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Page 12
"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.
CHAPTER V
Outside he found himself in a kind of court. He ran about wildly, like
a rat in a trap. He plumped into the alley, accidentally. Down this
he fled, into the street. A voice called out peremptorily to him to
stop, but he went on all the faster, swift as a hare. He doubled and
circled through this street and that until at last he came out into a
broad, brilliant thoroughfare. An iron-pillared railway reared itself
skyward and trains clamored past. Bloomsbury: millions of years and
miles away! He would wake up presently, with the sunlight (when it
shone) pouring into his room, and the bright geraniums on the outside
window-sill bidding him good morning.
He was on the point of rushing up the station stairway, when he espied
a cab at the far corner. A replica of a London cab, something which
smacked of home; he could have hugged for sheer joy the bleary-eyed
cabby who touched his rusty high hat.
"Free?"
"Free 's th' air, bo. Where to?"
"Pier 60, White Star Line. How much?"--quite his old-time self again.
"Two dollars,"--promptly.
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