Iambic and hexameter, farewell! In that moment the poet died in
Thomas; I mean, the poet who had to dig his expressions of life out of
ink-pots. Things boil up quickly and unexpectedly in the soul;
century-old impulses, undreamed of by the inheritor; and when these
bubble and spill over the kettle's lip, watch out. There is an island
in the South Seas where small mud-geysers burst forth under the
pressure of the foot. Fate had stepped on Thomas.
As he sprang out of his bunk he was a reversion: the outlaw in
Lincoln-green, the Yeoman of the Guard, the bandannaed smuggler of the
southeast coast. Quickly he got into his uniform. He went about this
affair the right way, with foresight and prudence; for he realized that
he must act instantly. He sought the purser, who was cordial.
"I'm not feeling well," began Thomas; "and the doctor is ashore.
Where's there an apothecary's shop?"
"Two blocks straight out from the pier entrance. You'll see red and
blue lights in the windows. Tummy?"
"I'm subject to dizzy spells. Where's Jameson?" Jameson was the surly
cabin-mate.
"Quit. Gone over to the Cunard. Fool. Like a little money advanced?
Here's a bill, five dollars."
"Thank you, sir." Twenty shillings, ten pence. "Doesn't Jameson take
his peg a little too often, sir?"
"He's a blighter. Glad to get rid of him. Hurry back. And don't stop
at Mike's or Johnny's,"--smiling.
"I never touch anything heavier than ale, sir." Mike's or Johnny's; it
saved him the trouble of asking. Tippling pubs where stewards
foregathered.
His uniform was his passport. Nobody questioned him as he passed the
barrier at a dog-trot. Outside the smelly pier (sugar, coffee and
spices, shipments from Killigrew and Company) he paused to send a short
prayer to heaven. Then he approached a snoozing stevedore.
"Where's Mike's?"
"Lead y' there, ol' scout!"
"No; tell me where it is. Here's a shilling."
Explicit directions followed; and away went Thomas at a dog-trot again:
the lust to punish, maim or kill in his heart. He was not a university
man; he had not played cricket at Lord's or stroked the crew from
Leander; but he was island-born, a chap for cold tubbings, calisthenics
and long tramps into the country on pleasant Sundays. Thomas was
slender, but sound and hard.
Jameson was not at Mike's nor at Johnny's; but there were dozens of
other saloons. He did not ask questions. He went in, searched, and
strode out. In the lowest kind of a drinking dive he found his man. A
great wave of dizziness swept over Thomas. When it passed, only the
bandannaed smuggler remained, cautious, cunning, patient.
The quarry was alone in a side-room, drinking gin and smiling to
himself. For an hour Thomas waited. His palms became damp with cold
sweat and his knees wabbled, but not in fear. Four glasses of ale,
sipped slowly, tasting of wormwood. In the bar-mirror he could watch
every move made by Jameson. No one went in. He had evidently paid in
advance for the bottle of gin. Thomas ordered his fifth glass of ale,
and saw Jameson's head sink forward a little. Thomas' sigh almost
split his heart in twain. Jameson's head went up suddenly, and with a
drunken smile he reached for the bottle and poured out a stiff potion.
He drank it neat.
Thomas wiped his palms on his sleeves and ordered a cigar.
"Lonesome?" asked the swart bartender. This good-looking chap was
rather a puzzle to him. He wasn't waiting for anybody, and he wasn't
trying to get drunk. Five ales in an hour and not a dozen words; just
an ordinary Britisher who didn't know how to amuse himself in Gawd's
own country.
Jameson's head fell upon his arms. With assured step Thomas walked
toward the corridor which divided the so-called wine-rooms. At the end
of the corridor was a door. He did not care where it led so long as it
led outside this evil-smelling den. He found the room empty opposite
Jameson's. He went in quietly. The shabby waiter followed him,
soft-footed as a cat.
"A bottle of Old Tom," said Thomas.
The waiter nodded and slipped out. He saw the sleeper in the other
room, and gently closed the door.
"Gink in number two wants a bottle o' gin. He's th' kind. Layer o'
ale an' then his quart. Th' real souse."
"So that's his game, huh?" said the bartender. "How's th' gink in
number four?"
"Dead t' th' world."
"Tip th' Sneak. There may be a chancet t' roll 'em both. Here y' are.
Soak 'im two-fifty."
Half an hour longer Thomas waited. Then he rose and tiptoed to the
door, drawing it back without the least sound. Jameson's had not
latched. Taking a deep long breath (strange, how one may control the
heart by this process!) Thomas crossed the corridor and entered the
other room; entered prepared for any emergency. If Jameson awoke, so
much the worse for him. The gods owe it to the mortals they keep in
bondage to bestow a grain of luck here and there along the way to
Elysium or Hades. His cabin-mate's stentorian breathing convinced the
trespasser that it was the stupidest, heaviest kind of sleep.
For a moment he looked down at the man contemptuously. To have
befuddled his brain at such a time! Or was it because the wretch knew
that he, Thomas, would not dare cry out over his loss? He stepped
behind the sleeping man. He wanted to fall upon him, beat him with his
fists. Ah, if he had not found him!
The night, fortunately, was warm and thick. Jameson had carelessly
thrown open his coat and vest. Underneath he wore the usual
sailor-jersey. Thomas steeled his arms. With one hand he pulled the
roll collar away from the man's neck and with the other sought for the
string: sought in vain. The light, the four drab walls, the haze of
tobacco smoke, all turned red.
"Where is it, you dog? Quick!" Thomas shook the man. "Where is it?
Quick, or I'll throttle you!"
"Lemme 'lone!" Jameson sagged toward the table again.
Thomas bent him back ruthlessly and plunged a hand into the inside
pocket of the man's coat. The touch of the chamois-bag burned like
fire. He pulled it out and transferred it to his own pocket and made
for the door. He did not care now what happened. Found! Woe to any
one who had the ill-luck to stand between him and the exit.
Outside the door stood the shabby waiter, grinning cheerfully. He was
accompanied by a hulking, shifty-eyed creature.
"Roll 'im, ol' sport? Caught in th' act, huh?" gibed the waiter.
Thomas had the right idea. He struck first. The waiter crashed
against the wall. The hulking, shifty-eyed one fared worse. He went
down with his face to the cracks in the floor. Thomas dashed for the
exit.