|IT was silver light. Inside the reefs the water lay placid and still,
mirroring in a long, shimmering line the reflection of the full tropic
moon; beyond, ever and anon, it splashed against its coral barriers in
little crystal showers. It was a soundless night. No breeze stirred the
palms that, fringing white stretches of beach around the bay, stood out
in serene beauty, their irregular tops etched with divine artistry into
the sky-line of the night.
Out from the shore, in that harbor which holds no sanctuary in storm,
the mail boat, dark save for her riding lights, swung at her moorings;
shoreward, the perspective altered in the moonlight until it seemed that
Mount Vaea had lowered its sturdy head that it might hover in closer
guardianship over the little town, Apia straggled in white patches along
the road. And from these white patches, which were dwellings and stores,
there issued no light.
From a point on the shore nearest the mail boat, a figure in cotton
drawers and undershirt slipped silently into the water and disappeared.
Thereafter, at intervals, a slight ripple disturbed the surface as the
man, coming up to breathe, turned upon his back and lay with his face
exposed; for the rest he swam under water. It was as though he were in
his natural element. He swam superbly even where, there in the Islands,
all the natives were born to the sea; but his face, when visible on the
few occasions that it floated above the surface, was the face, not of a
native, but of a white man.
And now he came up in the shadow of the steamer's hull where, near the
stern, a rope dangled over the side, almost touching the water's edge.
And for a moment he hung to the rope, motionless, listening. Then he
began to swarm upward with fine agility, without a sound, his bare feet
finding silent purchase against the iron plates of the hull.
Halfway up he paused and listened intently again. Was that a sound as of
some one astir, the soft movement of feet on the deck above? No, there
was nothing now. Why should there be? It was very late, and Nanu, the
man who lisped, was no fool. The rope had hung from exactly that place
where, of all others, one might steal aboard without attracting the
attention of the watch.
He went on again, and finally raised his head above the rail. The deck,
flooded with moonlight, lay white and deserted below him. He swung
himself over, dropped to the deck--and the next instant reeled back
against the rail as a rope-end, swung with brutal force, lashed across
his face, raising a welt from cheek to cheek. Half stunned, he was
still conscious that a form had sprung suddenly at him from out of the
darkness of the after alleyway, that the form was one of the vessel's
mates, that the form still swung a short rope-end that was a murderous
weapon because it was little more flexible than iron and was an inch in
thickness, and that, behind this form, other forms, big forms, Tongans
of the crew, pressed forward.
A voice roared out, hoarse, profane, the mate's voice:
“Thought you'd try it again, did you, you damned beachcomber? I'll teach
you! And when I find the dog that left that rope for you, I'll give
him a leaf out of the same book! You bloody waster! I'll teach you!
I'll----”
The rope-end hissed as it cut through the air again, aiming for the
swimmer's face. But it missed its mark. Perhaps it was an illusion
of the white moonlight, lending unreality to the scene, exciting the
imagination to exaggerate the details, but the swimmer seemed to move
with incredible speed, with the lithe, terrible swiftness of a panther
in its spring. The rope-end swished through the air, missing a suddenly
lowered head by the barest fraction of an inch, and then, driven home
with lightning-like rapidity, so quick that the blows seemed as one, the
swimmer's fists swung, right and left, crashing with terrific impact to
the point of the mate's jaw. And the mate's head jolted back, quivered
grotesquely on his shoulders for an instant like a tuning fork, sagged,
and the great bulk of the man collapsed and sprawled inertly on the
deck.
There was a shuffle of feet from the alleyway, cries. The swimmer swung
to face the expected rush, and it halted, hesitant. It gave him time to
spring and stand erect upon the steamer's rail. On the upper deck faces
and forms began to appear. A man in pajamas leaned far out and peered at
the scene.
There was a shout from out of the dark, grouped throng in the alleyway;
it was chorused. The rush came on again for the rail; and the dripping
figure that stood there, with the first sound that he had made--a laugh,
half bitter, half of cool contempt--turned, and with a clean dive took
the water again and disappeared.
Presently he reached the shore. There were more than riding lights out
there on the steamer now. He gave one glance in that direction, shrugged
his shoulders, and started off along the road. At times he raised his
hand to brush it across his face where the welt, raw and swollen now,
was a dull red sear. He walked neither fast nor slow.
