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    <title>
      The Wrecker, by Robert Louis Stevenson and Lloyd Osbourne
    </title>
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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1024 ***</div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h1>
      THE WRECKER
    </h1>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      by Robert Louis Stevenson and Lloyd Osbourne
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <blockquote>
      <p class="toc">
        <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br /> <a href="#link2H_PROL"> PROLOGUE. </a><br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2H_4_0002"> IN THE MARQUESAS. </a><br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2H_4_0003"> <big><b>THE YARN.</b></big> </a><br /> <br /> <a
        href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;A SOUND COMMERCIAL
        EDUCATION<br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;ROUSSILLON
        WINE<br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;TO
        INTRODUCE MR. PINKERTON<br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;IN
        WHICH I EXPERIENCE EXTREMES OF FORTUNE<br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0005">
        CHAPTER V</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;IN WHICH I AM DOWN ON MY LUCK IN PARIS<br /><br />
        <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;IN WHICH I GO WEST<br /><br />
        <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;IRONS IN THE FIRE<br /><br />
        <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;FACES ON THE CITY
        FRONT<br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;THE
        WRECK OF THE &ldquo;FLYING SCUD.<br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0010">
        CHAPTER X</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;IN WHICH THE CREW VANISH<br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;IN WHICH JIM AND I TAKE
        DIFFERENT WAYS<br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;THE
        &ldquo;NORAH CREINA.<br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;THE
        ISLAND AND THE WRECK<br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;THE
        CABIN OF THE &ldquo;FLYING SCUD"<br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0015">
        CHAPTER XV</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;THE CARGO OF THE &ldquo;FLYING SCUD"<br /><br />
        <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;IN WHICH I TURN
        SMUGGLER, AND THE CAPTAIN CASUIS<br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0017">
        CHAPTER XVII</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;LIGHT FROM THE MAN OF WAR<br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;CROSS-QUESTIONS AND
        CROOKED ANSWERS<br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;TRAVELS
        WITH A SHYSTER<br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;STALLBRIDGE-LE-CARTHEW<br /><br />
        <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;FACE TO FACE<br /><br />
        <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XXII</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;THE REMITTANCE MAN<br /><br />
        <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXIII&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;THE
        BUDGET OF THE &ldquo;CURRENCY LASS"<br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0024">
        CHAPTER XXIV</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;A HARD BARGAIN<br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER XXV</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;A BAD BARGAIN<br /><br />
        <a href="#link2H_EPIL"> EPILOGUE</a><br /><br />
      </p>
    </blockquote>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_PROL" id="link2H_PROL">
       <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      PROLOGUE.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002">
       <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      IN THE MARQUESAS.
    </h2>
    <p>
      It was about three o'clock of a winter's afternoon in Tai-o-hae, the
      French capital and port of entry of the Marquesas Islands. The trades blew
      strong and squally; the surf roared loud on the shingle beach; and the
      fifty-ton schooner of war, that carries the flag and influence of France
      about the islands of the cannibal group, rolled at her moorings under
      Prison Hill. The clouds hung low and black on the surrounding amphitheatre
      of mountains; rain had fallen earlier in the day, real tropic rain, a
      waterspout for violence; and the green and gloomy brow of the mountain was
      still seamed with many silver threads of torrent.
    </p>
    <p>
      In these hot and healthy islands winter is but a name. The rain had not
      refreshed, nor could the wind invigorate, the dwellers of Tai-o-hae: away
      at one end, indeed, the commandant was directing some changes in the
      residency garden beyond Prison Hill; and the gardeners, being all
      convicts, had no choice but to continue to obey. All other folks slumbered
      and took their rest: Vaekehu, the native queen, in her trim house under
      the rustling palms; the Tahitian commissary, in his beflagged official
      residence; the merchants, in their deserted stores; and even the
      club-servant in the club, his head fallen forward on the bottle-counter,
      under the map of the world and the cards of navy officers. In the whole
      length of the single shoreside street, with its scattered board houses
      looking to the sea, its grateful shade of palms and green jungle of
      puraos, no moving figure could be seen. Only, at the end of the rickety
      pier, that once (in the prosperous days of the American rebellion) was
      used to groan under the cotton of John Hart, there might have been spied
      upon a pile of lumber the famous tattooed white man, the living curiosity
      of Tai-o-hae.
    </p>
    <p>
      His eyes were open, staring down the bay. He saw the mountains droop, as
      they approached the entrance, and break down in cliffs; the surf boil
      white round the two sentinel islets; and between, on the narrow bight of
      blue horizon, Ua-pu upraise the ghost of her pinnacled mountain tops. But
      his mind would take no account of these familiar features; as he dodged in
      and out along the frontier line of sleep and waking, memory would serve
      him with broken fragments of the past: brown faces and white, of skipper
      and shipmate, king and chief, would arise before his mind and vanish; he
      would recall old voyages, old landfalls in the hour of dawn; he would hear
      again the drums beat for a man-eating festival; perhaps he would summon up
      the form of that island princess for the love of whom he had submitted his
      body to the cruel hands of the tattooer, and now sat on the lumber, at the
      pier-end of Tai-o-hae, so strange a figure of a European. Or perhaps from
      yet further back, sounds and scents of England and his childhood might
      assail him: the merry clamour of cathedral bells, the broom upon the
      foreland, the song of the river on the weir.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is bold water at the mouth of the bay; you can steer a ship about
      either sentinel, close enough to toss a biscuit on the rocks. Thus it
      chanced that, as the tattooed man sat dozing and dreaming, he was startled
      into wakefulness and animation by the appearance of a flying jib beyond
      the western islet. Two more headsails followed; and before the tattooed
      man had scrambled to his feet, a topsail schooner, of some hundred tons,
      had luffed about the sentinel and was standing up the bay, close-hauled.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sleeping city awakened by enchantment. Natives appeared upon all
      sides, hailing each other with the magic cry &ldquo;Ehippy&rdquo;&mdash;ship;
      the Queen stepped forth on her verandah, shading her eyes under a hand
      that was a miracle of the fine art of tattooing; the commandant broke from
      his domestic convicts and ran into the residency for his glass; the
      harbour master, who was also the gaoler, came speeding down the Prison
      Hill; the seventeen brown Kanakas and the French boatswain's mate, that
      make up the complement of the war-schooner, crowded on the forward deck;
      and the various English, Americans, Germans, Poles, Corsicans, and Scots&mdash;the
      merchants and the clerks of Tai-o-hae&mdash;deserted their places of
      business, and gathered, according to invariable custom, on the road before
      the club.
    </p>
    <p>
      So quickly did these dozen whites collect, so short are the distances in
      Tai-o-hae, that they were already exchanging guesses as to the nationality
      and business of the strange vessel, before she had gone about upon her
      second board towards the anchorage. A moment after, English colours were
      broken out at the main truck.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I told you she was a Johnny Bull&mdash;knew it by her headsails,&rdquo;
      said an evergreen old salt, still qualified (if he could anywhere have
      found an owner unacquainted with his story) to adorn another quarter-deck
      and lose another ship.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She has American lines, anyway,&rdquo; said the astute Scots
      engineer of the gin-mill; &ldquo;it's my belief she's a yacht.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's it,&rdquo; said the old salt, &ldquo;a yacht! look at her
      davits, and the boat over the stern.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A yacht in your eye!&rdquo; said a Glasgow voice. &ldquo;Look at
      her red ensign! A yacht! not much she isn't!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You can close the store, anyway, Tom,&rdquo; observed a gentlemanly
      German. &ldquo;Bon jour, mon Prince!&rdquo; he added, as a dark,
      intelligent native cantered by on a neat chestnut. &ldquo;Vous allez boire
      un verre de biere?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      But Prince Stanilas Moanatini, the only reasonably busy human creature on
      the island, was riding hot-spur to view this morning's landslip on the
      mountain road: the sun already visibly declined; night was imminent; and
      if he would avoid the perils of darkness and precipice, and the fear of
      the dead, the haunters of the jungle, he must for once decline a
      hospitable invitation. Even had he been minded to alight, it presently
      appeared there would be difficulty as to the refreshment offered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Beer!&rdquo; cried the Glasgow voice. &ldquo;No such a thing; I
      tell you there's only eight bottles in the club! Here's the first time
      I've seen British colours in this port! and the man that sails under them
      has got to drink that beer.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The proposal struck the public mind as fair, though far from cheering; for
      some time back, indeed, the very name of beer had been a sound of sorrow
      in the club, and the evenings had passed in dolorous computation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here is Havens,&rdquo; said one, as if welcoming a fresh topic.
      &ldquo;What do you think of her, Havens?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't think,&rdquo; replied Havens, a tall, bland, cool-looking,
      leisurely Englishman, attired in spotless duck, and deliberately dealing
      with a cigarette. &ldquo;I may say I know. She's consigned to me from
      Auckland by Donald &amp; Edenborough. I am on my way aboard.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What ship is she?&rdquo; asked the ancient mariner.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Haven't an idea,&rdquo; returned Havens. &ldquo;Some tramp they
      have chartered.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      With that he placidly resumed his walk, and was soon seated in the
      stern-sheets of a whaleboat manned by uproarious Kanakas, himself daintily
      perched out of the way of the least maculation, giving his commands in an
      unobtrusive, dinner-table tone of voice, and sweeping neatly enough
      alongside the schooner.
    </p>
    <p>
      A weather-beaten captain received him at the gangway.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are consigned to us, I think,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;I am Mr.
      Havens.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is right, sir,&rdquo; replied the captain, shaking hands.
      &ldquo;You will find the owner, Mr. Dodd, below. Mind the fresh paint on
      the house.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Havens stepped along the alley-way, and descended the ladder into the main
      cabin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Dodd, I believe,&rdquo; said he, addressing a smallish, bearded
      gentleman, who sat writing at the table. &ldquo;Why,&rdquo; he cried,
      &ldquo;it isn't Loudon Dodd?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Myself, my dear fellow,&rdquo; replied Mr. Dodd, springing to his
      feet with companionable alacrity. &ldquo;I had a half-hope it might be
      you, when I found your name on the papers. Well, there's no change in you;
      still the same placid, fresh-looking Britisher.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can't return the compliment; for you seem to have become a
      Britisher yourself,&rdquo; said Havens.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I promise you, I am quite unchanged,&rdquo; returned Dodd. &ldquo;The
      red tablecloth at the top of the stick is not my flag; it's my partner's.
      He is not dead, but sleepeth. There he is,&rdquo; he added, pointing to a
      bust which formed one of the numerous unexpected ornaments of that unusual
      cabin.
    </p>
    <p>
      Havens politely studied it. &ldquo;A fine bust,&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;and
      a very nice-looking fellow.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; he's a good fellow,&rdquo; said Dodd. &ldquo;He runs me now.
      It's all his money.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He doesn't seem to be particularly short of it,&rdquo; added the
      other, peering with growing wonder round the cabin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;His money, my taste,&rdquo; said Dodd. &ldquo;The black-walnut
      bookshelves are Old English; the books all mine,&mdash;mostly Renaissance
      French. You should see how the beach-combers wilt away when they go round
      them looking for a change of Seaside Library novels. The mirrors are
      genuine Venice; that's a good piece in the corner. The daubs are mine&mdash;and
      his; the mudding mine.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mudding? What is that?&rdquo; asked Havens.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;These bronzes,&rdquo; replied Dodd. &ldquo;I began life as a
      sculptor.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; I remember something about that,&rdquo; said the other.
