THE HAPPY HUNCHBACK
The clock on the tower of the ferry building showed fifteen minutes
past nine when Martin dropped off the car at the foot of Market Street.
He paused a moment on the corner, enjoying the never-ending bustle
about the city’s gateway. He had plenty of time—Green Street and the
Black Cruiser, was but a quarter hour’s leisurely walk distant, and
it was then forty-five minutes till ten o’clock. He turned and walked
slowly northward along the Embarcadero.
The wide street was swept by a keen wind, and Martin found the night
even rawer than he had anticipated. But overcoated, he was protected,
and the walk was anything but lonely and uninteresting. To his lively
mind, this night stroll along the famous East Street was a fitting
complement to his strange encounter with the red boatswain of the brig
_Cohasset_, a fitting prelude to the secret business he was engaged
upon.
The very breath of the street was invigorating—the salt tang of the
breeze, the pungent, mingled smell of tar and cordage from the ship
chandleries, the taste of the Orient from the great warehouses,
even the gross smells of the grog-shops, and it set Martin’s blood
a-coursing. It conjured visions of tall ships, wide seas, far ports.
Across the way, at the wharves, great steamers were disgorging. The
rattle of their winches filled the air. On his side of the street, the
sidewalk was thronged with stevedores, stokers, sailors, what not. Each
of the innumerable saloons he passed possessed its wassail group, and
rough ditties boomed out through swinging doors. Great loaded trucks
rumbled by. It was a world that worked and played both night and day.
But as Martin continued northward, the street’s character changed.
The kens and cheap eating-places gave way for the most part to the
warehouses—great brick and concrete fortresses that turned a blank dark
face to the night.
Pedestrians became few, mainly straggling seamen bound for their ships.
Across the way, the steamers at the wharves were smaller, and here and
there loomed the spars of a sailing vessel, a delicate tracery upon the
blue-black starlit sky.
Martin speculated upon these last. The intricate, woofed masses of
wood and cordage captured his fancy. He wondered if by any chance the
boatswain’s ship was over there. He wondered what the brig _Cohasset_
was like. He wondered what the “blessed little mate” was like. He
visioned that surprising person who had such influence over rough
boatswains—a prim little man with mutton chop whiskers, he decided.
Yes, the ‘blessed little mate’ of the brig _Cohasset_ would be a
little, white-crowned, bewhiskered old gentleman, perhaps somewhat
senile and decrepit. It was inherent respect for old age that inspired
the boatswain’s affection.
So musing, Martin came to a by-street that divided two warehouses. He
crossed the alleys, but lingered on the far curb.
The alley was dark, but he noticed some distance down it the outline of
an automobile standing with its lights hooded. He had a passing wonder
at the presence of an apparently deserted machine in such a location,
but it was a subconscious interest.
The next street, he knew, was Green Street. Those lights that shone on
the next corner must mark his destination, the Black Cruiser saloon. He
pulled out his watch; still five and twenty moments before ten o’clock.
As he stood there under a dim street light consulting his timepiece,
there came to his ears out of the darkness just ahead, a voice, a
rich and throaty tenor, singing softly. The sweet sounds pierced his
preoccupation. He looked, and some thirty or forty paces distant
perceived a gnome-like figure perched atop a fire hydrant, at the edge
of the sidewalk.
The figure was little better than a grotesque shadow in the gloom, but
there was no need of light to give definite shape. That pure, musical
voice once heard was not easily forgotten. Martin knew the missing
steward of the brig _Cohasset_ was there before him.
The voice rose and fell in a careless carol, an ancient, lilting, deep
sea chantey.
A roving, a roving,
Since roving’s been my ru-u-in,
I’ll go no more a roving,
With Thee, Fair Maid.
Martin stood entranced. The songster adventured on with the “Amsterdam
Maid,” another stanza and chorus. The soft bell-like tones, the salty
words, the air, like all the chanteys, both sad and reckless, caressed
Martin’s ears like a siren charm. The boatswain’s words, “’E sings
like a blessed angel,” crossed his mind. Rather, a blessed merman! To
Martin, greedy for the oceans and beyond, the ditty seemed the very
whisper of bright and beckoning distance—a whisper of tropic seas, of
spice-scented nights, of blue isles. It heaped fuel on his sea-lust.
His heels itched.