The moonlight caught the dripping figure now and then in the open
spaces, and seemed to peer inquisitively at the great breadth of
shoulder, and the rippling play of muscle under the thin cotton drawers
and shirt, which, wet and clinging, almost transparent, scarce hid the
man's nakedness; and at the face, that of a young man, whose square jaw
was locked, whose gray eyes stared steadily along the road, and over
whose forehead, from the drenched, untrimmed mass of fair hair, the
brine trickled in little rivulets as though persistent in its effort
to torture with its salt caress the raw, skin-broken flesh across the
cheeks.
Then presently a point of land ran out, and, the road ignoring this, the
bay behind was shut out from view. And presently again, farther on, the
road came to a long white stretch of beach on the one hand, and foliage
and trees on the other. And here the dripping figure halted and stood
hesitant as though undecided between the moonlit stretch of sand, and
the darkness of a native hut that was dimly outlined amongst the trees
on the other side of the road.
After a moment he made his way to the hut and, groping around, secured
some matches and a box of cigarettes. He spoke into the empty blackness.
“You lose, Nanu,” he muttered whimsically. “They wouldn't stand water
and I left them for you. But now, you see, I'm back again, after all.”
He lighted a cigarette, and in the flame of the match stared
speculatively at the small, broken pieces of coral that made the floor
of the hut, and equally, by the addition of a thin piece of native
matting, his bed.
“The sand is softer,” he said with a grim drawl.
He went out from the hut, crossed the road, flung himself upon his back
on the beach, and clasped his hands behind his head. The smoke from his
cigarette curled languidly upward in wavering spirals, and he stared for
a long time at the moon.
“Moon madness,” he said at last. “They say if you look long enough the
old boy does you in.”
The cigarette finished, he flung the stub away. After a time, he raised
his head and listened. A moment later he lay back again full length on
the sand. The sound of some one's footsteps coming rapidly along the
road from the direction of the town was now unmistakably audible.
“The jug for mine, I guess,” observed the young man to the moon.
“Probably a file of native constabulary in bare feet that you can't hear
bringing up the rear!”
The footsteps drew nearer, until, still some distance away, the
white-clad figure of a man showed upon the tree-fringed road. The
sprawled figure on the beach made no effort toward flight, and less
toward concealment. With a sort of studied insolence injected into his
challenge, he stuck another cigarette between his lips and deliberately
allowed full play to the flare of the match.
The footsteps halted abruptly. Then, in another moment, they crunched
upon the sand, and a tall man, with thin, swarthy face, a man of perhaps
forty or forty-five, who picked assiduously at his teeth with a quill
toothpick, stood over the recumbent figure.
“Found you, have I?” he grunted complacently.
“If you like to put it that way,” said the young man indifferently. He
raised himself on his elbow again, and stared toward the road. “Where's
the army?” he inquired.
The tall man allowed the point of the quill toothpick to flex and strike
back against his teeth. The sound was distinctive. _Tck!_ He ignored the
question.
“When the mate came out of dreamland,” he said, “he lowered a boat and
came ashore to lay a complaint against you.”
“I can't say I'm surprised,” admitted the young man. “I suppose I am
to go with you quietly and make no trouble or it will be the worse for
me--I believe that's the usual formula, isn't it?”
The man with the quill toothpick sat down on the sand. He appeared to be
absorbed for a moment in a contemplation of his surroundings.
“These tropic nights are wonderful, aren't they? Kind of get you.”
He plied the quill toothpick industriously. “I'm a passenger on the
steamer, and I came ashore with the mate. He's gone back--without laying
the complaint. There's always a way of fixing things--even injured
feelings. One of the native boat's-crew said he knew where you were to
be found. He's over there.” He jerked his head in the direction of the
road.
The young man sat bolt upright.
“I don't get you,” he said slowly, “except that you are evidently not
personifying the majesty of the law. What's the idea?”
“Well,” said the other, “I had three reasons for coming. The first was
that I thought I recognized you yesterday when they threw you off the
steamer, and was sure of it to-night when--I am a light sleeper--I came
out on the upper deck at the sound of the row and saw you take your
departure from the vessel for the second time.”