      &ldquo;I think, too, you said you were interested in Californian real
      estate.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Surely, I never went so far as that,&rdquo; said Dodd. &ldquo;Interested?
      I guess not. Involved, perhaps. I was born an artist; I never took an
      interest in anything but art. If I were to pile up this old schooner
      to-morrow,&rdquo; he added, &ldquo;I declare I believe I would try the
      thing again!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Insured?&rdquo; inquired Havens.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; responded Dodd. &ldquo;There's some fool in 'Frisco who
      insures us, and comes down like a wolf on the fold on the profits; but
      we'll get even with him some day.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I suppose it's all right about the cargo,&rdquo; said Havens.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, I suppose so!&rdquo; replied Dodd. &ldquo;Shall we go into the
      papers?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We'll have all to-morrow, you know,&rdquo; said Havens; &ldquo;and
      they'll be rather expecting you at the club. C'est l'heure de l'absinthe.
      Of course, Loudon, you'll dine with me later on?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Dodd signified his acquiescence; drew on his white coat, not without a
      trifling difficulty, for he was a man of middle age, and well-to-do;
      arranged his beard and moustaches at one of the Venetian mirrors; and,
      taking a broad felt hat, led the way through the trade-room into the
      ship's waist.
    </p>
    <p>
      The stern boat was waiting alongside,&mdash;a boat of an elegant model,
      with cushions and polished hard-wood fittings.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You steer,&rdquo; observed Loudon. &ldquo;You know the best place
      to land.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I never like to steer another man's boat,&rdquo; replied Havens.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Call it my partner's, and cry quits,&rdquo; returned Loudon,
      getting nonchalantly down the side.
    </p>
    <p>
      Havens followed and took the yoke lines without further protest. &ldquo;I
      am sure I don't know how you make this pay,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;To
      begin with, she is too big for the trade, to my taste; and then you carry
      so much style.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know that she does pay,&rdquo; returned Loudon. &ldquo;I
      never pretend to be a business man. My partner appears happy; and the
      money is all his, as I told you&mdash;I only bring the want of business
      habits.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You rather like the berth, I suppose?&rdquo; suggested Havens.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Loudon; &ldquo;it seems odd, but I rather do.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      While they were yet on board, the sun had dipped; the sunset gun (a rifle)
      cracked from the war-schooner, and the colours had been handed down. Dusk
      was deepening as they came ashore; and the Cercle Internationale (as the
      club is officially and significantly named) began to shine, from under its
      low verandas, with the light of many lamps. The good hours of the
      twenty-four drew on; the hateful, poisonous day-fly of Nukahiva, was
      beginning to desist from its activity; the land-breeze came in refreshing
      draughts; and the club men gathered together for the hour of absinthe. To
      the commandant himself, to the man whom he was then contending with at
      billiards&mdash;a trader from the next island, honorary member of the
      club, and once carpenter's mate on board a Yankee war-ship&mdash;to the
      doctor of the port, to the Brigadier of Gendarmerie, to the opium farmer,
      and to all the white men whom the tide of commerce, or the chances of
      shipwreck and desertion, had stranded on the beach of Tai-o-hae, Mr.
      Loudon Dodd was formally presented; by all (since he was a man of pleasing
      exterior, smooth ways, and an unexceptionable flow of talk, whether in
      French or English) he was excellently well received; and presently, with
      one of the last eight bottles of beer on a table at his elbow, found
      himself the rather silent centre-piece of a voluble group on the verandah.
    </p>
    <p>
      Talk in the South Seas is all upon one pattern; it is a wide ocean,
      indeed, but a narrow world: you shall never talk long and not hear the
      name of Bully Hayes, a naval hero whose exploits and deserved extinction
      left Europe cold; commerce will be touched on, copra, shell, perhaps
      cotton or fungus; but in a far-away, dilettante fashion, as by men not
      deeply interested; through all, the names of schooners and their captains,
      will keep coming and going, thick as may-flies; and news of the last
      shipwreck will be placidly exchanged and debated. To a stranger, this
      conversation will at first seem scarcely brilliant; but he will soon catch
      the tone; and by the time he shall have moved a year or so in the island
      world, and come across a good number of the schooners so that every
      captain's name calls up a figure in pyjamas or white duck, and becomes
      used to a certain laxity of moral tone which prevails (as in memory of Mr.
      Hayes) on smuggling, ship-scuttling, barratry, piracy, the labour trade,
      and other kindred fields of human activity, he will find Polynesia no less
      amusing and no less instructive than Pall Mall or Paris.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Loudon Dodd, though he was new to the group of the Marquesas, was
      already an old, salted trader; he knew the ships and the captains; he had
      assisted, in other islands, at the first steps of some career of which he
      now heard the culmination, or (vice versa) he had brought with him from
      further south the end of some story which had begun in Tai-o-hae. Among
      other matter of interest, like other arrivals in the South Seas, he had a
      wreck to announce. The John T. Richards, it appeared, had met the fate of
      other island schooners.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dickinson piled her up on Palmerston Island,&rdquo; Dodd announced.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who were the owners?&rdquo; inquired one of the club men.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, the usual parties!&rdquo; returned Loudon,&mdash;&ldquo;Capsicum
      &amp; Co.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      A smile and a glance of intelligence went round the group; and perhaps
      Loudon gave voice to the general sentiment by remarking, &ldquo;Talk of
      good business! I know nothing better than a schooner, a competent captain,
      and a sound, reliable reef.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good business! There's no such a thing!&rdquo; said the Glasgow
      man. &ldquo;Nobody makes anything but the missionaries&mdash;dash it!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know,&rdquo; said another. &ldquo;There's a good deal in
      opium.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's a good job to strike a tabooed pearl-island, say, about the
      fourth year,&rdquo; remarked a third; &ldquo;skim the whole lagoon on the
      sly, and up stick and away before the French get wind of you.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A pig nokket of cold is good,&rdquo; observed a German.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There's something in wrecks, too,&rdquo; said Havens. &ldquo;Look
      at that man in Honolulu, and the ship that went ashore on Waikiki Reef; it
      was blowing a kona, hard; and she began to break up as soon as she
      touched. Lloyd's agent had her sold inside an hour; and before dark, when
      she went to pieces in earnest, the man that bought her had feathered his
      nest. Three more hours of daylight, and he might have retired from
      business. As it was, he built a house on Beretania Street, and called it
      for the ship.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, there's something in wrecks sometimes,&rdquo; said the Glasgow
      voice; &ldquo;but not often.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As a general rule, there's deuced little in anything,&rdquo; said
      Havens.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I believe that's a Christian fact,&rdquo; cried the other.
      &ldquo;What I want is a secret; get hold of a rich man by the right place,
      and make him squeal.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I suppose you know it's not thought to be the ticket,&rdquo;
      returned Havens.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't care for that; it's good enough for me,&rdquo; cried the
      man from Glasgow, stoutly. &ldquo;The only devil of it is, a fellow can
      never find a secret in a place like the South Seas: only in London and
      Paris.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;M'Gibbon's been reading some dime-novel, I suppose,&rdquo; said one
      club man.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He's been reading <i>Aurora Floyd</i>,&rdquo; remarked another.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what if I have?&rdquo; cried M'Gibbon. &ldquo;It's all true.
      Look at the newspapers! It's just your confounded ignorance that sets you
      snickering. I tell you, it's as much a trade as underwriting, and a dashed
      sight more honest.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The sudden acrimony of these remarks called Loudon (who was a man of
      peace) from his reserve. &ldquo;It's rather singular,&rdquo; said he,
      &ldquo;but I seem to have practised about all these means of livelihood.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tit you effer vind a nokket?&rdquo; inquired the inarticulate
      German, eagerly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. I have been most kinds of fool in my time,&rdquo; returned
      Loudon, &ldquo;but not the gold-digging variety. Every man has a sane spot
      somewhere.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then,&rdquo; suggested some one, &ldquo;did you ever smuggle
      opium?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I did,&rdquo; said Loudon.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was there money in that?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All the way,&rdquo; responded Loudon.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And perhaps you bought a wreck?&rdquo; asked another.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, sir,&rdquo; said Loudon.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How did that pan out?&rdquo; pursued the questioner.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, mine was a peculiar kind of wreck,&rdquo; replied Loudon.
      &ldquo;I don't know, on the whole, that I can recommend that branch of
      industry.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did she break up?&rdquo; asked some one.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I guess it was rather I that broke down,&rdquo; says Loudon.
      &ldquo;Head not big enough.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ever try the blackmail?&rdquo; inquired Havens.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Simple as you see me sitting here!&rdquo; responded Dodd.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good business?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I'm not a lucky man, you see,&rdquo; returned the stranger.
      &ldquo;It ought to have been good.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You had a secret?&rdquo; asked the Glasgow man.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As big as the State of Texas.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And the other man was rich?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He wasn't exactly Jay Gould, but I guess he could buy these islands
      if he wanted.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, what was wrong, then? Couldn't you get hands on him?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It took time, but I had him cornered at last; and then&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What then?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The speculation turned bottom up. I became the man's bosom friend.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The deuce you did!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He couldn't have been particular, you mean?&rdquo; asked Dodd
      pleasantly. &ldquo;Well, no; he's a man of rather large sympathies.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you're done talking nonsense, Loudon,&rdquo; said Havens,
      &ldquo;let's be getting to my place for dinner.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Outside, the night was full of the roaring of the surf. Scattered lights
      glowed in the green thicket. Native women came by twos and threes out of
      the darkness, smiled and ogled the two whites, perhaps wooed them with a
      strain of laughter, and went by again, bequeathing to the air a heady
      perfume of palm-oil and frangipani blossom. From the club to Mr. Havens's
      residence was but a step or two, and to any dweller in Europe they must
      have seemed steps in fairyland. If such an one could but have followed our
      two friends into the wide-verandahed house, sat down with them in the cool
      trellised room, where the wine shone on the lamp-lighted tablecloth;
      tasted of their exotic food&mdash;the raw fish, the breadfruit, the cooked
      bananas, the roast pig served with the inimitable miti, and that king of
      delicacies, palm-tree salad; seen and heard by fits and starts, now
      peering round the corner of the door, now railing within against invisible
      assistants, a certain comely young native lady in a sacque, who seemed too
      modest to be a member of the family, and too imperious to be less; and
      then if such an one were whisked again through space to Upper Tooting, or
      wherever else he honored the domestic gods, &ldquo;I have had a dream,&rdquo;
      I think he would say, as he sat up, rubbing his eyes, in the familiar
      chimney-corner chair, &ldquo;I have had a dream of a place, and I declare
      I believe it must be heaven.&rdquo; But to Dodd and his entertainer, all
      this amenity of the tropic night and all these dainties of the island
      table, were grown things of custom; and they fell to meat like men who
      were hungry, and drifted into idle talk like men who were a trifle bored.
    </p>
    <p>
      The scene in the club was referred to.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I never heard you talk so much nonsense, Loudon,&rdquo; said the
      host.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, it seemed to me there was sulphur in the air, so I talked for
      talking,&rdquo; returned the other. &ldquo;But it was none of it nonsense.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you mean to say it was true?&rdquo; cried Havens,&mdash;&ldquo;that
      about the opium and the wreck, and the blackmailing and the man who became
      your friend?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Every last word of it,&rdquo; said Loudon.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You seem to have been seeing life,&rdquo; returned the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, it's a queer yarn,&rdquo; said his friend; &ldquo;if you think
      you would like, I'll tell it you.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Here follows the yarn of Loudon Dodd, not as he told it to his friend, but
      as he subsequently wrote it.
