To the cook’s relief he found
that the Seamew’s next voyage was to a
little port on the West Coast named Cocklemouth, calling
at the garrison town of Bymouth on the way. He
told Sam that it was a load off his mind, and showed
clearly by his manner that he expected the syndicate
at least to accept his story. They spent most
of their time in the galley, where, secure from money-grubbing
eavesdroppers, they matured their plans over the washing
of potatoes and the scouring of saucepans. “On
the Trail” was remarkably clever, and they obtained
many helpful suggestions from it, though the discovery
that Henry had got hold of it, and had marked all
the most valuable passages in lead pencil, caused them
much anxiety.
The syndicate were the first to get
ashore the evening they arrived at Bymouth. They
had come to the conclusion in their deliberations that
the only possible place in which a retired mariner
would spend his evenings was a public-house, and they
resolved to do them thoroughly.
“The worst of it,” said
Sam, as they walked slowly together to the town, “is
the drinkin’. Arter I’ve ’ad
five or six pints, everybody looks to me like Cap’n
Gething.”
“We won’t ’ave
no drinkin’,” said the cook. “We’ll
do wot the feller did in that story. ’Ave
you got sixpence about you?”
“Wot for?” inquired Sam carefully.
“Workin’ expenses,” replied the
cook, dwelling fondly on the phrase.
“That’ll be thruppence each, then,”
said Sam, eyeing him suspiciously.
“Sixpence each,” said
the cook. “Now do you know what we’re
goin’ to do?”
“Chuck money away,” hazarded
Sam as he reluctantly drew a sixpence from his pocket
and handed it to the cook. “Where’s
your sixpence?”
The cook showed it to him, and Sam,
whose faith in human nature had been largely shaken
by a perusal of the detective story referred to, bit
it critically.
“We can’t go into pubs
without drinkin’ in the ordinary way,”
said the cook, “so we’re goin’ in
to sell bootlaces, like the chap in the book did.
Now do you see?”
“Why not try something cheaper
first?” growled Sam “measurin’
footmarks, or over-’earing fellers talking?
It’s just like you, cookie, doin’ expensive
things.”
Under the cook’s glance of silent
scorn he became first restive and then abusive, winding
up finally by demanding his money back.
“Don’t you be a fool!”
said the cook coarsely. “You leave it to
me.”
“And get tied up in a chair
with my own bootlaces p’raps,” said the
irritated seaman.
The cook, affecting not to hear him,
looked out for a boot-shop, and having found one,
walked in, followed by the discontented Sam, and purchased
a shilling’s-worth of laces.
“Wot am I to say?” demanded
Sam surlily, as they stood outside, and the cook hung
half a dozen laces over his arm.
“You needn’t say anything,”
replied the cook. “Just walk in an’
’old ’em up in the people’s faces,
an’ if anybody offers you a drink you may ’ave
it.”
“Thank you for nothin’,”
said Sam, with prophetic insight.
“You take all the pubs this
side of the ‘igh Street an’ I’ll
take the other,” said the cook. “And
if you look as cheerful as you look now you ought
to take a lot o’ money.”
He turned away, and with a farewell
caution against drinking, set off. The stout
seaman, with a strong distaste for his job, took the
laces in his hand and bent his steps in the direction
of a small but noisy tavern in the next street.
The public bar was full, and Sam’s heart failed
him as he entered it, and, bearing the cook’s
instructions in mind, held up his wares to the customers.
Most of them took no notice, and the only man who
said anything to him was a red-nosed sergeant of marines,
who, setting his glass with great deliberation on
the counter, gazed fixedly at a dozen laces crawling
over his red sleeve. His remarks, when he discovered
their connection with Sam, were of a severe and sweeping
character, and contained not the slightest reference
to a drink.
In the next bar he met a philanthropist
who bought up his whole stock-in-trade. The stout
seaman was utterly unprepared for such kindness, and
stood looking at him dumbly, his lips all a-tremble
with naughty words.
“There, there,” said his
benefactor kindly. “Never mind about thanking
me.”
Sam obeyed him easily, and departing
in silence, went off raving to the nearest boot-shop
to buy more laces. Taught by experience, he put
some of his new stock in his pocket, and with a couple
of pairs in his hand, entered the next tavern on his
beat.