“I had no idea,” said the young man caustically, “that I was so well
known. Are you quite sure you haven't made a mistake?”
“Quite!” asserted the other composedly. “Of course, I am not prepared
to say what your present name is--you may have considered a change
beneficial--so I will not presume in that respect. But you are, or were,
a resident of San Francisco. You were very nice people there. I have
no knowledge of your mother, except that I understand she died in your
infancy. A few years ago your father died and left you, not a fortune,
but quite a moderate amount of money. I believe the pulpits designate
it as a 'besetting sin.' You had one--gambling. The result was that you
traveled the road a great many other young men have traveled; the only
difference being that, in so far as I am competent to speak, you
hold the belt for speed and all-round proficiency. You went utterly,
completely and whole-heartedly to hell.”
The tall man became absorbed again in his surroundings. “And I take it,”
he said presently, “that in spite of the wonders of a tropic night, you are still there.”
The young man shrugged his shoulders.
“You have put it very delicately,” he said, with a grim smile. “I'm
sorry, but I am obliged to confess that the recognition isn't mutual.
Would you mind telling me who you are?”
“We'll get to that in due course,” said the other. “My second reason was
that it appeared to me to be logical to suppose that, having once
been the bona fide article, you could readily disguise yourself as a
gentleman again, and your interpretation of the rôle would be beyond
suspicion or----”
“By God!” The welt across the young man's face grew suddenly white, as
though the blood had fled from it to suffuse his temples. He half rose,
staring levelly into the other's eyes.
The tall man apparently was quite undisturbed.
“And the third reason is that I have been looking for just such a--there
really isn't any other word--gentleman, providing he was possessed
of another and very essential characteristic. You possess that
characteristic in a most marked degree. Your actions tonight are
unmistakable evidence that you have nerve.”
“It strikes me that you've got a little of it yourself,” observed the
young man evenly.
The quill toothpick under the adroit guidance of his tongue traveled
from the left- to the right-hand side of the other's mouth.
“It is equally as essential to me,” he said dryly. “You appear to fill
the bill; but there is always the possibility of a fly in the ointment;
complications--er--unpleasant complications, perhaps, you know,
that might have arisen since you left San Francisco, and that
might--er--complicate matters.”
The young man relapsed into a recumbent position upon the sand, his
hands clasped under his head again, and in his turn appeared to be
absorbed in the beauty of the night.
“Moon-madness!” he murmured pityingly.
“A myth!” said the tall man promptly. “Would you mind sketching in
roughly the details of your interesting career since you left the haunts
of the aristocracy?”
“I don't see any reason why I should.” The young man yawned.
“Do you see any reason why you shouldn't?” inquired the other
composedly.
“None,” said the young man, “except that the steamer sails at daybreak,
and I should never forgive myself if you were left behind.”
“Nor forgive yourself, perhaps, if you failed to sail on her as a
first-class passenger,” said the tall man quietly.
“What?” ejaculated the young man sharply.
The other shrugged his shoulders.
“It depends on the story,” he said.
“I--I don't understand.” The young man frowned. “There's a chance for me
to get aboard the mail boat?”
“It depends on the story,” said the other again.
“Moon-mad!” murmured the young man once more, after a moment's silence.
“But it's cheap at the price, for it's not much of a story. Beginning
where you left off in my biography, I ducked when the crash came in San
Francisco, and having arrived in hell, as you so delicately put it, I
started out to explore. Mr. Dante had it right--there's no use stopping
in the suburbs. I lived a while in his last circle. It's too bad he
never knew the 'Frisco water-front; it would have fired his imagination!
I'm not sure, though, but Honolulu's got a little on 'Frisco, at that!
Luck was out. I was flat on my back when I got a chance to work my way
out to Honolulu. One place was as good as another by then.”
The young man lit a cigarette, and stared at the glowing tip
reminiscently with his gray eyes.
“You said something about gambling,” he went on; “but you didn't say
enough. It's a disease, a fever that sets your blood on fire, and makes
your life kind of delirious, I guess--if you get it chronic. I guess I
was born with it. I remember when I was a kid I--but I forgot, pardon
me, the mail boat sails at daybreak.”
“Go as far as you like,” said the tall man, picking at his teeth with
the quill toothpick.
The young man shook his head.