    </p>
    <p>
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    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      THE YARN.
    </h2>
    <p>
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    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER I. A SOUND COMMERCIAL EDUCATION.
    </h2>
    <p>
      The beginning of this yarn is my poor father's character. There never was
      a better man, nor a handsomer, nor (in my view) a more unhappy&mdash;unhappy
      in his business, in his pleasures, in his place of residence, and (I am
      sorry to say it) in his son. He had begun life as a land-surveyor, soon
      became interested in real estate, branched off into many other
      speculations, and had the name of one of the smartest men in the State of
      Muskegon. &ldquo;Dodd has a big head,&rdquo; people used to say; but I was
      never so sure of his capacity. His luck, at least, was beyond doubt for
      long; his assiduity, always. He fought in that daily battle of
      money-grubbing, with a kind of sad-eyed loyalty like a martyr's; rose
      early, ate fast, came home dispirited and over-weary, even from success;
      grudged himself all pleasure, if his nature was capable of taking any,
      which I sometimes wondered; and laid out, upon some deal in wheat or
      corner in aluminium, the essence of which was little better than highway
      robbery, treasures of conscientiousness and self-denial.
    </p>
    <p>
      Unluckily, I never cared a cent for anything but art, and never shall. My
      idea of man's chief end was to enrich the world with things of beauty, and
      have a fairly good time myself while doing so. I do not think I mentioned
      that second part, which is the only one I have managed to carry out; but
      my father must have suspected the suppression, for he branded the whole
      affair as self-indulgence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; I remember crying once, &ldquo;and what is your life?
      You are only trying to get money, and to get it from other people at that.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      He sighed bitterly (which was very much his habit), and shook his poor
      head at me. &ldquo;Ah, Loudon, Loudon!&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;you boys
      think yourselves very smart. But, struggle as you please, a man has to
      work in this world. He must be an honest man or a thief, Loudon.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      You can see for yourself how vain it was to argue with my father. The
      despair that seized upon me after such an interview was, besides,
      embittered by remorse; for I was at times petulant, but he invariably
      gentle; and I was fighting, after all, for my own liberty and pleasure, he
      singly for what he thought to be my good. And all the time he never
      despaired. &ldquo;There is good stuff in you, Loudon,&rdquo; he would say;
      &ldquo;there is the right stuff in you. Blood will tell, and you will come
      right in time. I am not afraid my boy will ever disgrace me; I am only
      vexed he should sometimes talk nonsense.&rdquo; And then he would pat my
      shoulder or my hand with a kind of motherly way he had, very affecting in
      a man so strong and beautiful.
    </p>
    <p>
      As soon as I had graduated from the high school, he packed me off to the
      Muskegon Commercial Academy. You are a foreigner, and you will have a
      difficulty in accepting the reality of this seat of education. I assure
      you before I begin that I am wholly serious. The place really existed,
      possibly exists to-day: we were proud of it in the State, as something
      exceptionally nineteenth century and civilized; and my father, when he saw
      me to the cars, no doubt considered he was putting me in a straight line
      for the Presidency and the New Jerusalem.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Loudon,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;I am now giving you a chance that
      Julius Caesar could not have given to his son&mdash;a chance to see life
      as it is, before your own turn comes to start in earnest. Avoid rash
      speculation, try to behave like a gentleman; and if you will take my
      advice, confine yourself to a safe, conservative business in railroads.
      Breadstuffs are tempting, but very dangerous; I would not try breadstuffs
      at your time of life; but you may feel your way a little in other
      commodities. Take a pride to keep your books posted, and never throw good
      money after bad. There, my dear boy, kiss me good-by; and never forget
      that you are an only chick, and that your dad watches your career with
      fond suspense.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The commercial college was a fine, roomy establishment, pleasantly situate
      among woods. The air was healthy, the food excellent, the premium high.
      Electric wires connected it (to use the words of the prospectus) with
      &ldquo;the various world centres.&rdquo; The reading-room was well
      supplied with &ldquo;commercial organs.&rdquo; The talk was that of Wall
      Street; and the pupils (from fifty to a hundred lads) were principally
      engaged in rooking or trying to rook one another for nominal sums in what
      was called &ldquo;college paper.&rdquo; We had class hours, indeed, in the
      morning, when we studied German, French, book-keeping, and the like goodly
      matters; but the bulk of our day and the gist of the education centred in
      the exchange, where we were taught to gamble in produce and securities.
      Since not one of the participants possessed a bushel of wheat or a
      dollar's worth of stock, legitimate business was of course impossible from
      the beginning. It was cold-drawn gambling, without colour or disguise.
      Just that which is the impediment and destruction of all genuine
      commercial enterprise, just that we were taught with every luxury of stage
      effect. Our simulacrum of a market was ruled by the real markets outside,
      so that we might experience the course and vicissitude of prices. We must
      keep books, and our ledgers were overhauled at the month's end by the
      principal or his assistants. To add a spice of verisimilitude, &ldquo;college
      paper&rdquo; (like poker chips) had an actual marketable value. It was
      bought for each pupil by anxious parents and guardians at the rate of one
      cent for the dollar. The same pupil, when his education was complete,
      resold, at the same figure, so much as was left him to the college; and
      even in the midst of his curriculum, a successful operator would sometimes
      realize a proportion of his holding, and stand a supper on the sly in the
      neighbouring hamlet. In short, if there was ever a worse education, it
      must have been in that academy where Oliver met Charlie Bates.
    </p>
    <p>
      When I was first guided into the exchange to have my desk pointed out by
      one of the assistant teachers, I was overwhelmed by the clamour and
      confusion. Certain blackboards at the other end of the building were
      covered with figures continually replaced. As each new set appeared, the
      pupils swayed to and fro, and roared out aloud with a formidable and to me
      quite meaningless vociferation; leaping at the same time upon the desks
      and benches, signalling with arms and heads, and scribbling briskly in
      note-books. I thought I had never beheld a scene more disagreeable; and
      when I considered that the whole traffic was illusory, and all the money
      then upon the market would scarce have sufficed to buy a pair of skates, I
      was at first astonished, although not for long. Indeed, I had no sooner
      called to mind how grown-up men and women of considerable estate will lose
      their temper about half-penny points, than (making an immediate allowance
      for my fellow-students) I transferred the whole of my astonishment to the
      assistant teacher, who&mdash;poor gentleman&mdash;had quite forgot to show
      me to my desk, and stood in the midst of this hurly-burly, absorbed and
      seemingly transported.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look, look,&rdquo; he shouted in my ear; &ldquo;a falling market!
      The bears have had it all their own way since yesterday.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It can't matter,&rdquo; I replied, making him hear with difficulty,
      for I was unused to speak in such a babel, &ldquo;since it is all fun.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;True,&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;and you must always bear in mind that
      the real profit is in the book-keeping. I trust, Dodd, to be able to
      congratulate you upon your books. You are to start in with ten thousand
      dollars of college paper, a very liberal figure, which should see you
      through the whole curriculum, if you keep to a safe, conservative
      business.... Why, what's that?&rdquo; he broke off, once more attracted by
      the changing figures on the board. &ldquo;Seven, four, three! Dodd, you
      are in luck: this is the most spirited rally we have had this term. And to
      think that the same scene is now transpiring in New York, Chicago, St.
      Louis, and rival business centres! For two cents, I would try a flutter
      with the boys myself,&rdquo; he cried, rubbing his hands; &ldquo;only it's
      against the regulations.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What would you do, sir?&rdquo; I asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do?&rdquo; he cried, with glittering eyes. &ldquo;Buy for all I was
      worth!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Would that be a safe, conservative business?&rdquo; I inquired, as
      innocent as a lamb.
    </p>
    <p>
      He looked daggers at me. &ldquo;See that sandy-haired man in glasses?&rdquo;
      he asked, as if to change the subject. &ldquo;That's Billson, our most
      prominent undergraduate. We build confidently on Billson's future. You
      could not do better, Dodd, than follow Billson.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Presently after, in the midst of a still growing tumult, the figures
      coming and going more busily than ever on the board, and the hall
      resounding like Pandemonium with the howls of operators, the assistant
      teacher left me to my own resources at my desk. The next boy was posting
      up his ledger, figuring his morning's loss, as I discovered later on; and
      from this ungenial task he was readily diverted by the sight of a new
      face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Say, Freshman,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;what's your name? What? Son
      of Big Head Dodd? What's your figure? Ten thousand? O, you're away up!
      What a soft-headed clam you must be to touch your books!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      I asked him what else I could do, since the books were to be examined once
      a month.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, you galoot, you get a clerk!&rdquo; cries he. &ldquo;One of
      our dead beats&mdash;that's all they're here for. If you're a successful
      operator, you need never do a stroke of work in this old college.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The noise had now become deafening; and my new friend, telling me that
      some one had certainly &ldquo;gone down,&rdquo; that he must know the
      news, and that he would bring me a clerk when he returned, buttoned his
      coat and plunged into the tossing throng. It proved that he was right:
      some one had gone down; a prince had fallen in Israel; the corner in lard
      had proved fatal to the mighty; and the clerk who was brought back to keep
      my books, spare me all work, and get all my share of the education, at a
      thousand dollars a month, college paper (ten dollars, United States
      currency) was no other than the prominent Billson whom I could do no
      better than follow. The poor lad was very unhappy. It's the only good
      thing I have to say for Muskegon Commercial College, that we were all,
      even the small fry, deeply mortified to be posted as defaulters; and the
      collapse of a merchant prince like Billson, who had ridden pretty high in
      his days of prosperity, was, of course, particularly hard to bear. But the
      spirit of make-believe conquered even the bitterness of recent shame; and
      my clerk took his orders, and fell to his new duties, with decorum and
      civility.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such were my first impressions in this absurd place of education; and, to
      be frank, they were far from disagreeable. As long as I was rich, my
      evenings and afternoons would be my own; the clerk must keep my books, the
      clerk could do the jostling and bawling in the exchange; and I could turn
      my mind to landscape-painting and Balzac's novels, which were then my two
      preoccupations. To remain rich, then, became my problem; or, in other
      words, to do a safe, conservative line of business. I am looking for that
      line still; and I believe the nearest thing to it in this imperfect world
      is the sort of speculation sometimes insidiously proposed to childhood, in
      the formula, &ldquo;Heads, I win; tails, you lose.&rdquo; Mindful of my
      father's parting words, I turned my attention timidly to railroads; and
      for a month or so maintained a position of inglorious security, dealing
      for small amounts in the most inert stocks, and bearing (as best I could)
      the scorn of my hired clerk. One day I had ventured a little further by
      way of experiment; and, in the sure expectation they would continue to go
      down, sold several thousand dollars of Pan-Handle Preference (I think it
      was). I had no sooner made this venture than some fools in New York began
      to bull the market; Pan-Handles rose like a balloon; and in the inside of
      half an hour I saw my position compromised. Blood will tell, as my father
      said; and I stuck to it gallantly: all afternoon I continued selling that
      infernal stock, all afternoon it continued skying. I suppose I had come (a
      frail cockle-shell) athwart the hawse of Jay Gould; and, indeed, I think I
      remember that this vagary in the market proved subsequently to be the
      first move in a considerable deal. That evening, at least, the name of H.
