That same morning, at eleven precisely (when an insolent west wind
sprang up and tore the fog into ribbons and scarves and finally blew it
into smithereens, channelward) there stood before the windows of a
famous haberdashery in the Strand a young man, twenty-four years of
age, typically English, beardless, hair clipped neatly about his neck
and temples, his skin fresh colored, his body carefully but thriftily
clothed. Smooth-skinned he was about the eyes and nose and mouth,
unmarked by dissipation; and he stood straight; and by the set of his
shoulders (not particularly deep or wide) you would infer that when he
looked at you he would look straight. Pity, isn't it, that you never
really can tell what a man is inside by drawing up your brief from what
he is outside. There is always the heel of Achilles somewhere; trust
the devil to find that.
Of course you wish to know forthwith who returned the ruby, and why.
As our statesmen say, regarding any important measure for public
welfare, the time is not yet ripe. Besides, the young man I am
describing had never heard of the Nana Sahib's ruby, unless vaguely in
some Sepoy Mutiny tale.
His expression at this moment was rather mournful. He was regretting
the thirty shillings the week he had for several years drawn regularly
in this shop. Inside there he had introduced the Raglan shirt, the
Duke of Westminster four-in-hand, and the Churchill batwing collar. He
longed to enter and plead for reinstatement, but his new-found pride
refused to budge his legs door-ward. Thirty shillings, twelve for his
"third floor back," and the rest for clothes and books and simple
amusements. What a whirl he had been in, this past fortnight!
He pulled at his chin, shook his head and turned away. No, he simply
could not do it. What! suffer himself to be laughed at behind his
back? Impossible, a thousand times no! At the first news stand he
bought two or three morning papers, and continued on to his lodgings.
He must leave England at once, but the question was--How?
It was a comfortable room, as "third floor backs" go. He read the
"want" advertisements carefully, and at length paused at a paragraph
which seemed to suit his fancy perfectly. "Cabin stewards
wanted--White Star Line--New York and Liverpool." He cut out the
clipping, folded it and stored it away. Then he proceeded to pack up
his belongings, not a very laborious affair.
Manuscripts. He riffled the pages ruefully. Sonnets and chant-royals
and epics, fine and lofty in spirit; so fine indeed that they easily
sifted through every editorial office in London. There was even a
bulky romance. He had read so much about the enormous royalties which
American authors received for their work, and English authors who were
popular on the other side, that his ambition had been frenetically
stirred. The fortunes such men as Maundering and Piffle and Drool
made! And all he had accomplished so far had been the earnest support
of the postal service. Far back at the beginning he had been
unfortunate enough to sell a sonnet for ten shillings. Alack! You
sell your first sonnet, you win your first hand at cards, and then the
passion has you.
Poetry was a drug on the market. Nobody read it (or wrote it) these
days; and any one who attempted to sell it was clearly mad. Oh, a
jingle for Punch might pass, you know; something clever, with a snapper
to it. But epic poetry? Sonnets? Why, didn't you know that there
wasn't a magazine going that did not have some sub-editor who could
whack out fourteen lines in fourteen minutes, whenever a page needed
filling up? These things he had been told times without number. And
Maundering, Piffle and Drool had long since cornered the romance
market. The King's Highway had become No Thoroughfare.
America. He would go to the land of the brave (when occasion demanded)
and the free (if you were imaginative). Having packed his trunk and
valise, he departed for Liverpool. Besides, America was all that was
left; he was at the end of his rope.
What a rollicking old fraud life was! Swung out of his peaceful orbit,
by the legerdemain of death; no longer a humble steady star but a
meteor; bumping as yet darkly against the planets; and then this
monumental folly which had returned him to the old orbit but still in
meteoric form, without peace or means of livelihood! An ass, indeed,
if ever there was one.
He eventually arrived at his destination, lied blithely to the chief
steward, and was assigned to the first-class cabins on the promenade
deck, simply because his manner was engaging and his face pleasing to
the eye. The sea? He had never been on it but once, and then only in
a rowboat. A good sailor? Perhaps. Chicken and barley broths at
eleven; the captain's table in the dining-saloon, breakfast, luncheon
and dinner; cabin housekeeper and luggage man at the ports; and always
a natty, stiffly starched jacket with a metal number; and "Yes, sir!"
and "No, sir!" and "Thank you, sir!" his official vocabulary. Fine job
for a poet!
It was all in the game he was going to play with fate. A chap who
could sell flamingo ties to gentlemen with purple noses, and shirts
with attached cuffs to coal-porters ought not to worry over such a
simple employment as cabin-steward on board an ocean liner.
Early the next morning they left port, with only a few first-class
passengers. The heavy travel was coming from the west, not going that
way. The series of cabins under his stewardship were vacant.
Therefore, with the thoroughness of his breed, he set about to learn
"ship"; and by the time the first bugle for dinner blew, he knew port
from starboard, boat-deck from main, and many other things, some
unknown to the chief-steward who had made a hundred and twenty voyages
on this very ship.
Beautiful weather; a mild southwest blow, with a moderate beam-sea;
only the deck _would_ come up smack against the soles of his boots in a
most unexpected and aggravating manner. But after the third day out,
he found his sea-legs and learned how to "lean." From two till five
his time was his own, and a very good deal of this time he devoted to
Henley and Morris and Walt Whitman, an ancient brier between his teeth
and a canister of excellent tobacco at his elbow. Odd, isn't it, that
an Englishman without his pipe is as incomplete as a Manx cat, which,
as doubtless you know, has no tail. After all, does a Manx cat know
that it is incomplete? Let me say, then, as incomplete as a small boy
without pockets.