“Honolulu is the next stopping place,” he said. “On the way out I picked
up a few odd dollars from my fellow-members of the crew, and----”
“Tck!” It was the quill toothpick.
The young man's eyes narrowed, and his jaw set challengingly.
“Whatever else I've done,” he stated in a significant monotone, “I've
never played crooked. It was on the level.”
“Of course,” agreed the tall man hastily.
“I sat in with the only stakes I had,” said the young man, still
monotonously. “A bit of tobacco, a rather good knife that I've got yet,
and a belt that some one took a fancy to as being worth half a dollar.”
“Certainly! Of course!” reiterated the tall man in haste.
The quill toothpick was silent.
“A pal of mine, one of the stokers, said he knew of a good place to play
in Honolulu where there was a square deal,” continued the young man;
“so, a night or so after we reached there, we got shore leave and
started off. Perhaps you know that part of Honolulu. I don't. I didn't
see much of it. I know there's some queer dumps, and queer doings, and
the scum of every nationality under the sun to run up against. And I
know it was a queer place my mate steered me into. It was faro. The
box was run by an old Chinaman who looked as though he were trying to
impersonate one of his ancestors, he was so old. My mate and I formed
the English-speaking community. There were a Jap or two, and a couple of
pleasant-looking cutthroats who cursed in Spanish, and a Chink lying on
a bunk rolling his pill. Oh, yes, the place stunk! Every once in a while
the door opened and some other Godforsaken piece of refuse drifted in.
By midnight we had a full house of pretty bad stuff.
“It ended in a row, of course. Some fool of a tout came in chaperoning
a party of three men, who were out to see the sights; they were
passengers, I found out later, from one of the ships in port. I don't
know what started the rumpus; some private feud, I guess. The first
thing I knew one of the Spaniards had a knife out and had jumped for the
tout. It was a free-for-all in a minute. I saw the tout go down, and he
didn't look good, and the place suddenly struck me as a mighty unhealthy
place to be found in on that account. The stoker and I started to fight
our way through the jam to the door. There was a row infernal. I guess
you could have heard it a mile away. Anyway, before we could break from
the clinches, as it were, the police were fighting their way in just as
eagerly as we were fighting our way out.
“I didn't like the sight of that tout lying on the floor, or the thought
of what might happen in the police court the next morning if I were one
of the crowd to adorn the dock. And things weren't going very well. The
police were streaming in through the doorway. And then I caught sight of
something I hadn't seen before because it had previously been hidden by
a big Chinese screen--one of those iron-shuttered windows they seem so
fond of down there. Things weren't very rosy just at that moment because
about the worst hell-cat scramble on record was being made a little
worse by some cheerful maniac starting a bit of revolver practice, but I
remember that I couldn't help laughing to save my soul. In the mêlée one
of the folding wings of the screen had suddenly doubled up, and,
besides the window, I saw hiding behind there for dear life, his
face pasty-white with terror, a very courageous gentleman--one of the
rubbernecks who had come in with the tout. He was too scared, I imagine,
even to have the thought of tackling such formidable things as iron
shutters enter his head. I yelled to the stoker to get them open, and
tried to form a sort of rear guard for him while he did it. Then I heard
them creak on their hinges, and heard him shout. I made a dash for it,
but I wasn't quite quick enough. One of the policemen grabbed me, but
I was playing in luck then. I got in a fortunate swing and he went down
for the count. I remember toppling the screen and the man behind it
over on the floor as I jumped sideways for the window; and I remember a
glimpse of his terrorized face, his eyes staring at me, his mouth wide
open, as I took a headlong dive over the window sill. The stoker picked
me up, and we started on the run.
“The police were scrambling through the window after us. I didn't need
to be told that there wouldn't be a happy time ahead if I were caught.
Apart from that tout who, though I had nothing to do with it, gave the
affair a very serious aspect, I was good for the limit on the statute
books for resisting arrest in the first place, and for knocking out an
officer in the second. But the stoker knew his way about. We gave
the police the slip, and a little later on we landed up in a sailors'
boarding-house run by a one-eyed cousin of Satan, known as Lascar Joe.