      Loudon Dodd held the first rank in our collegiate gazette, and I and
      Billson (once more thrown upon the world) were competing for the same
      clerkship. The present object takes the present eye. My disaster, for the
      moment, was the more conspicuous; and it was I that got the situation. So
      you see, even in Muskegon Commercial College, there were lessons to be
      learned.
    </p>
    <p>
      For my own part, I cared very little whether I lost or won at a game so
      random, so complex, and so dull; but it was sorry news to write to my poor
      father, and I employed all the resources of my eloquence. I told him (what
      was the truth) that the successful boys had none of the education; so that
      if he wished me to learn, he should rejoice at my misfortune. I went on
      (not very consistently) to beg him to set me up again, when I would
      solemnly promise to do a safe business in reliable railroads. Lastly
      (becoming somewhat carried away), I assured him I was totally unfit for
      business, and implored him to take me away from this abominable place, and
      let me go to Paris to study art. He answered briefly, gently, and sadly,
      telling me the vacation was near at hand, when we could talk things over.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the time came, he met me at the depot, and I was shocked to see him
      looking older. He seemed to have no thought but to console me and restore
      (what he supposed I had lost) my courage. I must not be down-hearted; many
      of the best men had made a failure in the beginning. I told him I had no
      head for business, and his kind face darkened. &ldquo;You must not say
      that, Loudon,&rdquo; he replied; &ldquo;I will never believe my son to be
      a coward.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I don't like it,&rdquo; I pleaded. &ldquo;It hasn't got any
      interest for me, and art has. I know I could do more in art,&rdquo; and I
      reminded him that a successful painter gains large sums; that a picture of
      Meissonier's would sell for many thousand dollars.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And do you think, Loudon,&rdquo; he replied, &ldquo;that a man who
      can paint a thousand dollar picture has not grit enough to keep his end up
      in the stock market? No, sir; this Mason (of whom you speak) or our own
      American Bierstadt&mdash;if you were to put them down in a wheat pit
      to-morrow, they would show their mettle. Come, Loudon, my dear; heaven
      knows I have no thought but your own good, and I will offer you a bargain.
      I start you again next term with ten thousand dollars; show yourself a
      man, and double it, and then (if you still wish to go to Paris, which I
      know you won't) I'll let you go. But to let you run away as if you were
      whipped, is what I am too proud to do.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      My heart leaped at this proposal, and then sank again. It seemed easier to
      paint a Meissonier on the spot than to win ten thousand dollars on that
      mimic stock exchange. Nor could I help reflecting on the singularity of
      such a test for a man's capacity to be a painter. I ventured even to
      comment on this.
    </p>
    <p>
      He sighed deeply. &ldquo;You forget, my dear,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;I am
      a judge of the one, and not of the other. You might have the genius of
      Bierstadt himself, and I would be none the wiser.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And then,&rdquo; I continued, &ldquo;it's scarcely fair. The other
      boys are helped by their people, who telegraph and give them pointers.
      There's Jim Costello, who never budges without a word from his father in
      New York. And then, don't you see, if anybody is to win, somebody must
      lose?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll keep you posted,&rdquo; cried my father, with unusual
      animation; &ldquo;I did not know it was allowed. I'll wire you in the
      office cipher, and we'll make it a kind of partnership business, Loudon:&mdash;Dodd
      &amp; Son, eh?&rdquo; and he patted my shoulder and repeated, &ldquo;Dodd
      &amp; Son, Dodd &amp; Son,&rdquo; with the kindliest amusement.
    </p>
    <p>
      If my father was to give me pointers, and the commercial college was to be
      a stepping-stone to Paris, I could look my future in the face. The old
      boy, too, was so pleased at the idea of our association in this foolery
      that he immediately plucked up spirit. Thus it befell that those who had
      met at the depot like a pair of mutes, sat down to table with holiday
      faces.
    </p>
    <p>
      And now I have to introduce a new character that never said a word nor
      wagged a finger, and yet shaped my whole subsequent career. You have
      crossed the States, so that in all likelihood you have seen the head of
      it, parcel-gilt and curiously fluted, rising among trees from a wide
      plain; for this new character was no other than the State capitol of
      Muskegon, then first projected. My father had embraced the idea with a
      mixture of patriotism and commercial greed both perfectly genuine. He was
      of all the committees, he had subscribed a great deal of money, and he was
      making arrangements to have a finger in most of the contracts. Competitive
      plans had been sent in; at the time of my return from college my father
      was deep in their consideration; and as the idea entirely occupied his
      mind, the first evening did not pass away before he had called me into
      council. Here was a subject at last into which I could throw myself with
      pleasurable zeal. Architecture was new to me, indeed; but it was at least
      an art; and for all the arts I had a taste naturally classical and that
      capacity to take delighted pains which some famous idiot has supposed to
      be synonymous with genius. I threw myself headlong into my father's work,
      acquainted myself with all the plans, their merits and defects, read
      besides in special books, made myself a master of the theory of strains,
      studied the current prices of materials, and (in one word) &ldquo;devilled&rdquo;
      the whole business so thoroughly, that when the plans came up for
      consideration, Big Head Dodd was supposed to have earned fresh laurels.
      His arguments carried the day, his choice was approved by the committee,
      and I had the anonymous satisfaction to know that arguments and choice
      were wholly mine. In the recasting of the plan which followed, my part was
      even larger; for I designed and cast with my own hand a hot-air grating
      for the offices, which had the luck or merit to be accepted. The energy
      and aptitude which I displayed throughout delighted and surprised my
      father, and I believe, although I say it whose tongue should be tied, that
      they alone prevented Muskegon capitol from being the eyesore of my native
      State.
    </p>
    <p>
      Altogether, I was in a cheery frame of mind when I returned to the
      commercial college; and my earlier operations were crowned with a full
      measure of success. My father wrote and wired to me continually. &ldquo;You
      are to exercise your own judgment, Loudon,&rdquo; he would say. &ldquo;All
      that I do is to give you the figures; but whatever operation you take up
      must be upon your own responsibility, and whatever you earn will be
      entirely due to your own dash and forethought.&rdquo; For all that, it was
      always clear what he intended me to do, and I was always careful to do it.
      Inside of a month I was at the head of seventeen or eighteen thousand
      dollars, college paper. And here I fell a victim to one of the vices of
      the system. The paper (I have already explained) had a real value of one
      per cent; and cost, and could be sold for, currency. Unsuccessful
      speculators were thus always selling clothes, books, banjos, and
      sleeve-links, in order to pay their differences; the successful, on the
      other hand, were often tempted to realise, and enjoy some return upon
      their profits. Now I wanted thirty dollars' worth of artist-truck, for I
      was always sketching in the woods; my allowance was for the time
      exhausted; I had begun to regard the exchange (with my father's help) as a
      place where money was to be got for stooping; and in an evil hour I
      realised three thousand dollars of the college paper and bought my easel.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a Wednesday morning when the things arrived, and set me in the
      seventh heaven of satisfaction. My father (for I can scarcely say myself)
      was trying at this time a &ldquo;straddle&rdquo; in wheat between Chicago
      and New York; the operation so called is, as you know, one of the most
      tempting and least safe upon the chess-board of finance. On the Thursday,
      luck began to turn against my father's calculations; and by the Friday
      evening, I was posted on the boards as a defaulter for the second time.
      Here was a rude blow: my father would have taken it ill enough in any
      case; for however much a man may resent the incapacity of an only son, he
      will feel his own more sensibly. But it chanced that, in our bitter cup of
      failure, there was one ingredient that might truly be called poisonous. He
      had been keeping the run of my position; he missed the three thousand
      dollars, paper; and in his view, I had stolen thirty dollars, currency. It
      was an extreme view perhaps; but in some senses, it was just: and my
      father, although (to my judgment) quite reckless of honesty in the essence
      of his operations, was the soul of honour as to their details. I had one
      grieved letter from him, dignified and tender; and during the rest of that
      wretched term, working as a clerk, selling my clothes and sketches to make
      futile speculations, my dream of Paris quite vanished. I was cheered by no
      word of kindness and helped by no hint of counsel from my father.
    </p>
    <p>
      All the time he was no doubt thinking of little else but his son, and what
      to do with him. I believe he had been really appalled by what he regarded
      as my laxity of principle, and began to think it might be well to preserve
      me from temptation; the architect of the capitol had, besides, spoken
      obligingly of my design; and while he was thus hanging between two minds,
      Fortune suddenly stepped in, and Muskegon State capitol reversed my
      destiny.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Loudon,&rdquo; said my father, as he met me at the depot, with a
      smiling countenance, &ldquo;if you were to go to Paris, how long would it
      take you to become an experienced sculptor?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How do you mean, father?&rdquo; I cried. &ldquo;Experienced?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A man that could be entrusted with the highest styles,&rdquo; he
      answered; &ldquo;the nude, for instance; and the patriotic and
      emblematical styles.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It might take three years,&rdquo; I replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You think Paris necessary?&rdquo; he asked. &ldquo;There are great
      advantages in our own country; and that man Prodgers appears to be a very
      clever sculptor, though I suppose he stands too high to go around giving
      lessons.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Paris is the only place,&rdquo; I assured him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I think myself it will sound better,&rdquo; he admitted.
      &ldquo;A Young Man, a Native of this State, Son of a Leading Citizen,
      Studies Prosecuted under the Most Experienced Masters in Paris,&rdquo; he
      added, relishingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, my dear dad, what is it all about?&rdquo; I interrupted.
      &ldquo;I never even dreamed of being a sculptor.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, here it is,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;I took up the statuary
      contract on our new capitol; I took it up at first as a deal; and then it
      occurred to me it would be better to keep it in the family. It meets your
      idea; there's considerable money in the thing; and it's patriotic. So, if
      you say the word, you shall go to Paris, and come back in three years to
      decorate the capitol of your native State. It's a big chance for you,
      Loudon; and I'll tell you what&mdash;every dollar you earn, I'll put
      another alongside of it. But the sooner you go, and the harder you work,
      the better; for if the first half-dozen statues aren't in a line with
      public taste in Muskegon, there will be trouble.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002">
       <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER II. ROUSSILLON WINE.
    </h2>
    <p>
      My mother's family was Scotch, and it was judged fitting I should pay a
      visit on my way Paris-ward, to my Uncle Adam Loudon, a wealthy retired
      grocer of Edinburgh. He was very stiff and very ironical; he fed me well,
      lodged me sumptuously, and seemed to take it out of me all the time, cent
      per cent, in secret entertainment which caused his spectacles to glitter
      and his mouth to twitch. The ground of this ill-suppressed mirth (as well
      as I could make out) was simply the fact that I was an American. &ldquo;Well,&rdquo;
      he would say, drawing out the word to infinity, &ldquo;and I suppose now
      in your country, things will be so and so.&rdquo; And the whole group of
      my cousins would titter joyously. Repeated receptions of this sort must be
      at the root, I suppose, of what they call the Great American Jest; and I
      know I was myself goaded into saying that my friends went naked in the
      summer months, and that the Second Methodist Episcopal Church in Muskegon
      was decorated with scalps. I cannot say that these flights had any great
      success; they seemed to awaken little more surprise than the fact that my
      father was a Republican or that I had been taught in school to spell
      COLOUR without the U. If I had told them (what was after all the truth)
      that my father had paid a considerable annual sum to have me brought up in
      a gambling hell, the tittering and grinning of this dreadful family might
      perhaps have been excused.
