THE WEEPING BOATSWAIN
Martin lived at Mrs. Meagher’s Select Board for Select People
establishment, far out in the western addition. He was star boarder,
and as such made free with Mrs. Meagher’s little private parlor. A fire
always burned there on cool evenings, and moreover, he escaped the
ragtime that nightly filled the community room where the piano was, the
interminable arguments anent the European war, and the coy advances of
the manicure lady.
In that little room Martin spent his best hours. It was there he
retreated to read his favorite fiction, red-blooded and exciting
stories, without exception. It was there he lived a life apart, a life
in a strange and desirable environment. For Martin always identified
himself with the sprightly hero of the evening’s tale. He, Martin
Blake, suffered, despaired, triumphed, and galloped off with the
heroine. And when the story’s end was reached, he returned to the drab
reality of his existence with revolt in his soul.
“You worm, you well-fed, white-faced office grub!” he told himself.
“Why don’t you do something? Why don’t you get out of the rut? You have
no responsibilities; you are foot loose! Then why don’t you get out
there, where adventure is, where things happen!”
But then would come the rub. Where was “out there,” and how reached by
a pen-driving clerk?
After supper, Martin carried his magazine into the private parlor and
ensconced himself before the grate fire. He read a yarn of ships and
mutinies and treasure trove—hot stuff!
But there was a fly in the ointment of Martin’s content. Of late,
his sanctuary was not always inviolate. On the occasion of the past
Christmas, an absent and fiendish-minded nephew had presented Mrs.
Meagher with a phonograph. This instrument of torture Mrs. Meagher
installed in the little parlor, and at frequent intervals she sat
herself down before it and indulged in a jamboree of musical noise.
But this night Martin hoped for quiet. Mrs. Meagher had seemed busily
engaged recounting rheumatic symptoms to Mary, the cook, and Martin
knew from bitter experience that the recital usually occupied an hour
and a half. Then, there was a good chance the matron would betake her
buxom person bedward without visiting the parlor.
Luck smiled. Martin planned to read until nine o’clock before leaving
the house to carry out the mission of his employer. He had no mind to
leave sooner, for a keen, April wind ruled outdoors San Francisco that
night.
He did read until eight o’clock, and then a rustle heralded the
approach of the storm and diverted his attention from the printed page.
Mrs. Meagher sailed into the room, her ample figure clothed in her best
black silk house gown. Martin’s spirits sank to zero—she always donned
this funeral drapery before operating the infernal contraption in the
corner.
Mrs. Meagher dropped into her rocking-chair and groaned tentatively.
Martin read desperately. He knew as long as he kept his eyes upon
his book she was much too considerate to disturb him, and between
phonographic noise and rheumatic reminiscence, he chose the former as
being escapable.
The good woman hitched her chair over to the machine. Martin writhed
in spirit. It was not that he was insensible to harmony, even though
canned. He was quite receptive while a booming basso rang the bell in
the lighthouse, dingdong. He was even stoical when the sextette brayed
forth the sorrows of Lucia. But the while a dread clutched him.
Mrs. Meagher had a favorite record. She played it regularly, and wept
cheerfully at each performance. The piece was anathema to Martin.
He watched the old lady out of the corners of his eyes. She searched
her record case and arose triumphant. The well-hated, jangling prelude
filled the room. Martin dropped his book and accomplished a swift and
silent exit.
In the hallway, the manicure lady bobbed her suspiciously yellow head
and smiled provocatively. Martin fled to the cloak-rack near the door.
Hurriedly he donned top-coat and hat. Until he finally closed the front
door behind him, a tinny wail poured out of the little parlor and
assailed his ears, a reedy soprano declaiming passionately that she had
raised no son of hers to the profession of arms.
Martin sighed with profound relief as he slammed that door. He thus
shut behind him such disagreeable facts as favorite ballads and
peroxide blondes. It was like shunting a burden off his shoulders.
