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Page 11
"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."
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