We lay there hidden while the tout got better, and the Spanish hidalgo
got sent up for a long term for murderous assault. Finally Lascar Joe
slipped the stoker aboard some ship; and a week or so later he slipped
me, the transfer being made in the night, aboard a frowsy tramp, bound
for New Zealand.”
The young man paused, evidently inviting comment.
“Go on,” prompted the man with the quill toothpick softly.
“There isn't very much more,” said the young man. He laughed shortly.
“As far as I know I'm the sole survivor from that tramp. She never got
to New Zealand; and that's how I got here to Samoa. She went down in
a hurricane. I was washed ashore on one of this group of islands about
forty or fifty miles from here. I don't know much about the details; I
was past knowing anything when the bit of wreckage on which I had lashed
myself days before came to port. There weren't any--I was going to say
white people on the island, but I'm wrong about that. The Samoans are
about the whitest people on God's green earth. I found that out. There
were only natives on that island. I lived with them for about two
months, and I got to be pretty friendly with them, especially the old
fellow who originally picked me up half drowned and unconscious on the
beach, and who took me into the bosom of his family. Then the missionary
boat came along, and I came back with it to Apia here.”
The young man laughed again suddenly, a jarring note in his mirth.
“I don't suppose you've heard that original remark about the world
being such a small place after all! I figured that back here in Apia a
shipwrecked and destitute white man would get the glad hand and at least
a chance to earn his stake. Maybe he would ordinarily; but I didn't. I
hadn't said anything to the missionary about that Honolulu escapade, and
I was keeping it dark when I got here and started to tell the shipwreck
end of my story over again. Queer, isn't it? Lined up in about the first
audience I had was the gentleman with the pasty face that I had toppled
over with the screen in the old Chink's faro dump. He was one of the big
guns here, and had been away on a pleasure trip, and Honolulu had been
on his itinerary. That settled it. The missionary chap spoke up a bit
for me, I'll give him credit for that, though I had a hunch he was going
to use that play as an opening wedge in an effort to reform me later on.
But I had my fingers crossed. The whites here turned their backs on me,
and I turned my back on the missionary. That's about all there was to
it. That was about two weeks ago, and for those two weeks I've lived in
another of Mr. Dante's delightful circles.”
He sat suddenly upright, a clenched fist flung outward.
“Not a cent! Not a damned sou-marquee! Nothing but this torn shirt, and
what's left of these cotton pants! Hell!”
He lay back on the sand quite as suddenly again, and fell to laughing
softly.
“Tck!” It was the quill toothpick.
“But at that,” said the young man, “I'm not sure you could call me
a cynic, though the more I see of my own breed as compared with the
so-called heathen the less I think of--my own breed! I still had a card
up my sleeve. I had a letter of introduction to a real gentleman and
landed proprietor here. His name was Nanu, and he gave me his house to
live in, and made me free of his taro and his breadfruit and all his
worldly possessions; and it was the old native who took care of me on
the other island that gave me the letter. It was a queer sort of letter,
too--but never mind that now.
“Splendid isolation! That's me for the last two weeks as a cross between
a pariah and a mangy cur! What amazes me most is myself. The gentleman
of the Chinese screen is still in the land of the living and walking
blithely around. Funny, isn't it? That's one reason I was crazy to get
away--before anything happened to him.” The tanned fist closed fiercely
over a handful of sand, then opened and allowed the grains to trickle
slowly through the fingers, and its owner laughed softly again. “I've
lived through hell here in those two weeks. I guess we're only built to
stand so much. I was about at the end of my rope when the mail steamer
put in yesterday. I hope I haven't idealized my sojourn here in a way
that would cause you to minimize my necessity for getting away, no
matter to where or by what means! Nanu and I went out to the ship in his
outrigger. Perhaps I would have had better luck if I had run into any
other than the particular mate I did. I don't know. I offered to work my
passage. Perhaps my fame had already gone abroad--or aboard. He invited
me to make another excursion into Dante-land. But when he turned his
back on me I slipped below, and tucked myself in behind some of the
copra sacks they were loading. Once the steamer was away I was away
with her, and I was willing to take what was coming. But I didn't get a
chance. I guess the mate was sharper than I gave him credit for. After
about four hours of heat and stink down there below decks that I had to
grit my teeth to stand, he hauled me out as though he knew I had been
there all the time. I was thrown off the steamer.