He stood a moment on the stoop, under the area light, drawing on his
gloves and regarding the night. A night of bright stars, but no moon. A
sharp, windy night, he shivered even beneath his overcoat, but the air
tasted good and fresh. The darkness charitably covered the respectable
ugliness of the neighborhood. Under the twinkling street-lamps the
commonplace street assumed a foreign and even romantic air.
Martin’s spirits mounted. Was he not setting forth on an errand of
mystery? Why, something might happen to a fellow on such a night!
Something did happen, and at once, though Martin attached no importance
to the event at the time. Standing there under the area light, Martin
drew forth the envelope that was the occasion of his errand, to assure
himself by evidence of eyesight that it was still in existence. He
thrust it into the inside pocket of his overcoat, as being a safe and
handy receptacle. As he did so, a suppressed sneeze made him aware he
was not alone upon the stairway. Somebody was on the stoop before the
house next door.
Mrs. Meagher’s establishment was housed in the half of a three-story
structure. All of the houses of the block were thus built in pairs.
Only a balustrade separated their front steps.
Now Martin knew the house next door was vacant. Even in the darkness,
he could discern the real estate agent’s sign in the front window.
Hence his surprise in beholding a man pressing the doorbell of the
empty house—for that, he discerned, was what the person who sneezed was
doing.
“For whom are you looking?” called Martin. “That house is empty. Don’t
you see the sign!”
Without a word, the man turned and ran lightly down the steps, and set
off at a smart pace down the street. Martin noticed the fellow wore a
long gray overcoat and cap, and that he seemed remarkably light upon
his feet.
“Queer,” thought Martin. “Didn’t seem drunk. Maybe a tramp looking for
lodgings. Didn’t look like a tramp, though.”
And then, as he set out for the corner and the street-car, the incident
slipped from his mind.
No street-car was in sight, and Martin withdrew to the friendly lee of
the House of Feiglebaum to await its coming. Here, pressed against the
window, he was sheltered from the wind that swept around the corner.
The front of the House of Feiglebaum was at that hour dark, but a few
yards distant a light blazed over the entrance to the other and more
profitable part of Feiglebaum’s business. Johnny Feiglebaum was part of
an industry indigenous to San Francisco—he kept a combination grocery
store and saloon, the latter a quiet place that was stranger to mixed
drinks and hilarity. It was sort of a neighborhood rendezvous; most of
the henpecked husbands of the district sought haven there, and surcease
of care with cribbage and pale beer.
Martin debated whether or not to enter and join in a game with one of
this subdued brotherhood; he had two hours, almost, to spend ere he was
due at the Black Cruiser. He decided against it as being too mild a
pastime for his mood. He felt fit for adventure, this night.
An extra keen gust of wind swept around the corner and invaded Martin’s
refuge. He shrank back into the dark doorway in search of a warmer
retreat. He backed against something soft, something alive. He swung
about with words of apology on his tongue for the prior occupant of the
shelter.
His startled gaze encountered a broad back. A man stood there in the
far corner of the doorway, his back to the street, his head seemingly
bowed in his arms. A man of such huge proportions, that Martin, but two
inches less than six feet, himself, felt like a pigmy in comparison.
The man’s outline was vague and enhanced by the gloom; Martin,
a-tingle with the unexpected collision, had the first thought it was a
preposterous apparition.
There came a rumble from the giant’s corner. It was a noise as
surprising as the other’s appearance; it checked Martin’s apology. It
was a rumble of parts; it seemed to be compounded of a prodigious sigh,
a strangled sob, and a sneeze. It bespoke misery.
“Sick?” asked Martin.
A groan. Then a series of well-formed sighs. Then the giant turned and
loomed above Martin, snuffling.
“Ow, swiggle me!” rumbled a deep and husky voice. “Ow, I’m in a proper
fix, I am. Ow, where ’as ’e got ’imself to! Ow, why didn’t I die afore
I was born, says I!”
“Why, what is the matter? Come, come!” exclaimed Martin, aghast at the
stricken voice.
The big man teetered to and fro upon his feet. He was perhaps wrestled
by sorrow. But Martin smelled whisky.
“Come, brace up!” he admonished.