Toward his fellow stewards he was friendly without being companionable;
and as they were of a decent sort, they let him go his way.
Several times during the voyage he opened his trunk and took out the
manuscripts. Hang it, they weren't so bally bad. If he could still
re-read them, after an hour or two with Henley, there must be some
merit to them.
One afternoon he sat alone on the edge of his bunk. The sun was
pouring into the porthole; intermittently it flashed over him.
Suddenly and alertly he got up, looked out, listened intently, then
stepped back into the cabin and locked the door. Again he listened.
There was no sound except the steady heart-beats of the great engines
below. He sat down sidewise, took out the chamois bag which hung
around his neck, and poured the contents out on the blanket. Blue
stones, rather dull at first; but ah! when the sun awoke the fires in
them: blue as the flower o' the corn, the flame of burning sulphur. He
gathered them up and slowly trickled them through his fingers.
Sapphires, unset, beautiful as a woman's eyes. He replaced them in the
chamois bag; and for the rest of the afternoon went about his affairs
preoccupiedly, grave as a bishop under his miter. For, all said and
done, he had much to be grave about.
In one of the panels of the partition which separated the cabin from
the next, there was a crack. A human eye could see through it very
well. And did.
My young poet had "signed on" under the name of Thomas Webb. It was
not assumed. For years he had been known in the haberdashery as Webb.
There was more to it, however; there was a tail to the kite. The
English have an inordinate fondness for hyphens, for mother's family
name and grandmother's family name and great-grandmother's, with the
immediate paternal cognomen as a period. Thomas' full name was a
rosary, if you like, of yeomen, of soldiers, of farmers, of artists, of
gentle bloods, of dreamers. The latest transfusion of blood is always
most powerful in effect upon the receiver; and as Thomas' father had
died in penury for the sake of an idea, it was in order that the son
should be something of a dreamer too. Poetry is but an expression of
life seen through dreams.
His father had been a scholar, risen from the people; his mother had
been gentle. From his seventh year the boy had faced life alone. He
had never gone with the stream but had always found lodgment in the
backwaters. There is no employment quieter, peacefuller than that of a
clerk in a haberdashery. From Mondays till Saturdays, calm; a perfect
environment for a poet. You would be surprised to learn of the vast
army of poets and novelists and dramatists who dispense four-in-hands,
collars, buttons and hosiery six days in the week and who go
a-picnicking on the seventh, provided it does not rain.
Thomas had an idea. It was not a reflection of his lamented father's;
it was wholly his own. He wanted to be loved. His father's idea had
been to love; thus, humanity had laughed him into the grave. So it
will be seen that Thomas' idea was the more sensible of the two.
The voyage was uneventful. Blue day followed blue day. When at length
the great port of New York loomed in the distance, Thomas felt a
thrilling in his spine. Perhaps yonder he might make his fortune; no
matter what else he did, that remained to be accomplished, for he was a
fortune-hunter, of the ancient type; that is, he expected to work for
it. Shore leave would be his, and if during that time he found
nothing, why, he was determined to finish the summer as a steward; and
by fall he would have enough in wages and tips to give him a start in
life. At present he could jingle but seven-and-six in his pocket; and
jingle it frequently he did, to assure himself that it was not wearing
away.
An important tug came bustling alongside. By the yellow flag he knew
that it carried the quarantine officials, inspectors, and a few
privileged citizens. Among others who came aboard Thomas noted a
sturdy thick-chested man in a derby hat--bowler, Thomas called it.
Quietly this man sought the captain and handed him what looked to
Thomas like a cablegram. The captain read it and shook his head.
Thomas overheard a little of their conversation.
"You're welcome to look about, Mr. Haggerty; but I don't think you'll
find the person you seek."
"If you don't mind, I'll take a prowl. Special case, Captain. Mr.
Killigrew thought perhaps I'd see a face I knew."
"Valuable?"
"Fine sapphires. A chance that they may come int' this port. They
haven't yet."
"Your customs inspectors ought to be able to help you," observed the
captain, hiding a smile. "Nothing but motes can slip through their
fingers."
"Sometimes they're tripped up," replied Haggerty. "A case like this is
due t' slip through. I'll take a look."
Thomas heard no more. A detective. Unobserved, he went down to his
stuffy cabin, took off the chamois bag and locked it in his trunk. So
long as it remained on board, it was in British territory.
The following day he went into the great city of man-made cliffs. He
walked miles and miles. Naturally he sought the haberdashers along
Broadway. No employment was offered him: for the reason that he failed
to state his accomplishments. But he was in nowise discouraged. He
would go back to Liverpool. The ship would sail with full cabin
strength, and this trip there would be tips, three sovereigns at least,
and maybe more, if his charges happened to be generous.
He tied the chamois bag round his neck again, and turned in. He was
terribly tired and footsore. He slept fitfully. At half after nine he
sat up, fully awake. His cabin-mate (whom he rather disliked) was not
in his bunk. Indeed, the bunk had not been touched. Suddenly Thomas'
hand flew to his breast. The chamois bag was gone!