“But I wasn't through. Steamers do not call here every day. I wonder
if you'll know what I mean when I say I was beginning to be afraid of
myself and what might happen if I had to stick it out much longer? That
mangy cur I spoke of had me lashed to the mast from a social standpoint.
I tried it again--to-night. Nanu fixed it for me with one of the crew to
hang that rope over the side, and--well, I believe you said you had seen
what happened. I believe you said, too, that a chance still existed of
my sailing with the mail boat, depending upon my story.” He laughed a
little raucously. “I hope it's been interesting enough to bail me out;
anyway, that's all of it.”
The tall man sat for a moment in silence.
“Yes,” he said at last; “I am quite satisfied. Dressed as a gentleman,
with money in your pockets, and such other details as go with the rôle,
you would never be associated with that affair in Honolulu. As a matter
of fact your share in it was not so serious that the police would dog
you all over the world on account of it. In other words, and what really
interests me, is that you are not what is commonly designated as a
'wanted' man. Yes, I may say I am thoroughly satisfied.”
The young man yawned and stretched himself.
“I'm delighted to hear it. I haven't any packing to do. Shall we stroll
back to the ship?”
“I hope so.” The quill toothpick was busy again. “The decision
rests with you. I am not a philanthropist. I am about to offer you a
situation--to fill which I have been searching a good many years to find
some one who had the necessary qualifications. I am satisfied you are
that man. You do not know me; you do not know my name, and though you
have already asked what it is, I shall still withhold that information
until your decision has been given. If you agree, I will here and now
sign a contract with you to which we will both affix our bona fide
signatures; if you refuse, we will shake hands and part as friends and
strangers who have been--shall we use your expression?--moon-mad under
the influence of the wonders of a tropic night.”
“Something tells me,” said the young man softly, “that the situation is
not an ordinary one.”
“And you are right,” replied the other quietly. “It is not only not
ordinary, but is, I think I may safely say, absolutely unique and
without its counterpart. I might mention in passing that I am not in
particularly good health, and the sea voyage I was ordered to take
explains my presence here. I am the sole owner of one of the largest,
if not the largest, business enterprises in America; certainly its
turn-over, at least, is beyond question the biggest on the American
continent. I have establishments in every city of any size in both the
United States and Canada--and even in Mexico. The situation I offer you
is that of my confidential representative. No connection whatever will
be known to exist between us; your title will be that of a gentleman of
leisure--but your duties will be more arduous. I regret to say that in
many cases I fear my local managers are not--er--making accurate returns
to me, and they are very hard to check up. I would require you to travel
from place to place as a sort of, say, secret inspector of branches,
and furnish me with the inside information from the lack of which my
business at present, I am afraid, is suffering severely.”
“And that business?” The young man had raised himself to his elbow on
the sand.
“The one that is nearest to your heart,” said the tall man calmly.
“Gambling.”
The young man leaned slowly forward, staring at the other.
“I wonder if I quite get you?” he said.
“I am sure you do.” The tall man smiled. “My business is a chain of
select and exclusive gambling houses where only high play is indulged
in, and whose clientele is the richest in the land.”
The young man rose to his feet, walked a few steps away along the beach,
and came back again.
“You're devilishly complimentary!” he flung out, with a short laugh. “As
I understand it, then, the price I am to pay for getting away from here
is the pawning of my soul?”
“Have you anything else to pawn?” inquired the other--and the quill
toothpick punctuated the remark: “Tck!”
“No,” said the young man, with a twisted smile. “And I'm not sure I've
got that left! I am beginning to have a suspicion that it was in your
'branch' at San Francisco that I lost my money.”
“You did,” said the other coolly. “That is how I came to know you.
Though not personally in evidence in the 'house' itself, San Francisco
is my home, and my information as to what goes on there at least is
fairly accurate.”
The young man resumed his pacing up and down the sand.
“And I might add,” said the tall man after a moment, “that from a point
of ethics I see little difference in the moral status between one who
comes to gamble and one who furnishes the other with the opportunity to
do so. You are perhaps hesitating to take the hurdle on that account?”
“Moral status!” exclaimed the young man sharply. He halted abruptly
before the other. “No--at least I am not a hypocrite! What right have I
to quarrel with moral status?”