“Ow, strike me, I’m in for it, I am!” came the plaintive growl. “I’ve
gone an’ lost ’im, I ’ave; I’ve gone an’ lost Little Billy. Can’t find
’im, can’t find ’im in the bloomin’ town. I’ve looked in a thousand
bleedin’ pubs, I ’ave, and I can’t find Little Billy. Walked a blister
on my foot, I ’ave. Ow, swiggle me, what a snorkin’ day I’ve ’ad!”
The words tumbled forth heavy laden with alcohol. Martin could
understand there had been a wet search. The other groaned and strangled.
“Ow, swiggle me stiff!” he ejaculated despairingly. “What am I goin’ to
say to the blessed, bleedin’ little mate!”
“Oh, come now, don’t be down-hearted,” cheered Martin. The man and his
words fell in with Martin’s mood.
Both were unusual—this was better than listening to a phonograph’s
banal wail, or conversing with a giggling manicurist!
“Cheer up, there are many more than a thousand saloons in this city,”
assured Martin. “You have not yet tried them all. There is one in this
building. Have you visited it?”
“In this building! A saloon in this building!” echoed the other. There
was surprise, and much less sorrow in his voice. “Ow, swiggle me stiff,
lad, let’s go ’ave a wet!”
He placed a hand the size of a ham on Martin’s shoulder, lurched out
of the doorway and rolled down the street toward the entrance to
Johnny Feiglebaum’s. He had seemed to divine instantly this particular
saloon’s location.
Martin accompanied the other willingly; he wished to see more of this
strange giant. The streetcar he had been awaiting passed by unregarded.
Martin had the feeling, also, that he would have to accept the big
man’s invitation, whether or no—that huge hand gripped his shoulder
like a vise. Feiglebaum’s was empty of its usual custom; only old
Johnny, himself, from his station behind the bar, witnessed with
scandalized eyes their rather tempestuous entrance.
“Set ’em up for two, matey!” roared Martin’s companion, or rather,
abductor, as soon as they crossed the threshold.
The little German’s answer was a wail of dismay.
“Ach, Himmel, you here again!” he cried at the big man. “Mein Gott! I
thought at last you haf gone! Marty, mein poy, why haf you brought him
back?”
Martin couldn’t answer this obviously unfair question. He was helpless.
The vise squeezed his shoulder cruelly, and only pride prevented him
exclaiming in pain. Squirming increased the pressure. His captor half
led, half dragged him up to the bar, and there released him. Martin
grunted with relief and nursed his misused flesh.
“I’ll ’ave a pot o’ beer, says I!” rumbled the big fellow, slapping his
hand upon the wood with a force that made the glasses jingle in their
racks. “And my friend ’ere—why, ’e’ll ’ave a pot o’ beer, too, says
’e,” he concluded, interpreting Martin’s nod.
Johnny filled the order with alacrity. He evidently stood in awe of
this strange man. But he spluttered indignantly as he set the drinks
upon the bar.
“Why haf you brought dot man back here?” he whispered to Martin
reproachfully. “Ach, he is der deffil’s own! All der evening he haf
been in und oudt, und he drink und drink, und talk und talk and cry
apout his trouble. He haf lost his Beely, his Leedle Beely, und he talk
like I haf stolen him. _Schweinhunde_! Mein Gott, Marty, I would nod
steal him—I would nod haf der _verdumpf_ dog in der blace!”
“A dog! A dog! ‘Oo says ’e’s a dog?” The “_schweinhunde_” had sharp
ears. He pounded the bar with his fist, and his voice boomed like
distant artillery. “’E ain’t no dog! Just let me meet the bloke what
calls Little Billy a dog!” He ignored old Johnny, and glared at Martin
belligerently. “’E’s my mate, is Little Billy, and a proper lad ’e is,
for all ’e ain’t no bigger nor a Portagee man-o-war. A dog! Swiggle me
stiff, that’s a squarehead for you!”
He ended with a snort. Martin hastened to assure him that without doubt
Little Billy was a most proper lad.