    </p>
    <p>
      I cannot deny but I was sometimes tempted to knock my Uncle Adam down; and
      indeed I believe it must have come to a rupture at last, if they had not
      given a dinner party at which I was the lion. On this occasion, I learned
      (to my surprise and relief) that the incivility to which I had been
      subjected was a matter for the family circle and might be regarded almost
      in the light of an endearment. To strangers I was presented with
      consideration; and the account given of &ldquo;my American brother-in-law,
      poor Janie's man, James K. Dodd, the well-known millionnaire of Muskegon,&rdquo;
      was calculated to enlarge the heart of a proud son.
    </p>
    <p>
      An aged assistant of my grandfather's, a pleasant, humble creature with a
      taste for whiskey, was at first deputed to be my guide about the city.
      With this harmless but hardly aristocratic companion, I went to Arthur's
      Seat and the Calton Hill, heard the band play in the Princes Street
      Gardens, inspected the regalia and the blood of Rizzio, and fell in love
      with the great castle on its cliff, the innumerable spires of churches,
      the stately buildings, the broad prospects, and those narrow and crowded
      lanes of the old town where my ancestors had lived and died in the days
      before Columbus.
    </p>
    <p>
      But there was another curiosity that interested me more deeply&mdash;my
      grandfather, Alexander Loudon. In his time, the old gentleman had been a
      working mason, and had risen from the ranks more, I think, by shrewdness
      than by merit. In his appearance, speech, and manners, he bore broad marks
      of his origin, which were gall and wormwood to my Uncle Adam. His nails,
      in spite of anxious supervision, were often in conspicuous mourning; his
      clothes hung about him in bags and wrinkles like a ploughman's Sunday
      coat; his accent was rude, broad, and dragging: take him at his best, and
      even when he could be induced to hold his tongue, his mere presence in a
      corner of the drawing-room, with his open-air wrinkles, his scanty hair,
      his battered hands, and the cheerful craftiness of his expression,
      advertised the whole gang of us for a self-made family. My aunt might
      mince and my cousins bridle; but there was no getting over the solid,
      physical fact of the stonemason in the chimney-corner.
    </p>
    <p>
      That is one advantage of being an American: it never occurred to me to be
      ashamed of my grandfather, and the old gentleman was quick to mark the
      difference. He held my mother in tender memory, perhaps because he was in
      the habit of daily contrasting her with Uncle Adam, whom he detested to
      the point of frenzy; and he set down to inheritance from his favourite my
      own becoming treatment of himself. On our walks abroad, which soon became
      daily, he would sometimes (after duly warning me to keep the matter dark
      from &ldquo;Aadam&rdquo;) skulk into some old familiar pot-house; and
      there (if he had the luck to encounter any of his veteran cronies) he
      would present me to the company with manifest pride, casting at the same
      time a covert slur on the rest of his descendants. &ldquo;This is my
      Jeannie's yin,&rdquo; he would say. &ldquo;He's a fine fallow, him.&rdquo;
      The purpose of our excursions was not to seek antiquities or to enjoy
      famous prospects, but to visit one after another a series of doleful
      suburbs, for which it was the old gentleman's chief claim to renown that
      he had been the sole contractor, and too often the architect besides. I
      have rarely seen a more shocking exhibition: the bricks seemed to be
      blushing in the walls, and the slates on the roof to have turned pale with
      shame; but I was careful not to communicate these impressions to the aged
      artificer at my side; and when he would direct my attention to some fresh
      monstrosity&mdash;perhaps with the comment, &ldquo;There's an idee of
      mine's: it's cheap and tasty, and had a graand run; the idee was soon
      stole, and there's whole deestricts near Glesgie with the goathic adeetion
      and that plunth,&rdquo;&mdash;I would civilly make haste to admire and
      (what I found particularly delighted him) to inquire into the cost of each
      adornment. It will be conceived that Muskegon capitol was a frequent and a
      welcome ground of talk; I drew him all the plans from memory; and he, with
      the aid of a narrow volume full of figures and tables, which answered (I
      believe) to the name of Molesworth, and was his constant pocket companion,
      would draw up rough estimates and make imaginary offers on the various
      contracts. Our Muskegon builders he pronounced a pack of cormorants; and
      the congenial subject, together with my knowledge of architectural terms,
      the theory of strains, and the prices of materials in the States, formed a
      strong bond of union between what might have been otherwise an
      ill-assorted pair, and led my grandfather to pronounce me, with emphasis,
      &ldquo;a real intalligent kind of a cheild.&rdquo; Thus a second time, as
      you will presently see, the capitol of my native State had influentially
      affected the current of my life.
    </p>
    <p>
      I left Edinburgh, however, with not the least idea that I had done a
      stroke of excellent business for myself, and singly delighted to escape
      out of a somewhat dreary house and plunge instead into the rainbow city of
      Paris. Every man has his own romance; mine clustered exclusively about the
      practice of the arts, the life of Latin Quarter students, and the world of
      Paris as depicted by that grimy wizard, the author of the <i>Comedie
      Humaine</i>. I was not disappointed&mdash;I could not have been; for I did
      not see the facts, I brought them with me ready-made. Z. Marcas lived next
      door to me in my ungainly, ill-smelling hotel of the Rue Racine; I dined
      at my villainous restaurant with Lousteau and with Rastignac: if a
      curricle nearly ran me down at a street-crossing, Maxime de Trailles would
      be the driver. I dined, I say, at a poor restaurant and lived in a poor
      hotel; and this was not from need, but sentiment. My father gave me a
      profuse allowance, and I might have lived (had I chosen) in the Quartier
      de l'Etoile and driven to my studies daily. Had I done so, the glamour
      must have fled: I should still have been but Loudon Dodd; whereas now I
      was a Latin Quarter student, Murger's successor, living in flesh and blood
      the life of one of those romances I had loved to read, to re-read, and to
      dream over, among the woods of Muskegon.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this time we were all a little Murger-mad in the Latin Quarter. The
      play of the <i>Vie de Boheme</i> (a dreary, snivelling piece) had been
      produced at the Odeon, had run an unconscionable time&mdash;for Paris, and
      revived the freshness of the legend. The same business, you may say, or
      there and thereabout, was being privately enacted in consequence in every
      garret of the neighbourhood, and a good third of the students were
      consciously impersonating Rodolphe or Schaunard to their own
      incommunicable satisfaction. Some of us went far, and some farther. I
      always looked with awful envy (for instance) on a certain countryman of my
      own who had a studio in the Rue Monsieur le Prince, wore boots, and long
      hair in a net, and could be seen tramping off, in this guise, to the worst
      eating-house of the quarter, followed by a Corsican model, his mistress,
      in the conspicuous costume of her race and calling. It takes some
      greatness of soul to carry even folly to such heights as these; and for my
      own part, I had to content myself by pretending very arduously to be poor,
      by wearing a smoking-cap on the streets, and by pursuing, through a series
      of misadventures, that extinct mammal, the grisette. The most grievous
      part was the eating and the drinking. I was born with a dainty tooth and a
      palate for wine; and only a genuine devotion to romance could have
      supported me under the cat-civets that I had to swallow, and the red ink
      of Bercy I must wash them down withal. Every now and again, after a hard
      day at the studio, where I was steadily and far from unsuccessfully
      industrious, a wave of distaste would overbear me; I would slink away from
      my haunts and companions, indemnify myself for weeks of self-denial with
      fine wines and dainty dishes; seated perhaps on a terrace, perhaps in an
      arbour in a garden, with a volume of one of my favourite authors propped
      open in front of me, and now consulted awhile, and now forgotten:&mdash;so
      remain, relishing my situation, till night fell and the lights of the city
      kindled; and thence stroll homeward by the riverside, under the moon or
      stars, in a heaven of poetry and digestion.
    </p>
    <p>
      One such indulgence led me in the course of my second year into an
      adventure which I must relate: indeed, it is the very point I have been
      aiming for, since that was what brought me in acquaintance with Jim
      Pinkerton. I sat down alone to dinner one October day when the rusty
      leaves were falling and scuttling on the boulevard, and the minds of
      impressionable men inclined in about an equal degree towards sadness and
      conviviality. The restaurant was no great place, but boasted a
      considerable cellar and a long printed list of vintages. This I was
      perusing with the double zest of a man who is fond of wine and a lover of
      beautiful names, when my eye fell (near the end of the card) on that not
      very famous or familiar brand, Roussillon. I remembered it was a wine I
      had never tasted, ordered a bottle, found it excellent, and when I had
      discussed the contents, called (according to my habit) for a final pint.
      It appears they did not keep Roussillon in half-bottles. &ldquo;All right,&rdquo;
      said I. &ldquo;Another bottle.&rdquo; The tables at this eating-house are
      close together; and the next thing I can remember, I was in somewhat loud
      conversation with my nearest neighbours. From these I must have gradually
      extended my attentions; for I have a clear recollection of gazing about a
      room in which every chair was half turned round and every face turned
      smilingly to mine. I can even remember what I was saying at the moment;
      but after twenty years, the embers of shame are still alive; and I prefer
      to give your imagination the cue, by simply mentioning that my muse was
      the patriotic. It had been my design to adjourn for coffee in the company
      of some of these new friends; but I was no sooner on the sidewalk than I
      found myself unaccountably alone. The circumstance scarce surprised me at
      the time, much less now; but I was somewhat chagrined a little after to
      find I had walked into a kiosque. I began to wonder if I were any the
      worse for my last bottle, and decided to steady myself with coffee and
      brandy. In the Cafe de la Source, where I went for this restorative, the
      fountain was playing, and (what greatly surprised me) the mill and the
      various mechanical figures on the rockery appeared to have been freshly
      repaired and performed the most enchanting antics. The cafe was
      extraordinarily hot and bright, with every detail of a conspicuous
      clearness, from the faces of the guests to the type of the newspapers on
      the tables, and the whole apartment swang to and fro like a hammock, with
      an exhilarating motion. For some while I was so extremely pleased with
      these particulars that I thought I could never be weary of beholding them:
      then dropped of a sudden into a causeless sadness; and then, with the same
      swiftness and spontaneity, arrived at the conclusion that I was drunk and
      had better get to bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was but a step or two to my hotel, where I got my lighted candle from
      the porter and mounted the four flights to my own room. Although I could
      not deny that I was drunk, I was at the same time lucidly rational and
      practical. I had but one preoccupation&mdash;to be up in time on the
      morrow for my work; and when I observed the clock on my chimney-piece to
      have stopped, I decided to go down stairs again and give directions to the
      porter. Leaving the candle burning and my door open, to be a guide to me
      on my return, I set forth accordingly. The house was quite dark; but as
      there were only the three doors on each landing, it was impossible to
      wander, and I had nothing to do but descend the stairs until I saw the
      glimmer of the porter's night light. I counted four flights: no porter. It
      was possible, of course, that I had reckoned incorrectly; so I went down
      another and another, and another, still counting as I went, until I had
      reached the preposterous figure of nine flights. It was now quite clear
      that I had somehow passed the porter's lodge without remarking it; indeed,
      I was, at the lowest figure, five pairs of stairs below the street, and
      plunged in the very bowels of the earth. That my hotel should thus be
      founded upon catacombs was a discovery of considerable interest; and if I
      had not been in a frame of mind entirely businesslike, I might have
      continued to explore all night this subterranean empire. But I was bound I
      must be up betimes on the next morning, and for that end it was imperative
      that I should find the porter. I faced about accordingly, and counting
      with painful care, remounted towards the level of the street. Five, six,
      and seven flights I climbed, and still there was no porter. I began to be
      weary of the job, and reflecting that I was now close to my own room,
      decided I should go to bed. Eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen
      flights I mounted; and my open door seemed to be as wholly lost to me as
      the porter and his floating dip. I remembered that the house stood but six
      stories at its highest point, from which it appeared (on the most moderate
      computation) I was now three stories higher than the roof. My original
      sense of amusement was succeeded by a not unnatural irritation. &ldquo;My
      room has just GOT to be here,&rdquo; said I, and I stepped towards the
      door with outspread arms. There was no door and no wall; in place of
      either there yawned before me a dark corridor, in which I continued to
      advance for some time without encountering the smallest opposition. And
      this in a house whose extreme area scantily contained three small rooms, a
      narrow landing, and the stair! The thing was manifestly nonsense; and you
      will scarcely be surprised to learn that I now began to lose my temper. At
      this juncture I perceived a filtering of light along the floor, stretched
      forth my hand which encountered the knob of a door-handle, and without
      further ceremony entered a room. A young lady was within; she was going to
      bed, and her toilet was far advanced, or the other way about, if you
      prefer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hope you will pardon this intrusion,&rdquo; said I; &ldquo;but my
      room is No. 12, and something has gone wrong with this blamed house.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      She looked at me a moment; and then, &ldquo;If you will step outside for a
      moment, I will take you there,&rdquo; says she.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus, with perfect composure on both sides, the matter was arranged. I
      waited a while outside her door. Presently she rejoined me, in a
      dressing-gown, took my hand, led me up another flight, which made the
      fourth above the level of the roof, and shut me into my own room, where
      (being quite weary after these contraordinary explorations) I turned in,
      and slumbered like a child.