The song ended and was followed by a chuckle, a care-free clucking of
subdued mirth. The singer was evidently in a jovial mood. A few softly
spoken, laughter-tinged words reached Martin.
“The audience is requested to kindly move forward. No extra charge for
box seats. Front row reserved for bald heads. Next show starts right
away. Especially staged for young gentlemen of the law.”
Martin came to himself with a start. The words were addressed to
him. He was the sole audience in sight. And the facetious hunchback
evidently recognized him, remembered him and the fact of his employment
in a law office. Martin was standing beneath the dim glow of a street
lamp, but Little Billy must have very sharp eyes to recognize features
in that half-light.
Martin moved forward promptly. First the weeping boatswain, now the
happy hunchback. It was a night of odd meetings! But Little Billy
seemed not so downcast as the bosun.
“Ah, ha, my amiable acquaintance of the afternoon walks abroad!”
chuckled the voice, as Martin came to a halt beside the hydrant. “Is it
thus he cools a brow fevered of too much Trent and Blackstone?”
“Well, it is a good night for such a cooling,” was Martin’s
good-natured retort.
“True,” admitted the other. “And other things than the law fever the
head—heavy ordnance of cruisers of accursed blackness, the fatal rum
and gum, the devious workings of the Oriental mind, the slithering
about of fat and greasy varlets. Yes, many things fever the brow, and
’tis a good night for a cooling. As witness!”
Martin stared at the other. No reek of alcohol met his nostrils, as
with the boatswain, but, none the less Little Billy’s cryptic jargon
confirmed his suspicions. Also drunk, he reflected. The revered and
gentle old mate of the brig _Cohasset_ would have cause for grief when
his two prodigals came roistering home.
Martin could not make out Little Billy’s features very distinctly;
the hydrant was beyond the street lamp’s circle. But the hunchback’s
body was plain enough—the queer body squatted upon the hydrant, legs
dangling, the ridiculous velvet hat rakishly aslant the large head. The
hunchback’s eyes were bright and alive.
“I can well believe your mind is care-ridden,” bandied Martin, falling
in with the other’s mood. “It must be a wearisome and thankless task to
scatter universal knowledge amidst the brainless. Have you still got
your book? That thing you tried to sell to me?”
“Alas, I must confess I have it not,” was the blithe response. “I
ditched it, sir. It oppressed me to bear about such a store of wisdom.
The marvel of the ages, the compendium of universal knowledge, reposes
in the dust-bin. Mayhap some aspiring dust-man, in whose mind smolders
untaught genius, will chance upon it. It may prepare some dim soul for
future brilliancy—the arts, the crafts, the sciences, are all contained
in that wonderful volume. Who knows, out of that black dust-bin may
rise a radiant glow of light. The janitor, the collector of garbage,
the industrious people who rake over the dumps—there are many chances
of the right hands grasping that printed jewel.”
Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear.
“’Tis a pleasant thought, my legal friend. Ah, I am happy in
contemplation. I may not have lived in vain.”
Martin grinned.
“You certainly are an optimist,” he said. “But why did you cast such a
wonderful gem aside?”
“Alas, the grossness of the commercial classes, the brutality of the
tired business man! We Americans are a rude folk my friend; the
courtesies are absent from our manners. Now, I am a young man with
tender feelings, both mental and—er, physical. And these trousers I
wear have already rendered long and faithful service; they have arrived
at the stage where they require, let us say, humoring. The oft
repeated impact of a number ten boot upon such delicate fabric could
have naught but dire results. I discarded the book, sir, and resigned
my membership in the peripatetic brotherhood, to avert a catastrophe.
Both cloth and nerves were frayed. I am a cheerful youth, but
sensitive, and I require considerate treatment to be happy. Ah, you
are laughing! Never mind, I like people who laugh—like great Caesar,
I would have them about me.”
“Pardon me,” gulped Martin. “I was just thinking how aptly the bosun
described you. ‘’Ow ’e can chew the rag!’ he said. And you can.”
“The bosun!” exclaimed the other. “Did I understand you to say ‘the
bosun’? Can it be you have met my heart’s chum, my dear bosun?”
“You bet I did!” replied Martin emphatically. “And I was lucky to end
the encounter with a whole skin. Hasty man, your dear bosun!”