The bar was pretty full, but he pushed
his way in, and offering his wares in a perfunctory
fashion, looked round carefully for any signs of Captain
Gething.
“Outside!” said a smart
barmaid with a toss of her head as she caught sight
of him.
“I’m goin’, miss,”
said Sam, blushing with shame. Hitherto most barmaids
had treated him with kindness, and in taverns where
his powers were known, usually addressed him as “sir.”
“Down on your luck, mate?”
said a voice as he turned to go.
“Starvin’, sir,”
said Sam, who was never one to trouble about appearances.
“Sit down,” said his new
friend, with a nod at the barmaid, who was still regarding
the seaman in a hostile fashion.
Sam sat down and mentally blessed
the reservation regarding free drinks as his benefactor
turned to the bar and gave his order. His eyes
beamed softly with a mixture of gratitude and amusement
as his new friend came back with a pint of ale and
half a loaf of bread.
“Get through that, old chap,”
said the man as he handed him the bread; “and
there’s some more where that came from.”
He sat down opposite, and taking a
long pull at the pewter, watched with a kind smile
to see the famished seaman eat. He noted as a
strange fact that starving men nibble gently at the
outside crust first, and then start on small, very
small, mouthfuls of crumb, instinct rather than reason
probably warning them of the dangers of a surfeit.
For a few minutes Sam, with one eye
on the pewter and the other on the door, struggled
to perform his part. Then he rose, and murmuring
broken thanks, said he would take some home to his
wife and children.
“Never mind your wife and children,”
said his benefactor, putting down the empty pewter.
“You eat that up and I’ll give you a couple
of loaves to take home to them.”
“My ’art’s too full
to eat,” said Sam, getting a little nearer the
door.
“He means his stomach,”
said a stern but youthful voice which the unhappy
seaman knew only too well. He turned smartly and
saw the face of Henry peering over the partition,
and beside it the grinning countenance of Dick.
“He was on our ship this afternoon,”
continued his youthful tormentor as he scrambled still
higher up the partition, and getting one arm over,
pointed an accusing finger at Sam, who had been pushed
back into his seat. “We gave him a lovely
dinner, an’ arter he’d eat it he went off
on the quiet in one of our chaps’ clothes.”
“That’s right, mates,”
said the delighted Dick, nodding at the audience.
“One of our chaps named Sam,”
went on Henry “one of the best an’
kindest ’earted chaps that ever breathed.”
“Regular brick he is,” assented Dick.
“Fine, big ’ansome man,
he is,” said Henry, “and this chap’s
got his clothes on.”
The customers gazed sternly at Sam
as he sat open-mouthed listening to these fulsome
but untimely praises. In every gathering there
is sure to be one or two whose self-imposed mission
it is to right wrongs, and one of this type present
at once suggested returning the clothes to the rightful
owner. His suggestion was adopted with enthusiasm,
and a dozen men closed round the hapless Sam.
“Outside, gentlemen, please,” said the
barmaid hastily.
They went out in a cluster, the stout
seaman in the centre fighting like a madman, and nearly
overturning three soldiers who were passing. Two
of them were named Murphy and one O’Sullivan,
and the riot that ensued took three policemen and
a picket to subdue. Sam, glad of a chance to get
away, only saw the beginning of it, and consumed by
violent indignation, did not pause until he had placed
half a dozen streets between himself and the scene
of his discomfiture.
He had no intention of breaking faith
with the cook, but he had a pint and thought that
circumstances justified it. Then he walked slowly
up and down the street a little while, debating whether
he should continue the search or return to the schooner.
For a time he strolled on aimlessly, and then, resolving
not to be defeated by the impertinences of Dick and
the boy, paused before a high-class tavern and went
in. Two or three well-dressed men, whose behavior
contrasted favorably with that of the vulgar crew
he had just left, shook their heads, but not unkindly,
and he was about to leave when a big, black-bearded
man entered.
“That’s a poor game,”
said the big man, glancing at the laces.
“Yes, sir,” said Sam humbly.
“You look as if you thrive on it,” said
the man, somewhat sternly.