    </p>
    <p>
      I tell you the thing calmly, as it appeared to me to pass; but the next
      day, when I awoke and put memory in the witness-box, I could not conceal
      from myself that the tale presented a good many improbable features. I had
      no mind for the studio, after all, and went instead to the Luxembourg
      gardens, there, among the sparrows and the statues and the falling leaves,
      to cool and clear my head. It is a garden I have always loved. You sit
      there in a public place of history and fiction. Barras and Fouche have
      looked from these windows. Lousteau and de Banville (one as real as the
      other) have rhymed upon these benches. The city tramples by without the
      railings to a lively measure; and within and about you, trees rustle,
      children and sparrows utter their small cries, and the statues look on
      forever. Here, then, in a seat opposite the gallery entrance, I set to
      work on the events of the last night, to disengage (if it were possible)
      truth from fiction.
    </p>
    <p>
      The house, by daylight, had proved to be six stories high, the same as
      ever. I could find, with all my architectural experience, no room in its
      altitude for those interminable stairways, no width between its walls for
      that long corridor, where I had tramped at night. And there was yet a
      greater difficulty. I had read somewhere an aphorism that everything may
      be false to itself save human nature. A house might elongate or enlarge
      itself&mdash;or seem to do so to a gentleman who had been dining. The
      ocean might dry up, the rocks melt in the sun, the stars fall from heaven
      like autumn apples; and there was nothing in these incidents to boggle the
      philosopher. But the case of the young lady stood upon a different
      foundation. Girls were not good enough, or not good that way, or else they
      were too good. I was ready to accept any of these views: all pointed to
      the same conclusion, which I was thus already on the point of reaching,
      when a fresh argument occurred, and instantly confirmed it. I could
      remember the exact words we had each said; and I had spoken, and she had
      replied, in English. Plainly, then, the whole affair was an illusion:
      catacombs, and stairs, and charitable lady, all were equally the stuff of
      dreams.
    </p>
    <p>
      I had just come to this determination, when there blew a flaw of wind
      through the autumnal gardens; the dead leaves showered down, and a flight
      of sparrows, thick as a snowfall, wheeled above my head with sudden
      pipings. This agreeable bustle was the affair of a moment, but it startled
      me from the abstraction into which I had fallen like a summons. I sat
      briskly up, and as I did so, my eyes rested on the figure of a lady in a
      brown jacket and carrying a paint-box. By her side walked a fellow some
      years older than myself, with an easel under his arm; and alike by their
      course and cargo I might judge they were bound for the gallery, where the
      lady was, doubtless, engaged upon some copying. You can imagine my
      surprise when I recognized in her the heroine of my adventure. To put the
      matter beyond question, our eyes met, and she, seeing herself remembered
      and recalling the trim in which I had last beheld her, looked swiftly on
      the ground with just a shadow of confusion.
    </p>
    <p>
      I could not tell you to-day if she were plain or pretty; but she had
      behaved with so much good sense, and I had cut so poor a figure in her
      presence, that I became instantly fired with the desire to display myself
      in a more favorable light. The young man besides was possibly her brother;
      brothers are apt to be hasty, theirs being a part in which it is possible,
      at a comparatively early age, to assume the dignity of manhood; and it
      occurred to me it might be wise to forestall all possible complications by
      an apology.
    </p>
    <p>
      On this reasoning I drew near to the gallery door, and had hardly got in
      position before the young man came out. Thus it was that I came face to
      face with my third destiny; for my career has been entirely shaped by
      these three elements,&mdash;my father, the capitol of Muskegon, and my
      friend, Jim Pinkerton. As for the young lady with whom my mind was at the
      moment chiefly occupied, I was never to hear more of her from that day
      forward: an excellent example of the Blind Man's Buff that we call life.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003">
       <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER III. TO INTRODUCE MR. PINKERTON.
    </h2>
    <p>
      The stranger, I have said, was some years older than myself: a man of a
      good stature, a very lively face, cordial, agitated manners, and a gray
      eye as active as a fowl's.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;May I have a word with you?&rdquo; said I.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear sir,&rdquo; he replied, &ldquo;I don't know what it can be
      about, but you may have a hundred if you like.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have just left the side of a young lady,&rdquo; I continued,
      &ldquo;towards whom I was led (very unintentionally) into the appearance
      of an offence. To speak to herself would be only to renew her
      embarrassment, and I seize the occasion of making my apology, and
      declaring my respect, to one of my own sex who is her friend, and perhaps,&rdquo;
      I added, with a bow, &ldquo;her natural protector.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are a countryman of mine; I know it!&rdquo; he cried: &ldquo;I
      am sure of it by your delicacy to a lady. You do her no more than justice.
      I was introduced to her the other night at tea, in the apartment of some
      people, friends of mine; and meeting her again this morning, I could not
      do less than carry her easel for her. My dear sir, what is your name?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      I was disappointed to find he had so little bond with my young lady; and
      but that it was I who had sought the acquaintance, might have been tempted
      to retreat. At the same time, something in the stranger's eye engaged me.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My name,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;is Loudon Dodd; I am a student of
      sculpture here from Muskegon.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of sculpture?&rdquo; he cried, as though that would have been his
      last conjecture. &ldquo;Mine is James Pinkerton; I am delighted to have
      the pleasure of your acquaintance.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pinkerton!&rdquo; it was now my turn to exclaim. &ldquo;Are you
      Broken-Stool Pinkerton?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      He admitted his identity with a laugh of boyish delight; and indeed any
      young man in the quarter might have been proud to own a sobriquet thus
      gallantly acquired.
    </p>
    <p>
      In order to explain the name, I must here digress into a chapter of the
      history of manners in the nineteenth century, very well worth
      commemoration for its own sake. In some of the studios at that date, the
      hazing of new pupils was both barbarous and obscene. Two incidents,
      following one on the heels of the other tended to produce an advance in
      civilization by the means (as so commonly happens) of a passing appeal to
      savage standards. The first was the arrival of a little gentleman from
      Armenia. He had a fez upon his head and (what nobody counted on) a dagger
      in his pocket. The hazing was set about in the customary style, and,
      perhaps in virtue of the victim's head-gear, even more boisterously than
      usual. He bore it at first with an inviting patience; but upon one of the
      students proceeding to an unpardonable freedom, plucked out his knife and
      suddenly plunged it in the belly of the jester. This gentleman, I am
      pleased to say, passed months upon a bed of sickness, before he was in a
      position to resume his studies. The second incident was that which had
      earned Pinkerton his reputation. In a crowded studio, while some very
      filthy brutalities were being practised on a trembling debutant, a tall,
      pale fellow sprang from his stool and (without the smallest preface or
      explanation) sang out, &ldquo;All English and Americans to clear the shop!&rdquo;
      Our race is brutal, but not filthy; and the summons was nobly responded
      to. Every Anglo-Saxon student seized his stool; in a moment the studio was
      full of bloody coxcombs, the French fleeing in disorder for the door, the
      victim liberated and amazed. In this feat of arms, both English-speaking
      nations covered themselves with glory; but I am proud to claim the author
      of the whole for an American, and a patriotic American at that, being the
      same gentleman who had subsequently to be held down in the bottom of a box
      during a performance of <i>L'Oncle Sam</i>, sobbing at intervals, &ldquo;My
      country! O my country!&rdquo; While yet another (my new acquaintance,
      Pinkerton) was supposed to have made the most conspicuous figure in the
      actual battle. At one blow, he had broken his own stool, and sent the
      largest of his opponents back foremost through what we used to call a
      &ldquo;conscientious nude.&rdquo; It appears that, in the continuation of
      his flight, this fallen warrior issued on the boulevard still framed in
      the burst canvas.
    </p>
    <p>
      It will be understood how much talk the incident aroused in the students'
      quarter, and that I was highly gratified to make the acquaintance of my
      famous countryman. It chanced I was to see more of the quixotic side of
      his character before the morning was done; for as we continued to stroll
      together, I found myself near the studio of a young Frenchman whose work I
      had promised to examine, and in the fashion of the quarter carried up
      Pinkerton along with me. Some of my comrades of this date were pretty
      obnoxious fellows. I could almost always admire and respect the grown-up
      practitioners of art in Paris; but many of those who were still in a state
      of pupilage were sorry specimens, so much so that I used often to wonder
      where the painters came from, and where the brutes of students went to. A
      similar mystery hangs over the intermediate stages of the medical
      profession, and must have perplexed the least observant. The ruffian, at
      least, whom I now carried Pinkerton to visit, was one of the most
      crapulous in the quarter. He turned out for our delectation a huge &ldquo;crust&rdquo;
      (as we used to call it) of St. Stephen, wallowing in red upon his belly in
      an exhausted receiver, and a crowd of Hebrews in blue, green, and yellow,
      pelting him&mdash;apparently with buns; and while we gazed upon this
      contrivance, regaled us with a piece of his own recent biography, of which
      his mind was still very full, and which he seemed to fancy, represented
      him in a heroic posture. I was one of those cosmopolitan Americans, who
      accept the world (whether at home or abroad) as they find it, and whose
      favourite part is that of the spectator; yet even I was listening with
      ill-suppressed disgust, when I was aware of a violent plucking at my
      sleeve.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is he saying he kicked her down stairs?&rdquo; asked Pinkerton,
      white as St. Stephen.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said I: &ldquo;his discarded mistress; and then he
      pelted her with stones. I suppose that's what gave him the idea for his
      picture. He has just been alleging the pathetic excuse that she was old
      enough to be his mother.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Something like a sob broke from Pinkerton. &ldquo;Tell him,&rdquo; he
      gasped&mdash;&ldquo;I can't speak this language, though I understand a
      little; I never had any proper education&mdash;tell him I'm going to punch
      his head.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For God's sake, do nothing of the sort!&rdquo; I cried. &ldquo;They
      don't understand that sort of thing here.&rdquo; And I tried to bundle him
      out.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell him first what we think of him,&rdquo; he objected. &ldquo;Let
      me tell him what he looks in the eyes of a pure-minded American&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Leave that to me,&rdquo; said I, thrusting Pinkerton clear through
      the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Qu'est-ce qu'il a?&rdquo; [1] inquired the student.
