Lock quite alone at his post in the billiard-room at the “Royal William
Hotel.”
Mr. Dobb at once put to Mr. Lock a direct question.
“Well, I don’t know,” murmured Mr. Lock, reflectively. “There’s two or
three of ’em. ’Specially at billiards. But, on the whole, I should say
that Sinnett is. Come to think of it, I’m pretty certain he is. I don’t
know where you’d find a bigger, anyway.”
“Ah, but does ’e think ’e’s smart?” asked Mr. Dobb. “That’s the kind of
mug _I’m_ after.”
“He’s the sort what’s so busy thinking about his cleverness,” replied Mr.
Lock, “that he don’t have a moment to spare for finding out what a fool
he really is.”
“That’s the sort what’s good for trade,” declared Mr. Dobb,
appreciatively. “’E’s just the kind of chap I’m needing.”
“What’s the game this time?” asked Mr. Lock.
“Hidols’ heyes,” said Mr. Dobb. “I been reading a book,” he continued in
response to Mr. Lock’s uncomprehending stare. “And there was a hidol in
it what ’ad real hemerald heyes, and this ’ere hidol was stole from a
temple somewhere out foreign by a couple of chaps what didn’t know about
its heyes, and there wasn’t half some murders and niggers and things in
it.”
“Why, that’s a old, old plot,” said Mr. Lock, disparagingly. “You’re
losing your dash, ’Orace. Fancy you having to go to books to learn
anything!”
“P’r’aps it’ll be a noo enough plot so far as this ’ere Mr. Sinnett is
concerned,” observed Mr. Dobb, unruffled.
He tarried some while longer in intimate discussion with Mr. Lock, and
then departed to interview another member of the translated crew of the
obsolete “Jane Gladys,” in the plump and venerable person of Mr. Samuel
Clark, the ferryman.
Mr. Clark, perceiving the advent of Mr. Dobb, came forward to greet him
with marked expectancy.
“Sam, do you know a chap called Sinnett—Mr. George Sinnett?” queried Mr.
Dobb.
“Squeaky voice, leather gaiters, nose like a fox?” sketched Mr. Clark.
“That’s ’im.”
“_Know_ ’im? I _’ate_ ’im!” stated Mr. Clark.
“Just as well,” sagely remarked Mr. Dobb. “Nothing like a bit of feeling
to make a man sincere in his hefforts.”
“Meaning—”
“Why, this ’ere Sinnett is the next down on our list, Sam,” announced Mr.
Dobb. “’E’s down for a Hindian hidol—fifteen pounds.”
“And us?” quickly asked Mr. Clark.
“’Alf of it between the three of you,” promised the master-mind of the
confederacy. “I can hafford to be generous. It only cost me
three-and-six.”
“Brummagem?” next inquired Mr. Clark.
“Oh, no,” denied Mr. Dobb, flippantly. “Real native Hindian work—that’s
why I give such a ’igh price for it.”
“And Sinnett’s going to pay fifteeen quid for it?” raptly cried Mr.
Clark. “Oh, ’appy day! A dozen times ’ave I ferried ’im across, and
never so much as a a’penny for a tip! And then ’e ’ad the sauce to say
that the fare ought to be less at low tide, because the distance ain’t so
far!”
“Never mind,” said Mr. Dobb, “everything comes to ’im ’oo don’t mind
laying low for a bit. What’s ’is ’ouse of call, do you know?”
“The ‘Flag and Pennant’ yonder, when ’e ain’t trying to play billiards at
the ‘Royal William.’”
“Another thing,” mentioned Mr. Dobb. “’Ave you got any old scars or
wounds on you?”
“There’s this old cut on the back of my ’and, what I done that night I
was shaving in the fo’c’sle when Alf Runnett come down and tickled me,
playful, because ’is gal ’ad gone off with some one else.”
“Just right,” said Mr. Dobb, examining the cicatrice; and forthwith
adopted a preceptory attitude towards the stout ferryman.
Mr. Clark, at the end of ten minutes of instruction, asked a few
questions to dispel one or two uncertainties of mind, and then professed
a complete trust in his ability to carry out Mr. Dobb’s directions. Mr.