“’Tis true,” admitted Little Billy. “He requires coddling, does my
bosun. Red hair always does. My bosun has a tender heart, and he is a
creature of impulse. Beneath that rough exterior surges the artistic
temperament. But tell me, was the bosun, by any chance, inquiring for
one Little Billy?”
“He was,” said Martin. “Not only inquiring for Little Billy, but
weeping for him, fighting for him—and for the larcerated feelings of
the dear mate of the brig _Cohasset_. Of course, I know you are Little
Billy.”
“Your perspicacity is remarkable,” said Little Billy. “I am
discovered. But your news is disturbing. Tears and temper are
pregnant signs with my redheaded friend. You did not, by any chance,
meet him in the city Bastile?”
Martin sketched for the other the scene at Johnny Feiglebaum’s.
“But the bosun had the same misgivings of the police on your account,”
he finished.
“He stated positively you would sleep this night in jail. He gave you
a turbulent character.”
“Base libel,” asserted Little Billy. “Bosun has imagination, but it
functions within narrow limits. He is solely a son of experience. His
idea of a pleasant and well spent evening ashore, is to introduce into
the physical system an indefinite amount of variously tinted alcohol,
and then to try a brave whirl of fisticuffs with the scorned minions of
the law. To his understanding there is no other way of spending a
holiday. Hence his solicitude for Little Billy. Of course, thinks he,
Little Billy is off alone a-roistering. Why else should he have given
his bosun the slip?”
“Did you give him the slip?” said Martin. “He thinks he mislaid
you—that is a point in his distress. Did you run away from him to
become a book agent?”
“You do not understand,” stated the hunchback with dignity. “It was
but a manifestation of the wanderlust, at once the curse and the
blessing of my misshapen existence. Behold in me, sir, the rover, the
argonaut, the adventurer!”
He straightened his slouched figure upon its slippery seat and
attempted to strike an oratorical posture. He lost his balance and
lurched sidewise towards Martin. He grasped Martin’s overcoat.
Martin good-naturedly put an arm around the other to steady him.
Little Billy, he guessed, was rendered dizzy by that rum and gum he had
darkly hinted at. The hunchback teetered and clung to Martin’s
overcoat. Not for an instant did his tongue cease wagging.
“I am an explorer of strange lands, strange men, strange pursuits,” he
told Martin. “Behold in me a rollicking blade of the sea; one who has
matched wits with all races, all colors, and sometimes, alas, come off
second best; one who has followed many occupations. A sailor—yes. A
book agent—yes. Also, sir, rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief. A
wooz, a wizard, a king of legerdemain. Student, actor—But why
continue?”
He had regained his balance upon his precarious seat by this time, and
he finished with a fine, sweeping gesture:
“In this crippled carcass doth abide a vagabond spirit whose wanderlust
has no purely geographical basis. I wander the wide world over, yes!
Also, I wander in and out of men’s lives, in and out of men’s affairs.
To wander—’tis my excuse for living. A fascinating obsession, sir!”
Martin was charmed. Never had he encountered such a flow of words,
such musical eloquence. What a lawyer this chap would make! But
Martin was also oppressed by his consciousness of the flight of time.
He wanted to linger with his quaint companion; but the time!
He reached for his watch and noted that Little Billy’s clutch had
opened his overcoat. He struck a match and discovered it was four
minutes to ten—four minutes to reach the next corner. He could make
it in two, still it was time he was moving.
“I must leave you,” he said to Little Billy. “I’ve an errand to that
saloon on the corner. Wait for me; I’ll be back this way in a few
moments, and we’ll go get a bite together.”
“Would that I could,” said Little Billy. “But I, too, must depart. My
ship awaits.”
“Well, then, so long,” said Martin. “You know where I work, Little
Billy, look me up sometime. Be glad to see you. I won’t forget this
meeting.”
“Good-by. No, you’ll not forget this meeting,” responded the
hunchback. He slipped down from his perch and shook hands. “No,” he
repeated, “you’ll remember me all right.”
Martin strode for the corner, and the Black Cruiser. Little Billy
ambled across the street towards the dark wharves, and as he went he
whistled blithely.
The street was empty. Martin passed but one living being during the
rest of his journey. This was a figure in a gray greatcoat and cap,
who lounged against a telegraph pole across the street from Martin’s
destination. The gray figure stared steadily towards the wharves;
Martin passed it by almost without notice.