The big man received the amends with dignity. His warlike attitude
forsook him. He drooped over his beer and mused darkly. He seemed
oppressed by the denseness of “squarehead” stupidity; he appeared
desolated by the absence of the beloved Little Billy. Martin observed
two big tears roll out of the corners of the other’s eyes, course down
the sides of his nose and splash into the goblet of beer. The man
exuded gloom.
Martin seized his first chance to take stock of the fellow. He gathered
an impression of size and redness. Why, the man must stand six feet
and a half in his boots! A son of Anak! And his head—no wonder the man
had temper. He was afire. A red face, a red mustache that bristled, a
thatch of brick-red hair that protruded from beneath a blue, peaked
cap. His suit was of pilot cloth, and he wore a guernsey. He was
unmistakably a sailor—both words and appearance bespoke the seaman.
Martin was surprised to encounter such a specimen in this remote
section of the city, miles distant from the waterfront.
The despondent one aroused himself. His mooning gaze appeared to
encounter the glass of beer for the first time. He swept the goblet to
his lips and drained it at a gulp. He seemed cheered and refreshed.
“Fill ’em up again,” he rumbled at Johnny. “And set one afore my
friend, ’ere,” he added, with a wide sweep of arm toward Martin.
Martin was interested. He grasped the opportunity to re-open the
conversation.
“Too bad you lost him,” he ventured diplomatically. “But it is probable
he will turn up all right, isn’t it?”
The big man nodded gloomily.
“Ow, yes, ’e’ll turn up all right tomorrow. Safe and sound, ’e’ll sleep
tonight—bleedin’ safe and sound. ’E’ll be in jail. That’s the kind o’
sport Little Billy is—can’t ’ave a nice quiet time like me. In jail,
’e’ll be. Ow, swiggle me, I’m in a proper fix!”
“Why, things are not so bad,” said Martin. “If you know where he will
be in the morning, you can bail him out.”
“In the morning! Bail ’im out!” exclaimed the other. “We can’t wait
till no morning! We got to be aboard tonight, we ’ave! Ow, Lord,
what’ll I say to the blessed mate?”
“Oh, I see, you must return to your ship tonight,” commented Martin. He
was pleased with himself for having judged the man a sailor from the
start.
The sailor nodded his head lugubriously. Two more tears tumbled his
nose’s length. Martin felt like laughing. It was ludicrous to connect
tears and this huge husky with the fierce voice.
The man of the sea resumed his plaint.
“What’ll I say to the mate? What’ll the mate say to me? Aye, that’s it,
what’ll the blessed, bleedin’ little mate say to me? Swiggle me stiff,
I’ll be keelhauled—that’s what’ll ’appen to me! And it all begun so
innercent, too!”
Martin murmured condolences.
“Come ashore on account of it being the mate’s birthday,” confided the
other. “’Ad to sneak ashore—come this morning. Wanted to get a birthday
present, we did. Swiggle me, could anything ’ave begun more innercent!”
“Oh, a birthday present! You must like your officers,” prompted Martin.
“Like! Like! Why, strike me, lad, we love the little mate! Ain’t
anybody on the ’Appy Ship as don’t love the mate, from the Old Man
down.”
“Happy Ship?” said Martin, struck by the words’ connotation. “Is that
the name of your vessel?”
“What we call ’er,” the sailor answered. “’Er name is _Cohasset_—brig
_Cohasset_. I’m bosun, and Little Billy, ’e’s steward, and a prime
steward ’e is.”
The bosun of the brig _Cohasset_ paused and spat stringily.
Martin feared the font of his speech was dried up, and he hurriedly
bade Johnny replenish the glasses. The bosun acknowledged the office
with a lordly gesture. Then his grief overwhelmed him, and he bowed his
head over his glass and sniffed audibly. He cultivated retrospection.
“I ’ad ’im all right at the Ferry Building,” he told Martin tearfully.
“I ’ad Little Billy right enough, there.”
He spoke as if he had Little Billy safely tucked under an arm at the
Ferry Building. He inspected Martin suspiciously, as if Martin might
have the missing steward concealed somewhere about his person.