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;[1] &ldquo;What's the matter with him?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur se sent mal au coeur d'avoir trop regarde votre croute,&rdquo;
      [2] said I, and made my escape, scarce with dignity, at Pinkerton's heels.
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;[2] &ldquo;The gentleman is sick at his
      stomach from having looked too long at your daub.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What did you say to him?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The only thing that he could feel,&rdquo; was my reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      After this scene, the freedom with which I had ejected my new
      acquaintance, and the precipitation with which I had followed him, the
      least I could do was to propose luncheon. I have forgot the name of the
      place to which I led him, nothing loath; it was on the far side of the
      Luxembourg at least, with a garden behind, where we were speedily set face
      to face at table, and began to dig into each other's history and
      character, like terriers after rabbits, according to the approved fashion
      of youth.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pinkerton's parents were from the old country; there too, I incidentally
      gathered, he had himself been born, though it was a circumstance he seemed
      prone to forget. Whether he had run away, or his father had turned him
      out, I never fathomed; but about the age of twelve, he was thrown upon his
      own resources. A travelling tin-type photographer picked him up, like a
      haw out of a hedgerow, on a wayside in New Jersey; took a fancy to the
      urchin; carried him on with him in his wandering life; taught him all he
      knew himself&mdash;to take tin-types (as well as I can make out) and doubt
      the Scriptures; and died at last in Ohio at the corner of a road. &ldquo;He
      was a grand specimen,&rdquo; cried Pinkerton; &ldquo;I wish you could have
      seen him, Mr. Dodd. He had an appearance of magnanimity that used to
      remind me of the patriarchs.&rdquo; On the death of this random protector,
      the boy inherited the plant and continued the business. &ldquo;It was a
      life I could have chosen, Mr. Dodd!&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;I have been in
      all the finest scenes of that magnificent continent that we were born to
      be the heirs of. I wish you could see my collection of tin-types; I wish I
      had them here. They were taken for my own pleasure and to be a memento;
      and they show Nature in her grandest as well as her gentlest moments.&rdquo;
      As he tramped the Western States and Territories, taking tin-types, the
      boy was continually getting hold of books, good, bad, and indifferent,
      popular and abstruse, from the novels of Sylvanus Cobb to Euclid's
      Elements, both of which I found (to my almost equal wonder) he had managed
      to peruse: he was taking stock by the way, of the people, the products,
      and the country, with an eye unusually observant and a memory unusually
      retentive; and he was collecting for himself a body of magnanimous and
      semi-intellectual nonsense, which he supposed to be the natural thoughts
      and to contain the whole duty of the born American. To be pure-minded, to
      be patriotic, to get culture and money with both hands and with the same
      irrational fervour&mdash;these appeared to be the chief articles of his
      creed. In later days (not of course upon this first occasion) I would
      sometimes ask him why; and he had his answer pat. &ldquo;To build up the
      type!&rdquo; he would cry. &ldquo;We're all committed to that; we're all
      under bond to fulfil the American Type! Loudon, the hope of the world is
      there. If we fail, like these old feudal monarchies, what is left?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The trade of a tin-typer proved too narrow for the lad's ambition; it was
      insusceptible of expansion, he explained, it was not truly modern; and by
      a sudden conversion of front, he became a railroad-scalper. The principles
      of this trade I never clearly understood; but its essence appears to be to
      cheat the railroads out of their due fare. &ldquo;I threw my whole soul
      into it; I grudged myself food and sleep while I was at it; the most
      practised hands admitted I had caught on to the idea in a month and
      revolutionised the practice inside of a year,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;And
      there's interest in it, too. It's amusing to pick out some one going by,
      make up your mind about his character and tastes, dash out of the office
      and hit him flying with an offer of the very place he wants to go to. I
      don't think there was a scalper on the continent made fewer blunders. But
      I took it only as a stage. I was saving every dollar; I was looking ahead.
      I knew what I wanted&mdash;wealth, education, a refined home, and a
      conscientious, cultured lady for a wife; for, Mr. Dodd&rdquo;&mdash;this
      with a formidable outcry&mdash;&ldquo;every man is bound to marry above
      him: if the woman's not the man's superior, I brand it as mere sensuality.
      There was my idea, at least. That was what I was saving for; and enough,
      too! But it isn't every man, I know that&mdash;it's far from every man&mdash;could
      do what I did: close up the livest agency in Saint Jo, where he was
      coining dollars by the pot, set out alone, without a friend or a word of
      French, and settle down here to spend his capital learning art.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was it an old taste?&rdquo; I asked him, &ldquo;or a sudden fancy?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Neither, Mr. Dodd,&rdquo; he admitted. &ldquo;Of course I had
      learned in my tin-typing excursions to glory and exult in the works of
      God. But it wasn't that. I just said to myself, What is most wanted in my
      age and country? More culture and more art, I said; and I chose the best
      place, saved my money, and came here to get them.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The whole attitude of this young man warmed and shamed me. He had more
      fire in his little toe than I had in my whole carcase; he was stuffed to
      bursting with the manly virtues; thrift and courage glowed in him; and
      even if his artistic vocation seemed (to one of my exclusive tenets) not
      quite clear, who could predict what might be accomplished by a creature so
      full-blooded and so inspired with animal and intellectual energy? So, when
      he proposed that I should come and see his work (one of the regular stages
      of a Latin Quarter friendship), I followed him with interest and hope.
    </p>
    <p>
      He lodged parsimoniously at the top of a tall house near the Observatory,
      in a bare room, principally furnished with his own trunks and papered with
      his own despicable studies. No man has less taste for disagreeable duties
      than myself; perhaps there is only one subject on which I cannot flatter a
      man without a blush; but upon that, upon all that touches art, my
      sincerity is Roman. Once and twice I made the circuit of his walls in
      silence, spying in every corner for some spark of merit; he, meanwhile,
      following close at my heels, reading the verdict in my face with furtive
      glances, presenting some fresh study for my inspection with undisguised
      anxiety, and (after it had been silently weighed in the balances and found
      wanting) whisking it away with an open gesture of despair. By the time the
      second round was completed, we were both extremely depressed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O!&rdquo; he groaned, breaking the long silence, &ldquo;it's quite
      unnecessary you should speak!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you want me to be frank with you? I think you are wasting time,&rdquo;
      said I.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don't see any promise?&rdquo; he inquired, beguiled by some
      return of hope, and turning upon me the embarrassing brightness of his
      eye. &ldquo;Not in this still-life here, of the melon? One fellow thought
      it good.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      It was the least I could do to give the melon a more particular
      examination; which, when I had done, I could but shake my head. &ldquo;I
      am truly sorry, Pinkerton,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;but I can't advise you to
      persevere.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      He seemed to recover his fortitude at the moment, rebounding from
      disappointment like a man of india-rubber. &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said he
      stoutly, &ldquo;I don't know that I'm surprised. But I'll go on with the
      course; and throw my whole soul into it, too. You mustn't think the time
      is lost. It's all culture; it will help me to extend my relations when I
      get back home; it may fit me for a position on one of the illustrateds;
      and then I can always turn dealer,&rdquo; he said, uttering the monstrous
      proposition, which was enough to shake the Latin Quarter to the dust, with
      entire simplicity. &ldquo;It's all experience, besides;&rdquo; he
      continued, &ldquo;and it seems to me there's a tendency to underrate
      experience, both as net profit and investment. Never mind. That's done
      with. But it took courage for you to say what you did, and I'll never
      forget it. Here's my hand, Mr. Dodd. I'm not your equal in culture or
      talent&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know nothing about that,&rdquo; I interrupted. &ldquo;I have
      seen your work, but you haven't seen mine.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No more I have,&rdquo; he cried; &ldquo;and let's go see it at
      once! But I know you are away up. I can feel it here.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      To say truth, I was almost ashamed to introduce him to my studio&mdash;my
      work, whether absolutely good or bad, being so vastly superior to his. But
      his spirits were now quite restored; and he amazed me, on the way, with
      his light-hearted talk and new projects. So that I began at last to
      understand how matters lay: that this was not an artist who had been
      deprived of the practice of his single art; but only a business man of
      very extended interests, informed (perhaps something of the most suddenly)
      that one investment out of twenty had gone wrong.
    </p>
    <p>
      As a matter of fact besides (although I never suspected it) he was already
      seeking consolation with another of the muses, and pleasing himself with
      the notion that he would repay me for my sincerity, cement our friendship,
      and (at one and the same blow) restore my estimation of his talents.
      Several times already, when I had been speaking of myself, he had pulled
      out a writing-pad and scribbled a brief note; and now, when we entered the
      studio, I saw it in his hand again, and the pencil go to his mouth, as he
      cast a comprehensive glance round the uncomfortable building.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you going to make a sketch of it?&rdquo; I could not help
      asking, as I unveiled the Genius of Muskegon.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, that's my secret,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;Never you mind. A
      mouse can help a lion.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      He walked round my statue and had the design explained to him. I had
      represented Muskegon as a young, almost a stripling, mother, with
      something of an Indian type; the babe upon her knees was winged, to
      indicate our soaring future; and her seat was a medley of sculptured
      fragments, Greek, Roman, and Gothic, to remind us of the older worlds from
      which we trace our generation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, does this satisfy you, Mr. Dodd?&rdquo; he inquired, as soon
      as I had explained to him the main features of the design.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; I said, &ldquo;the fellows seem to think it's not a
      bad bonne femme for a beginner. I don't think it's entirely bad myself.
      Here is the best point; it builds up best from here. No, it seems to me it
      has a kind of merit,&rdquo; I admitted; &ldquo;but I mean to do better.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, that's the word!&rdquo; cried Pinkerton. &ldquo;There's the
      word I love!&rdquo; and he scribbled in his pad.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What in creation ails you?&rdquo; I inquired. &ldquo;It's the most
      commonplace expression in the English language.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Better and better!&rdquo; chuckled Pinkerton. &ldquo;The
      unconsciousness of genius. Lord, but this is coming in beautiful!&rdquo;
      and he scribbled again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you're going to be fulsome,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;I'll close the
      place of entertainment.&rdquo; And I threatened to replace the veil upon
      the Genius.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;Don't be in a hurry. Give me a point
      or two. Show me what's particularly good.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would rather you found that out for yourself,&rdquo; said I.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The trouble is,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;that I've never turned my
      attention to sculpture, beyond, of course, admiring it, as everybody must
      who has a soul. So do just be a good fellow, and explain to me what you
      like in it, and what you tried for, and where the merit comes in. It'll be
      all education for me.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, in sculpture, you see, the first thing you have to consider
      is the masses. It's, after all, a kind of architecture,&rdquo; I began,
      and delivered a lecture on that branch of art, with illustrations from my
      own masterpiece there present, all of which, if you don't mind, or whether
      you mind or not, I mean to conscientiously omit. Pinkerton listened with a
      fiery interest, questioned me with a certain uncultivated shrewdness, and
      continued to scratch down notes, and tear fresh sheets from his pad. I
      found it inspiring to have my words thus taken down like a professor's
      lecture; and having had no previous experience of the press, I was unaware
      that they were all being taken down wrong. For the same reason (incredible
      as it must appear in an American) I never entertained the least suspicion
      that they were destined to be dished up with a sauce of penny-a-lining
      gossip; and myself, my person, and my works of art butchered to make a
      holiday for the readers of a Sunday paper. Night had fallen over the
      Genius of Muskegon before the issue of my theoretic eloquence was stayed,
      nor did I separate from my new friend without an appointment for the
      morrow.