Dobb, after satisfying himself by something in the nature of a rehearsal
that Mr. Clark’s confidence was well founded, then passed on for the
purpose of seeking an interview of connective interest with Mr. Joseph
Tridge, fourth member of the confederacy established long ago in the
bowels of the inglorious “Jane Gladys.”
That same evening Mr. George Sinnett was taking his ease in the
bar-parlour of the “Flag and Pennant” when Mr. Samuel Clark entered the
apartment a little precipitously and flung himself into a chair beside
Mr. Sinnett.
“Never mind!” passionately remarked Mr. Clark. “I’ll get me rights yet!
Fair’s fair, ain’t it, Sinnett?”
Mr. Sinnett turned and regarded the ferryman with considerable coldness,
for Mr. Clark was presumptuously flinging a bridge across a well-defined
social space. Mr. Sinnett, noting that the ferryman was a little glassy
of orb and rather reckless about the disposition of his legs, frowned
unencouragingly and looked away again.
“Fair’s fair!” again asserted Mr. Clark, dogmatically. “’Im and me was
both in it, and that’s what I got for a start-off! Look!”
Mr. Sinnett aloofly disdained the invitation, and next became aware that
the back of a huge hand was floating to and fro a few inches below his
nose.
“You look at that afore it slips!” directed Mr. Clark, forcefully. “See
that scar? That’s what I got for _my_ share.”
“Indeed,” said Mr. Sinnett, not quite comfortably.
“In-blooming-deed!” asserted Mr. Clark. “Just as I was climbing over the
railings of the temple.”
“Temple? What temple?” asked Mr. Sinnett puzzled.
“Ah, I ain’t such a fool as to tell you that!” vaunted Mr. Clark. “But
the nigger on guard gave me a lick across the back of the ’and with ’is
sword, and— My chum got away all right, though. At least, ’e was my
chum in those days. But _now_—”
Mr. Clark concluded his sentence with a deep-throated snarl, eloquent of
hatred, contempt, and smouldering fury.
Mr. Sinnett, for lack of more intelligent comment, sipped at his glass in
a non-committal way.
“Ah, it’s a sailor’s life for fun and hadventure!” cried Mr. Clark; and
uttered a few tuneful roulades bearing upon his statement.
“’Ere!” he said, ceasing suddenly to be lyrical and leaning forward to
address Mr. Sinnett in a kind of large confidence. “There’s people fool
enough to think that I’m ’anging about Shore’aven just to work the ferry!
They thinks _that_, they do. Let ’em, says I. So much the better.”
“Well, what _are_ you doing here?”
Mr. Clark bent a little further forward and impressively tapped Mr.
Sinnett on the knee.
“_’E’s_ ’ere!” he whispered.
“_He_? Who?”
“Why, the chap I’ve been telling you about. The chap ’oo ’elped me to
steal the hidol out of that sacred temple. Run away with it, ’e did, but
I been tracking ’im down all these years, and now I’ve found ’im! And if
he ain’t got that hidol still—”
“Valuable, is it?” asked Mr. Sinnett, intrigued.
“Can’t say. ’Im and me only sneaked it for a lark, only them niggers
took it so serious. It don’t look vallyble, any’ow. Just a fat thing
with a fat face and a couple of bits of green glass for heyes. ’Tain’t
as if it was made of gold, as you could see at a glance. There wasn’t
’alf a outcry when we took it, though. After us, they was, for ever so
long, and we ’ad to—to take to the jungle to give ’em the slip. And
then, one night while I was asleep, my chum took the hidol out of my
pocket and ’ooked off with it.”
“And you followed him?” asked Mr. Sinnett, with lively interest.
“Everywhere! Worst of it was, wherever I follered ’im, ’e’d ’ad about a
year’s start. But at last I’ve found ’im, and—”
With a species of incredulous annoyance at his own garrulity, Mr. Clark
stopped abruptly and rose from his chair.
“You been letting me say more than I ought to!” he remarked, severely.
“Oh, no!” returned Mr. Sinnett, smoothly. “Why, you have not even told
me the name of—”
“No; and I ain’t going to, neither!” truculently interrupted Mr. Clark;
and marched from the apartment.
“Queer!” murmured Mr. Sinnett. “Very queer!”