“It’s only looks, sir,”
said Sam, shaking his head as he walked to the door.
“Drink, I s’pose,” said the other.
“No, sir,” said Sam.
“When did you taste food last?” continued
the other.
“Yesterday morning,” said
Sam, clearing a soft piece of bread from his teeth
with his tongue.
“Could you take something?” inquired the
other.
Sam smiled expectantly and took a
seat. He heard his new friend order a pot, and
wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, tried to
think of something nice to say as he drank it.
Then his blood froze in his veins, and his jaw dropped
as the other came from the counter and held out half
a loaf.
“There, my man,” he said kindly, “put
that inside you.”
Sam took it and tried to put it into
his pocket, and repeating his old tale about taking
it home to the children, rose to depart.
“You eat that, and I’ll
give you a couple of loaves to take home to them,”
said the other.
The bread fell from Sam’s nerveless
fingers and rolled on to the floor. A bystander
picked it up, and wiping it on his coat, returned it
to him.
“Go on,” said the big
man, taking a deep draught of his beer “eat
away.”
“I must see my children eat
first,” said Sam in a broken voice.
“You eat that bread or I’ll
call a policeman and give you in charge,” said
the other, raising his voice. “I believe
you’re an impostor. Where’s your
hawker’s license?”
In a state bordering upon frenzy Sam
bit off a piece of the bread and tried to swallow
it. He took up a water-bottle and drank some of
the contents, and within five minutes had swallowed
as many mouthfuls.
“Go on,” said the donor sternly.
“I won’t,” said Sam fiercely; “damned
if I will!”
The other rose and went to the door.
“Just step this way a minute, constable,”
he said quietly.
He stood aside, and, as Sam paused
with the bread in his hand, the door opened and Dick
and Henry entered, and shaking their heads, gazed
sorrowfully upon him. The big man sat down and
laughed until he cried as Sam, realizing the plot
of which he had been the victim, flung the bread at
Henry and made for the door. He went down the
road mad with indignation, and with a firm resolve
to have no more to do with bootlaces, pitched them
away.
“Hallo, Sam!” cried a
figure from the other side of the road. “Any
luck?”
Sam shook his head speechlessly.
“You’ve been drinkin,” said the
cook as he came over.
“I ain’t,” said
Sam. Then a base idea occurred to him, and he
took the other by the arm.
“There’s a pub down here,
cook,” he said in a trembling voice, “an’
there’s an old chap there I can’t be certain
of. S’pose you go an’ have a look
at ’im.”
“Which one?” inquired his innocent friend.
Full of a great joy, Sam led him to
the place of his mortification, and waiting until
he was fairly in, stood listening behind the door.
“Why don’t they speak
up?” he said crossly, as a low, indistinct murmuring
reached him. He strained his ears intently, but
could not catch anything, and losing all patience,
was just about to push the door open and peep in when
he heard a roar of laughter. Peal upon peal sounded
until the bar shook with it, and an expression of peace
and rest came over his face as he pictured the scene
inside.
“Don’t,” said the cook’s voice
feebly.
There was another roar of laughter,
to which Sam grinned a silent accompaniment.
“You’ll kill me,”
said the cook again, in a choking voice.
“No worse for you than for me,
my lad,” said Sam, with great content.
There was another roar in which Sam,
to his amazement, fancied that the cook joined.
He was still listening in a state of maddening perplexity
when he heard the cook’s voice again.
“Poor old Sam!” it said
distinctly. “Poor old Sam! I’d
’ave given anythin’ to ’ave
seen him.”
The listener stiffened up suddenly
and, holding his breath, went off on tiptoe down the
street, the sounds of the foolish mirth in the bar
ringing in his ears as he went. His brain was
in a whirl, but two definite objects shaped themselves
in his mind as he walked fiercely on to
smash first the syndicate, and then the cook.
With these ideas firmly fixed he went aboard again,
and going into the lonely foc’sle, climbed into
his bunk and forgot his sorrows in sleep in
a sleep so sound that the others, upon their return
an hour later, failed to wake him, until Henry, as
a last expedient, threw a slice of bread at him.
After which everybody had to keep awake all night to
mount guard over their lives.