“We was walking up Market Street,” he continued, “sober as judges,
both. And Billy says a bokay was what we wanted for the little mate’s
birthday. Fine, says I. A bokay of lilies, says ’e, because lilies
means purity. No, says I, they got to be roses, roses meanin’ beauty.
And so we stops into a place or two to talk it over. Swiggle me stiff,
could anything ’ave begun more innercent? Just going to buy a bokay,
that’s what! And now——”
The bosun sighed. He was crushed by the fell consequences of a virtuous
intent.
“Ow, swiggle me, lad, what’ll I say to the bloomin’ little mate, as
trusted me so?” Tears came again to the bosun’s eyes. “The little
mate is goin’ to feel terrible hurt—us sneaking ashore and all,” he
concluded miserably. “Ow, swiggle me, fill ’em up again!”
Martin gulped over his glass. He was astonished. His cherished and
carefully nurtured conception of the iron-souled men of the sea was
receiving knocks. Here was a sailor, a man with all the ear-marks of
a pugilistic temperament, who wept because the tender feelings of the
mate might have been bruised. He vowed he loved the mate, he and his
shipmates! What a queer mate, thought Martin.
Martin knew all about mates. An ardent perusal of the literature of
the sea, from Captain Marryatt to Captain Kettle, had familiarized him
with their character. They were an iron-fisted, brazen-voiced race,
who swanked and swaggered about the decks and knocked the sailormen
galley-west.
The self-reliant and rather disdainful demeanor of the master-mariners
who occasionally visited Smatt’s office had confirmed this
estimate—they had once been mates. Had the boatswain mentioned a fear
of being met on his return to his ship, with a flailing capstan-bar, or
a dish of belaying-pin soup, Martin would have understood. Mates were
hasty men. He could have properly sympathized with the boatswain over
such a prospective fate. He could have given him legal advice as to his
rights. But this mate of the brig _Cohasset_; this mate who commanded
nosegays on natal occasions; this mate who inspired love, and brought
bibulous tears to the eyes of this toping giant!
But another surprise was coming to Martin, one that touched him
intimately. The boatswain slouched over the bar, deep descended
into the slough of despond. Martin wished to renew the interesting
conversation, but hesitated how to begin. Funny chap, this sailor,
rather soft and chicken-hearted.
The boatswain muttered to himself. He was evidently delving into the
clouded realm of memory. Martin caught disconnected words:
“Milly—so innercent. Swiggle me—brown devils——-”
Suddenly the boatswain straightened up and exploded a tremendous oath.
“It was them blighted brown devils!” he swore. “What chance ’as a poor
’unchback against them blasted Japs? They get ’im in ’Onolulu, and,
swiggle me stiff, they get ’im in ’Frisco. It was that blasted shark,
Ichi! It was Ichi, says I, as took Little Billy!”
The boatswain thumped the bar. He was a man who sees a light and likes
It not.
Japanese! Hunchback! Ichi! Martin seemed to see a light, also, a dim,
uncertain light. Perhaps it was the association of words—Japanese,
hunchback, Ichi.
Martin suddenly recalled the hunchback book agent of the afternoon.
In his mind’s eye, he beheld the quaint figure standing before him in
Smatt’s office, while Smatt and Dr. Ichi held conference behind closed
doors. But it seemed preposterous to identify that friendly, glib
little deformed man as the missing Little Billy, as the bosom friend of
this lachrymose viking. And what could this rough seaman know of the
exquisite Dr. Ichi?
The boatswain ceased his vituperation of the Nipponese Empire, and
the men thereof, through sheer lack of breath. Martin grasped the
opportunity.
“Say, what does Little Billy look like?” he queried. “Did you say he
was a hunchback? How was he dressed?”
“’E had on his go-ashore togs,” said the bosun. “’E’s a proper toff,
is Little Billy, when ’e’s dressed up. Yes, ’e’s a ’unchback, but you
don’t notice ’is ’ump after you know ’im. ’E’s a lot straighter than
some without a ’ump—’e’s a white man, is Little Billy. And ’e’s a
proper toff—’e’s eddicated. Swiggle me, ’ow ’e can chew the rag! And
sing! Sings like a blessed angel!”