A little later in the evening that gentleman, directing his course
homeward by accustomed paths, came to a length of quiet, ill-lit
thoroughfare, and here he found himself beholding the unusual. For, in
the very middle of the roadway, he could clearly discern two men, who
grappled earnestly with each other, swaying this way and that in furious
embrace, and yet preserving an eerie and almost complete silence.
For some moments, Mr. Sinnett viewed this phenomenon in amazement, and
then he hurried forward. His advent appeared to alarm the antagonists,
for, as soon as he drew near, they parted. One of them, presenting a
stout figure tolerably familiar to Mr. Sinnett, ran clumsily away down
the road; the other man, breathing exhaustedly, stood fumbling at his
collar in a dazed way. Mr. Sinnett, peering at his features through the
gloom, discovered him to be the man who kept the Magnolia Toilet Saloon,
one Mr. Joseph Tridge, to wit.
“What’s the game?” demanded Mr. Sinnett.
“No game,” puffed Mr. Tridge. “Dead serious!”
“Wasn’t that the ferryman?”
“Eh?” cried Mr. Tridge, guiltily. “No—oh, no! It wasn’t ’im. It wasn’t
anybody _you’d_ know. It—it wasn’t anybody _I_ know!”
“But I’m certain— Did he attack you sudden? Why didn’t you call for the
police?”
“We—we’d rather not ’ave the p’lice mixed up with it. It’s a—a private
affair. I—I’m all right now.”
Mr. Tridge then stumbled dizzily against the other man.
“Here—here!” cried Mr. Sinnett, in concern. “Why, man, you’re shaking
all over! Here, take my arm and lean on me. The ‘Cutlass and Cannon’ is
quite close; you’d better have something there to pick you up and pull
you together.”
Mr. Tridge lurched again, most convincingly, and Mr. Sinnett, with many
encouraging remarks, began to lead him towards the tavern he had named.
“All the same,” muttered Mr. Tridge, hazily, “’e—’e didn’t get it.”
“Get what?”
“Oh, nothing—nothing! I—I wasn’t thinking.”
A minute or so after they reached the “Cutlass and Cannon.” Here Mr.
Tridge, with obvious effort, forced himself to a normal deportment, thus
escaping the curiosity of the few patrons present in the tap-room. Under
direction of Mr. Sinnett, he sat down in a quiet corner, and soon, under
the influence of his companion’s prescription, became quite animated. A
second potion having been swallowed, and a third ordered, to make quite
sure that the required dose should lack nothing in strength, Mr. Sinnett
coughed delicately and addressed Mr. Tridge in winning accents.
“You were telling me just now, when—when you were taken queer out in the
road—that that ferryman didn’t get what he was after.”
“Did I tell you it was the ferryman? I never meant to.”
“Oh, well, you did! But there’s no harm done. A secret is a secret with
me. Same as I shan’t tell anyone,” continued Mr. Sinnett, watching his
companion very closely, “that what he was after was an Indian idol.”
Mr. Tridge started violently. “’Ow did you know _that_?” he asked.
“Why, you told me so yourself. Don’t you remember?” returned Mr.
Sinnett, with a disarming smile.
“No; I—I don’t remember. My ’ead was going round and round, and— Well,
I _am_ a mug!”
He raised his glass and emptied it. Mr. Sinnett, eyeing him with
intensity, immediately had the measure refilled.
“After all,” said Mr. Tridge, defensively, “it’s as much mine as ’is!”
“Quite,” readily agreed Mr. Sinnett. “Oh, quite!”
“’E tried to serve me a dirty trick,” said Mr. Tridge, placing an
argumentative forefinger on Mr. Sinnett’s necktie, “and _I_ served ’im
one instead. See? That’s fair, ain’t it?”
“Certainly,” acquiesced Mr. Sinnett, with a straining quality of
helpfulness underlying his tone. “Fair is fair, all the world over, of
course!”
“’Course it is. And, mind you, I’m hobstinit. If ’e’d come to me, fair
and reasonable, in the first place— You see what I mean? But ’e didn’t.
Same as them nigger chaps what ’ave follered me about from time to time,
wanting to buy it back. I told ’em once I wouldn’t sell it, and what I
says I sticks to. See?”
“Clear as clear. When your mind’s made up, it’s made up.”
