is regret at parting with the fine young fellow who has
done so much for him. But he has passed through that already, when
separating from his ship, and can now better bear it under the
reflection that, though apart from his patron, he will have an
opportunity of doing something to show his gratitude. He knows how much
Crozier is interested in the wellbeing of Carmen Montijo--for Harry has
been made acquainted with her name, as also that of Inez Alvarez--and to
be entrusted with a sort of guardianship over these young ladies is a
proud thought to the ex-man-o'-war's man--a fine feather in his cap.
To carry out the confidence thus reposed in him will be a labour of
love; and he vows in his heart it shall be done, if need be, at the risk
of life.
Indeed, the interview just ended has made a new man of him in more
senses than one; for upon the spot he registers a mental resolve to give
up dram-drinking for ever, or at all events till he has seen his
charge--the two Spanish senoritas--safe landed at Panama, and the
Chilian ship snug in the harbour of Valparaiso. After that, he is less
sure that he may not again go upon a spree, and possibly a big one.
Heaving a sigh as the English officers pass out of sight, he turns back
into the bar-room. It is no longer a question of his going aboard the
_Crusader_. He must remain ashore, to be up betimes in the morning, so
that he may be early at the office of the ship-agent.
And now, again, a shadow, though only a slight one, comes over his
countenance. He has still before him the undetermined question, where
he is to sleep. Notwithstanding his fine prospects for the future, the
present is still unchanged, and yet unprovided for.
Unfortunately, he did not think of this while the officers were with
him, else a word would have made all well. Either of them, he doubted
not, would have relieved his necessities had they been but told of them.
Too late now; they are gone out of sight, out of hail, and whether he
cannot tell or guess; and to attempt searching for them in such crowded
streets would be only a waste of time.
While thus ruefully reflecting, he is confronted by the bar-keeper,
whose usually grave countenance is now beset with smiles. The fellow
has got it into his head that his sailor-guest is no longer impecunious.
The navy gentlemen just gone have no doubt been to engage him for their
ship, and perhaps made him an advance of wages.
"Well, my salt," says he, in a tone of jocular familiarity, "I guess
you've got the shiners now, an' kin settle up your score?"
"No, indeed, sir," answers Harry, more than ever taken aback; "I'm sorry
to say I ha'n't."
"You hain't! Then what hev them gold-buttoned fellers been palaverin'
ye about?"
"Not about money, master. Them's two o' the officers belongin' to my
old ship--the British frigate _Crusader_. An' fine young fellows they
be too."
"Much good their finikin fineness seems to hev done you! So they hain't
gin you nuthin' better than their talk, hev they? Nuthin' besides?"
"Nothing besides," rejoins Blew, restraining his temper, a little
touched by the bar-keeper's inquisitiveness, as also his impertinent
manner.
"Nuthin' but fine words, eh? Well, thar's plenty o' them 'bout hyar,
but they won't butter no parsnips; and let me tell you, my sailor-man,
they won't pay your board bill."
"I know that," returns the other, still keeping his temper. "But I hope
to have money soon."
"Oh! that's been your story for the last two days; but it won't
bamboozle me any longer. You get no more credit here."
"Can't I have supper, and bed for another night?"
"No; that you can't--not so much as a shake-down."
"I'll pay for them first thing in the mornin'."
"You'll pay for 'em this night--now, if you calc'late to get 'em. An'
if you've no cash, tain't any use talkin'. What d'ye think we keep a
tavern for? 'Twould soon be to let--bar, beds, and all--if we'd only
such customers as you. So, the sooner you slope, the better the
landlord 'll like it. He's jest gin me orders to tell ye to clar out."
"It's gallows hard, master," says Harry, heaving a sigh; "the more so,
as I've got the promise o' a good berth 'board a ship that's down in the
harbour. The gentlemen you seed have just been to tell me about it."
"Then why didn't they give you the money to clar your kit?"
"They'd have done that--no doubt of it--if I'd only thought o' askin'
them. I forgot all about it."
"Ah, that's all very fine--a likely tale; but I don't believe a word of
it. If they cared to have you in their ship, they'd have given you the
wherewithal to git there. But, come! it's no use shilly-shallyin' any
longer. The landlord won't like it. He's gin his orders sharp: Pay or
go."
"Well, I suppose I must go."
"You must; an', as I have already said, the sooner you're off the
better."
After delivering this stern ultimatum, the bar-keeper jauntily returns
behind his bar, to look more blandly on two guests who have presented
themselves at it, called for "brandy smashes," and tossed down a couple
of dollars to pay for them.
Harry Blew turns towards the door; and, without saying another word,
steps out of the room.
Once on the street, he does not stop or stand hesitating. The
hospitality of the so-called "home" has proved a sorry sham; and,
indignant at the shabby treatment received, he is but too glad to get
away from the place. All his life used to snug quarters in a fine
ship's forecastle, with everything found for him, he has never before
experienced the pang of having no place to lay his head. He not only
feels it now, in all its unpleasantness, but fancies the passers-by can
tell all about the humiliating position he is placed in.
Haunted by this fancy--urged on by it--he quickens his steps; nor stays
them till out of sight of the "Sailor's Home," out of the street in
which the detestable tavern stands. He even dislikes the idea of having
to go back for his chest; which, however, he must some time do.
Meanwhile what is to become of him for the remainder of that night?
Where is he to obtain supper, and a bed? About the latter he cares the
least; and having had no dinner and but a spare breakfast he is hungry--
half-famished--and could eat a pound or two of the saltest and toughest
junk ever drawn out of a ship's cask.
In this unhappy frame of body as of mind he strays on along the street.
There is no lack of food before his eyes, almost within reach of his
hand; but only to tantalise, and still further whet the edge of his
appetite. Eating-houses are open all around him; and under their
blazing gas-jets he can see steaming dishes, and savoury joints, in the
act of being set upon tables surrounded by guests seeming hungry as
himself, but otherwise better off. He, too, might enter there without
fear of being challenged as an intruder; for among the men inside are
many in coarse garb, some of them not so respectably apparelled as
himself. But what would be the use of his going into a restaurant
without even a penny in his pockets? He could only gaze at dishes he
may not eat, and dare not call for. He remembers his late discomfiture
too keenly to risk having it repeated.
Thus reflecting, he turns his back upon the tables so temptingly spread,
and keeps on along the street.
Again the double question recurs: Where is he to get supper, and where
sleep?
And again he regrets not having given his confidence to the young
gentlemen, and told them of the "fix" he was in. Either would have
relieved him on the instant, without a word. But it is too late now to
think of it, or hope seeing them in the streets. By this time, in all
likelihood, they have started back to their ship.
How he wishes himself aboard the _Crusader_! How happy he would feel in
her forecastle, among his old shipmates! It cannot be; and therefore it
is idle to ponder upon it.
What on earth is he to do?
A thought strikes him.
It is of the ship-agent whose card Crozier left with him, and which he
has thrust into his coat-pocket. He draws the bit of pasteboard out,
and holds it up to a street-lamp, to make himself acquainted with the
ship-agent's address. The name he remembers, and needs not that.
Though but a common sailor, Harry is not altogether illiterate. The
seaport town where he first saw the light had a public school for the
poorer people, in which he was taught to read and write. By the former
of these elementary branches--supplemented by a smattering of Spanish,
picked up in South American ports--he is enabled to decipher the writing
upon the card--for it is in writing--and so gets the correct address,
both the street and number.
Having returned it to his pocket, he buttons up his dreadnought; and,
taking a fresh hitch at his duck trousers, starts off again--this time
with fixed intent: to find Don Tomas Silvestre.