“Did he wear a black suit and a green velvet hat?” asked Martin.
“Yes, ’e did,” answered the boatswain excitedly. “’Ave you seen him?”
“Yes, this afternoon,” laughed Martin. “You need not worry about your
Little Billy. Neither the police nor the Japs have captured him. He is
improving his chance to pursue the avocation of book salesman.”
Martin recounted his meeting with the purveyor of universal knowledge.
The boatswain listened silently and his red-shot eyes glinted
suspiciously. It seemed to Martin he was not so drunk as a moment since.
“But, say,” finished Martin, “who is this Ichi you mentioned? Do you
know Dr. Ichi?”
“Do I know Dr. Ichi?” echoed the boatswain. “Do I know——”
He glowered at Martin. The query seemed to inflame his temper.
“Do you know Ichi? Hey? Say, do you know Ichi? That’s what I want to
know!” His manner became threatening. “Why, swiggle me stiff, you must
be one o’ them, yourself!”
Assault seemed imminent. Martin backed hurriedly away.
“No, no, you are quite mistaken,” he assured the boatswain. “You may be
sure I am not one of them, whoever they are. I am your friend.”
The boatswain subsided growlingly. He was plainly suspicious—of what,
Martin could not guess. But it was evident that any mention of the name
of Ichi peppered his temper.
If Martin had been a cautious young man he would have let well enough
alone. The boatswain seemed a hasty and a heavy-fisted man. But
Martin’s interest was more than piqued. Here seemed a chance to learn
something about that mysterious Japanese. This sailor appeared to know
him. Some light might even be thrown upon his errand to the Black
Cruiser. The papers in his inside pocket oppressed him with their
secret.
“Perhaps Little Billy is down on the waterfront,” he remarked casually.
“He mentioned to me that he was going to look up a friend on the
Embarcadero—a fellow named Carew. Do you know Captain Carew? At a place
called the Black Cruiser?”
The boatswain received the remark in a most disconcerting manner.
He stiffened and stared at Martin, mouth agape, for an appreciable
instant. He seemed breathless. The semi-paralysis of drunkenness seemed
to flee his face.
“Carew! Did you say Carew?” he at last exclaimed. “Strike me, ’e says
Carew!”
It seemed that the boatswain had received some momentous morsel of
information difficult to digest. Suddenly he smote the bar with his
clenched fist. “Carew—‘Wild Bob’ Carew!” he cried. “And Wild Bob Carew
takes a ’and in this!”
This was progressing!
“Oh, so you know Captain Carew?” prompted Martin.
The boatswain turned. He regarded Martin strangely. His face was set
and stern. He seemed a man for whom the moment of badinage is past and
the moment of action is come.
“You talk of Ichi, and then you talk of Wild Bob Carew!” he said to
Martin. “Swiggle me stiff, young man, you _are_ one o’ them!”
His great hands reached toward Martin. There was annihilation in his
eye. His attitude was a sudden and complete declaration of war.
Martin did not await that onslaught. He started for the door. Fortune
favored him—uncounted potations, perhaps, had rendered the boatswain a
bit unsteady on his pins, and, as he left the support of the bar rail
and lurched for his victim, he lost his balance. He sat down on the
floor with a crash that shook the building.
The boatswain swore, Johnny Feiglebaum emitted a wail as three glasses
bounced off their rack, and Martin kept on going. As he passed through
the door, the boatswain was scrambling agilely to his feet. Martin was
a young man in a hurry.
He sprinted for, and boarded a passing street-car, just as the
boatswain reached the curb. He paid his fare, passed inside the car,
and sank thankfully into a seat. He was aglow with his adventure.
Something to remember, that affair with the weeping boatswain! But what
was the fellow so sudden about?
Thus did Martin consign the boatswain to the limbo of memory. He was
inside the street-car, so he did not see the automobile, driven by a
figure in a gray overcoat and cap, that drew up at the curb beside the
boatswain. Nor did he observe that automobile’s consequent strange
behavior in persistently keeping half a block behind the slowly moving
street-car the whole distance to the waterfront.