“That’s me,” accepted Mr. Tridge, complacently. “Follered me all over the
place, they ’ave and hoffered me any amount of money for it. But I ain’t
a wobbler. What I says I sticks to. See? Let’s ’ave another!”
“Yes, let’s,” agreed Mr. Sinnett, eagerly.
“Tried to steal it off me, them niggers ’ave,” said Mr. Tridge,
disdainfully, after the rites consequent on a further libation had been
observed. “But I’m a match for _them_ any day. And they talks about
sticking me next time they come across me. Let ’em try that on, that’s
all!”
“But why do you think they are so anxious to get it back? What do they
want to—”
“Hidol!” sagely returned Mr. Tridge, with an explanatory wave of his
glass. “What they says their prayers to. Sort of—sort of marscutt, you
know. You know, if you ’ad a marscutt and you lost it, ’ow everything
’ud seem to go wrong for you? Not that it’s brought me much luck.”
“Perhaps these niggers you spoke of was at the back of it?” suggested Mr.
Sinnett.
“Maybe,” said Mr. Tridge, with sublime carelessness. “There was always a
nigger around whenever things went wrong, anyway. But I’m a British
seaman, I am, and I don’t take no notice of niggers. See? And I’m
surprised as _you_ should, either!”
“I—I wasn’t thinking,” apologized Mr. Sinnett. “But tell me—do you think
perhaps the idol is valuable?”
Mr. Tridge noisily laughed the notion to scorn.
“You ought to see it!” he cried. “Just a figger of fun made of brass,
with bits of green glass for eyes.”
Mr. Sinnett sat vigilantly upright.
“Oh, but are you sure they _are_ glass?” he asked.
“Why, what else _could_ they be?” returned Mr. Tridge.
“They—they might—” began Mr. Sinnett, and then checked himself.
“Er—quite so,” he ended, belatedly. “What else _could_ they be?”
Mr. Tridge, carelessly flicking the question out of the range of further
consideration, now stated that he felt quite recovered from the attack
that had been made upon him, and earnestly besought Mr. Sinnett to
maintain silence as to the incident, if for no other reason than for the
good repute of the Magnolia Toilet Saloon.
“I been wild in my time,” confessed Mr. Tridge, “but I don’t want folks
to think that I’m the rough character I used to be. See? And now
good-night, and thank ’ee.”
He steered for the door. Mr. Sinnett, with a kindly smile, insisted on
accompanying him.
“You—you might be took bad again,” he urged, linking arms with him.
“I’ll come your way and see you safe home.”
And this he very charitably did. Mr. Tridge, although leaning heavily on
his companion’s supportive arm, none the less otherwise ignored the
presence of Mr. Sinnett. Moved by contact with the open air to a
reflective mood, Mr. Tridge, as he walked, growled aloud a resentful
epitome of his conversation in the “Cutlass and Cannon,” coming back
again and again to dwell on his firmness in refusing to part with his
booty. Arrived at the door of his lodgings, he found his latchkey, and
then turned to his escort.
“’Ullo, where did _you_ spring from?” he asked, dully.
“I’ve been seeing you home,” replied Mr. Sinnett, in benevolent accents.
“Like your cheek!” grunted Mr. Tridge. “Ne’ mind! Jolly good fellow!
Mush ’bliged! Goo’ night!”
He opened the door, and was passing over the threshold, when Mr. Sinnett
addressed him a little desperately.
“Ain’t you—ain’t you going to ask me in?” he queried.
“No!” said Mr. Tridge, flatly. “You leave me ’lone!”
“I—I’d like to have a look at that idol you was talking about. Just—just
see it, you know.”
“Hidol?” exclaimed Mr. Tridge, staring about him alarmedly. “What hidol?
I don’t know nothing about no hidol!”
“Oh, but you’ve been telling me—”
“I ain’t never seen no hidol, not nowhere!” declared Mr. Tridge. “I
don’t know what you’re talking about! Hidol, hindeed! ’Ere,” he
quavered, “’ave I been fool enough to— But that’s all right! I know I
ain’t—I’ve only jus’ met you this very minute, and I ain’t ’ad time to.
Well, goo’ ni’, old chum!”