“Very well, then,” said the other; “I will go farther. I will give you
everything in life that you desire. You will live as a gentleman of
wealth surrounded by every luxury that money can procure, for that is
your rôle. You may gamble to your heart's content, ten, twenty, fifty
thousand a night--in my houses. You will travel the length and breadth
of America. I will pay every expense. There is nothing that you may not
have, nothing that you may not do.”
The young man was silent for a full minute then, with his hands dug in
his pockets, he fell to whistling under his breath very softly--but very
deliberately.
An almost sinister smile spread over the tall man's lips as he listened.
“If I am not mistaken,” he observed dryly, “that is the aria from
Faust.”
“Yes,” said the young man--and stared the other in the eye. “It is the
aria from Faust.”
The tall man nodded--but now his lips were straight.
“I accept the rôle of Mephistopheles, then,” he said softly. “Doctor
Faustus, you know, signed the bond.”
The young man squatted on the sand again. His face was curiously white;
only the ugly welt, dull red, across his cheeks, like the mark of some
strange branding-iron, held color.
“Then, draw it!” he said shortly. “And be damned to you!”
The tall man took a notebook and a fountain pen from his pocket. He
wrote rapidly, tore out the leaf, and on a second leaf made a copy of
the first. This, too, he tore out.
“I will read it,” he said. “You will observe that no names are
mentioned; that I have still reserved the privilege of keeping my
identity in abeyance until the document is signed. This is what I have
written: _For good and valid consideration the second signatory to
this contract hereby enters unreservedly into the employ of the first
signatory for a period which shall include the lifetime of one or
other of the undersigned, or until such time as this agreement may be
dissolved either by mutual consent or at the will of the first signatory
alone. And the first signatory to this contract agrees to maintain
the second signatory in a station in life commensurate with that of a
gentleman of wealth irrespective of expense, and further to pay to the
second signatory as a stated salary the sum of one thousand dollars a
month._” He looked up. “Shall I sign?”
“Body and soul,” murmured the young man. He appeared to be fascinated
with the restless movement of the quill toothpick in the other's
mouth. “Have you another toothpick you could let me have?” he inquired
casually.
The tall man mechanically thrust his fingers into his vest pocket; and
then, as though but suddenly struck with the irrelevancy, and perhaps
facetiousness, of the request, frowned as he found himself handing over
the article in question.
“Shall I sign?” His tone was sterner. “It is understood that the
signatures are to be bona fide and----”
“Yes, sign it. It is quite understood.” The young man spoke without
looking up. He seemed to be engrossed in carefully slitting the point of
the quill toothpick he had acquired with his knife.
The other signed both sheets from the notebook.
The young man accepted the two slips of paper, but refused the proffered
fountain pen. In the moonlight he read the other's signature: Gilbert
Larmon. His lips tightened a little. It was a big name in San Francisco,
a name of power. Few dreamed perhaps where the sinews of that power came
from! He drew from his pocket a small bottle, uncorked it, dipped in
the quill toothpick, and with his improvised pen wrote with a rasping,
spluttering noise beneath the other's signature on each of the two slips
of paper. One of these slips he returned to the other--but beneath the
tall man's signature there was no mark of any kind whatever.
Through narrowing eyes the tall man had been watching, and now his face
darkened ominously, and there was something of deadly coolness in his
voice as he spoke.
“What tomfoolery is this?” he demanded evenly.
“No; it's quite all right,” said the young man placidly. “Just a whim
of mine. I can't seem to get that Doctor Faustus thing out of my head.
According to the story, I think, he signed in a drop of blood--and I
thought I'd carry a sort of analogy along a bit. That stuff's all right.
I got it from my old native friend on that island I was telling you
about. It's what my letter of introduction to Nanu was written with.
And--well, at least, I guess it stands for the drop of blood, all right!
Take it down there to the shore and dip that part of the paper in the
salt water.”
The tall man made no answer. For a moment he remained staring with
grim-set features at the other, then he got up, walked sharply to the
water's edge, and, bending down, moistened the lower portion of the
paper. He held it up to the moonlight. Heavy black letters were slowly
taking form just beneath his own signature. Presently he walked back up
the beach to the young man, and held out his hand.
“Let us get back to the ship--John Bruce,” he said.