He leered owlishly upon Mr. Sinnett, shook him by the hand, and lurched
most realistically over the threshold. Quietly he shut the door, and
instantly all inconsequence of manner vanished from him. He stood to
listen to the slow, receding footsteps of Mr. Sinnett, and at that moment
the two gentlemen exhibited exactly the same exultant expression of
countenance.
“We got ’im!” remarked Mr. Tridge to himself, with vast satisfaction.
“Talk about sheer _luck_!” joyously murmured Mr. Sinnett, as he walked
away. “George, my boy, you’re on the track of something good! Why, it’s
like one of them old detective tales come true!”
For the ensuing portion of the week, Mr. Sinnett’s everyday pursuits
suffered neglect, for that worthy had apparently conceived an obsession
to have either Mr. Tridge or Mr. Clark continually under observation.
And so for each of several mornings he entered the Magnolia Toilet Saloon
and sat him down on the bench where those waited who required Mr.
Tridge’s professional services.
Here Mr. Sinnett would become so engrossed in the newspaper that he would
waive his turn for attention till he was the only patron remaining. And
when he had no further pretext for lingering, he would be shaved, and
then go off to the ferry, where he would be needlessly rowed across the
ferry and return by that conveyance almost immediately.
And in the afternoon he would find that he had need of toilet soap, or a
bottle of hair-oil, and he would repair to Mr. Tridge’s establishment to
procure such article, making the matter of purchase as protracted a
business as possible. And then he would saunter down to the ferry and,
alleging that sea air was good for him, be taken several consecutive
journeys across the river under the impulse of Mr. Clark’s sculls.
And in the evening he would visit the “Flag and Pennant” inn, or such
other tavern as might be extending its hospitality to Mr. Tridge or Mr.
Clark, and here he would laboriously contrive desultory conversation with
one or other of them until doors had to be closed, when his way would
strangely coincide with the homeward path of that gentleman of the twain
in whose society closing-time had found him.
But never a word was there spoken of an idol of any sort. Twice or
thrice Mr. Sinnett had broached Imperialism as a topic of conversation,
being thus enabled to allude to India in a natural, unforced way. But
mention of that empire had instantly caused both Mr. Tridge and Mr. Clark
to look suspicious and markedly avoid any development of the subject, so
that Mr. Sinnett had to travel warily back, by way of Canada and
Australia and New Zealand, to shallower waters.
And, for their part, Mr. Tridge and Mr. Clark bore the partiality of Mr.
Sinnett for their society with nothing but a nice air of gratitude for
patronage. Not once did either of them make allusion to that recent
evening when they had shown him something of the inner side of their
confidence. And Mr. Sinnett was glad that this should be so, for
clearly, he argued, it showed that the conversations had had no abiding
place in their memories. Wherefore, then, he cultivated their company,
waiting for a chance word to swell the bulk of his secret information and
give him assistance in turning this knowledge to his own profit.
“Ever seen a cat waiting outside a mouse-’ole? That’s ’im!” Mr. Clark
privately reported to Mr. Horace Dobb.
“A bit of waiting don’t do no ’arm,” said Mr. Dobb, sagaciously. “The
more time ’e spends the less ’e’ll like to think that it might ’ave been
wasted.”
So that it was not till one evening in the middle of the following week
that Mr. Sinnett was thrilled by a further unwinding of the spool of
adventure.
On that night, neither Mr. Clark nor Mr. Tridge were to be discovered in
accustomed haunts, and Mr. Sinnett, fearful of this coincidence, went
from hostelry to hostelry in feverish search. Returning to the “Royal
William Hotel” for a second time, he again questioned the
billiard-marker.
“No, Mr. Tridge ain’t been in here yet, sir,” Mr. Lock replied. “In
fact, I was just wondering whether you’d come across him anywhere.
There’s been some one inquiring very eager after him since you was here a
hour ago.”
“Who was it—that ferryman?”
“No, sir; a dark gentleman.”
“A—a nigger?” exclaimed Mr. Sinnett.
“Well, yes; except that he was dressed quite respectable,” acquiesced Mr.
Lock. “Oh, very respectable indeed. He looked as if he might be pretty
well off at home.”
“Did he say he wanted to see Tridge important?”
“Very important, so he said, sir. He said something about only just
having managed to find out where he was, and about a boat sailing back
almost immediate.”
“Um-m-m,” commented Mr. Sinnett, and thoughtfully began to stroke his
chin. “Did he—did the nigger say where he was stopping, or anything like
that?”
“No, sir. I told him where Mr. Tridge lodged, and—”
“Oh, you shouldn’t have done that!”
“No, sir? Why not?”
“Oh, because—”
Mr. Sinnett, without furnishing the explanation, stopped short, for Mr.
Tridge had just entered the room. Conspicuously bandaged was Mr.
Tridge’s right hand, and a huge asterisk of sticking-plaster decorated
his left cheek.
“’Ad a bit of a haccident,” he returned, evasively, when Mr. Sinnett
asked a surprised question. “Cut meself.”
“How?” further inquired Mr. Sinnett.
“With a knife,” said Mr. Tridge.
“Whatever was you a-doing of, sir?” asked Mr. Lock.
“What the devil’s that got to do with you?” roared Mr. Tridge. “You shut
up and mind your own business!”
“Sorry, sir,” humbly apologized Mr. Lock. “By the way, sir, there was a
dark gent inquiring for you.”
“I know,” said Mr. Tridge, curtly. “I met ’im!”
And now the door opened, and the visage of Mr. Clark stared round it.
Vengeful and gloating was the stout ferryman’s face, and he nodded with
malevolent satisfaction at Mr. Tridge.
“Ah, ’e told me ’e ’ad!” he cried. “Good luck to ’im!”
“You get out!” shouted Mr. Tridge, passionately. “Else I’ll serve you
like I did ’im!”
“Pooh, ’e was only shamming!” retorted Mr. Clark. “’E got up again and
walked away soon as you’d gone.”
“Well, shut up, anyway!” ordered Mr. Tridge, with a warning scowl.
“Don’t you think you’ve said more than enough already?”
“Them?” said Mr. Clark, glancing carelessly at Mr. Sinnett and Mr. Lock.
“They don’t know nothing.”
“Oh, well, ’e didn’t get it, anyway!” declared Mr. Tridge.
“’E’ll get it all right in the end,” prophesied Mr. Clark, darkly. “You
mightn’t get off so lucky next time.”
“’E’ll never get it,” stated Mr. Tridge, with dour confidence.
“Not if you deals fair by me,” said Mr. Clark. “P’r’aps he won’t, then,
not against the two of us.”
“I’ve told you I ain’t sharing, once and for all!” bellowed Mr. Tridge.
“All right!” growled Mr. Clark. “You’ll be sorry. I could tell you
something if I liked. Made _me_ sit up when I ’eard it, anyway. Look
’ere, I give you fair warning—in future it’s either to be me and you, or
me and _’im_! Take your choice. Anyway, after what I’ve learnt
to-night, I’m going to be _in_ it, some-’ow!”
“Nothing doing!” announced Mr. Tridge, stoutly.
“All right,” said Mr. Clark, in the most sinister fashion. “Don’t say I
didn’t warn you!”
He withdrew. Mr. Tridge began to whistle a little flatly, as though
unaware of the absorbed gaze bent upon him by the other two men present.
“Reminds me—letter to post!” ejaculated Mr. Sinnett, suddenly; and
followed after Mr. Clark, in a state of the keenest excitement.
Mr. Clark had proceeded but as far as the tap-room of the “Royal
William,” and here Mr. Sinnett unostentatiously took up a strategic
position in the chair next to him. For some while Mr. Clark displayed an
introspective moodiness, sipping at his refreshment and nodding his head
with the same grim air of determination.
But presently he turned towards Mr. Sinnett, and, after eyeing him
cautiously, addressed him in the gruff tones of one determined to check
any unnecessary extension of talk.
“’Ow much is hemeralds worth?” he asked.
“Emeralds?” fluttered Mr. Sinnett. “Emeralds?” He paused to strive for
greater self-control.
“That’s what I said,” observed Mr. Clark, surlily. “Hemeralds. You
know, them green stones.”
“It—it depends.”
“I see,” said Mr. Clark, and pointedly turned his shoulder to Mr.
Sinnett.
“How—how big are they?” ventured Mr. Sinnett.
“Both of ’em are a pretty fair size,” said Mr. Clark. “But it don’t
matter. I—I was only just wondering. See?”