    </p>
    <p>
      I was indeed greatly taken with this first view of my countryman, and
      continued, on further acquaintance, to be interested, amused, and
      attracted by him in about equal proportions. I must not say he had a
      fault, not only because my mouth is sealed by gratitude, but because those
      he had sprang merely from his education, and you could see he had
      cultivated and improved them like virtues. For all that, I can never deny
      he was a troublous friend to me, and the trouble began early.
    </p>
    <p>
      It may have been a fortnight later that I divined the secret of the
      writing-pad. My wretch (it leaked out) wrote letters for a paper in the
      West, and had filled a part of one of them with descriptions of myself. I
      pointed out to him that he had no right to do so without asking my
      permission.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, this is just what I hoped!&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;I
      thought you didn't seem to catch on; only it seemed too good to be true.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, my good fellow, you were bound to warn me,&rdquo; I objected.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know it's generally considered etiquette,&rdquo; he admitted;
      &ldquo;but between friends, and when it was only with a view of serving
      you, I thought it wouldn't matter. I wanted it (if possible) to come on
      you as a surprise; I wanted you just to waken, like Lord Byron, and find
      the papers full of you. You must admit it was a natural thought. And no
      man likes to boast of a favour beforehand.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, heavens and earth! how do you know I think it a favour?&rdquo;
      I cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      He became immediately plunged in despair. &ldquo;You think it a liberty,&rdquo;
      said he; &ldquo;I see that. I would rather have cut off my hand. I would
      stop it now, only it's too late; it's published by now. And I wrote it
      with so much pride and pleasure!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      I could think of nothing but how to console him. &ldquo;O, I daresay it's
      all right,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;I know you meant it kindly, and you would
      be sure to do it in good taste.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That you may swear to,&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;It's a pure, bright,
      A number 1 paper; the St. Jo <i>Sunday Herald</i>. The idea of the series
      was quite my own; I interviewed the editor, put it to him straight; the
      freshness of the idea took him, and I walked out of that office with the
      contract in my pocket, and did my first Paris letter that evening in Saint
      Jo. The editor did no more than glance his eye down the headlines. 'You're
      the man for us,' said he.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      I was certainly far from reassured by this sketch of the class of
      literature in which I was to make my first appearance; but I said no more,
      and possessed my soul in patience, until the day came when I received a
      copy of a newspaper marked in the corner, &ldquo;Compliments of J.P.&rdquo;
      I opened it with sensible shrinkings; and there, wedged between an account
      of a prize-fight and a skittish article upon chiropody&mdash;think of
      chiropody treated with a leer!&mdash;I came upon a column and a half in
      which myself and my poor statue were embalmed. Like the editor with the
      first of the series, I did but glance my eye down the head-lines and was
      more than satisfied.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     ANOTHER OF PINKERTON'S SPICY CHATS.

     ART PRACTITIONERS IN PARIS.

     MUSKEGON'S COLUMNED CAPITOL.

     SON OF MILLIONAIRE DODD,

     PATRIOT AND ARTIST.

     &ldquo;HE MEANS TO DO BETTER.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      In the body of the text, besides, my eye caught, as it passed, some deadly
      expressions: &ldquo;Figure somewhat fleshy,&rdquo; &ldquo;bright,
      intellectual smile,&rdquo; &ldquo;the unconsciousness of genius,&rdquo;
      &ldquo;'Now, Mr. Dodd,' resumed the reporter, 'what would be your idea of
      a distinctively American quality in sculpture?'&rdquo; It was true the
      question had been asked; it was true, alas! that I had answered; and now
      here was my reply, or some strange hash of it, gibbeted in the cold
      publicity of type. I thanked God that my French fellow-students were
      ignorant of English; but when I thought of the British&mdash;of Myner (for
      instance) or the Stennises&mdash;I think I could have fallen on Pinkerton
      and beat him.
    </p>
    <p>
      To divert my thoughts (if it were possible) from this calamity, I turned
      to a letter from my father which had arrived by the same post. The
      envelope contained a strip of newspaper-cutting; and my eye caught again,
      &ldquo;Son of Millionaire Dodd&mdash;Figure somewhat fleshy,&rdquo; and
      the rest of the degrading nonsense. What would my father think of it? I
      wondered, and opened his manuscript. &ldquo;My dearest boy,&rdquo; it
      began, &ldquo;I send you a cutting which has pleased me very much, from a
      St. Joseph paper of high standing. At last you seem to be coming fairly to
      the front; and I cannot but reflect with delight and gratitude how very
      few youths of your age occupy nearly two columns of press-matter all to
      themselves. I only wish your dear mother had been here to read it over my
      shoulder; but we will hope she shares my grateful emotion in a better
      place. Of course I have sent a copy to your grandfather and uncle in
      Edinburgh; so you can keep the one I enclose. This Jim Pinkerton seems a
      valuable acquaintance; he has certainly great talent; and it is a good
      general rule to keep in with pressmen.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      I hope it will be set down to the right side of my account, but I had no
      sooner read these words, so touchingly silly, than my anger against
      Pinkerton was swallowed up in gratitude. Of all the circumstances of my
      career, my birth, perhaps, excepted, not one had given my poor father so
      profound a pleasure as this article in the <i>Sunday Herald</i>. What a
      fool, then, was I, to be lamenting! when I had at last, and for once, and
      at the cost of only a few blushes, paid back a fraction of my debt of
      gratitude. So that, when I next met Pinkerton, I took things very lightly;
      my father was pleased, and thought the letter very clever, I told him; for
      my own part, I had no taste for publicity: thought the public had no
      concern with the artist, only with his art; and though I owned he had
      handled it with great consideration, I should take it as a favour if he
      never did it again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There it is,&rdquo; he said despondingly. &ldquo;I've hurt you. You
      can't deceive me, Loudon. It's the want of tact, and it's incurable.&rdquo;
      He sat down, and leaned his head upon his hand. &ldquo;I had no advantages
      when I was young, you see,&rdquo; he added.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not in the least, my dear fellow,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;Only the
      next time you wish to do me a service, just speak about my work; leave my
      wretched person out, and my still more wretched conversation; and above
      all,&rdquo; I added, with an irrepressible shudder, &ldquo;don't tell them
      how I said it! There's that phrase, now: 'With a proud, glad smile.' Who
      cares whether I smiled or not?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, there now, Loudon, you're entirely wrong,&rdquo; he broke in.
      &ldquo;That's what the public likes; that's the merit of the thing, the
      literary value. It's to call up the scene before them; it's to enable the
      humblest citizen to enjoy that afternoon the same as I did. Think what it
      would have been to me when I was tramping around with my tin-types to find
      a column and a half of real, cultured conversation&mdash;an artist, in his
      studio abroad, talking of his art&mdash;and to know how he looked as he
      did it, and what the room was like, and what he had for breakfast; and to
      tell myself, eating tinned beans beside a creek, that if all went well,
      the same sort of thing would, sooner or later, happen to myself: why,
      Loudon, it would have been like a peephole into heaven!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, if it gives so much pleasure,&rdquo; I admitted, &ldquo;the
      sufferers shouldn't complain. Only give the other fellows a turn.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The end of the matter was to bring myself and the journalist in a more
      close relation. If I know anything at all of human nature&mdash;and the IF
      is no mere figure of speech, but stands for honest doubt&mdash;no series
      of benefits conferred, or even dangers shared, would have so rapidly
      confirmed our friendship as this quarrel avoided, this fundamental
      difference of taste and training accepted and condoned.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004">
       <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER IV. IN WHICH I EXPERIENCE EXTREMES OF FORTUNE.
    </h2>
    <p>
      Whether it came from my training and repeated bankruptcy at the commercial
      college, or by direct inheritance from old Loudon, the Edinburgh mason,
      there can be no doubt about the fact that I was thrifty. Looking myself
      impartially over, I believe that is my only manly virtue. During my first
      two years in Paris I not only made it a point to keep well inside of my
      allowance, but accumulated considerable savings in the bank. You will say,
      with my masquerade of living as a penniless student, it must have been
      easy to do so: I should have had no difficulty, however, in doing the
      reverse. Indeed, it is wonderful I did not; and early in the third year,
      or soon after I had known Pinkerton, a singular incident proved it to have
      been equally wise. Quarter-day came, and brought no allowance. A letter of
      remonstrance was despatched, and for the first time in my experience,
      remained unanswered. A cablegram was more effectual; for it brought me at
      least a promise of attention. &ldquo;Will write at once,&rdquo; my father
      telegraphed; but I waited long for his letter. I was puzzled, angry, and
      alarmed; but thanks to my previous thrift, I cannot say that I was ever
      practically embarrassed. The embarrassment, the distress, the agony, were
      all for my unhappy father at home in Muskegon, struggling for life and
      fortune against untoward chances, returning at night from a day of
      ill-starred shifts and ventures, to read and perhaps to weep over that
      last harsh letter from his only child, to which he lacked the courage to
      reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nearly three months after time, and when my economies were beginning to
      run low, I received at last a letter with the customary bills of exchange.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dearest boy,&rdquo; it ran, &ldquo;I believe, in the press of
      anxious business, your letters and even your allowance have been somewhile
      neglected. You must try to forgive your poor old dad, for he has had a
      trying time; and now when it is over, the doctor wants me to take my
      shotgun and go to the Adirondacks for a change. You must not fancy I am
      sick, only over-driven and under the weather. Many of our foremost
      operators have gone down: John T. M'Brady skipped to Canada with a
      trunkful of boodle; Billy Sandwith, Charlie Downs, Joe Kaiser, and many
      others of our leading men in this city bit the dust. But Big-Head Dodd has
      again weathered the blizzard, and I think I have fixed things so that we
      may be richer than ever before autumn.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now I will tell you, my dear, what I propose. You say you are well
      advanced with your first statue; start in manfully and finish it, and if
      your teacher&mdash;I can never remember how to spell his name&mdash;will
      send me a certificate that it is up to market standard, you shall have ten
      thousand dollars to do what you like with, either at home or in Paris. I
      suggest, since you say the facilities for work are so much greater in that
      city, you would do well to buy or build a little home; and the first thing
      you know, your dad will be dropping in for a luncheon. Indeed, I would
      come now, for I am beginning to grow old, and I long to see my dear boy;
      but there are still some operations that want watching and nursing. Tell
      your friend, Mr. Pinkerton, that I read his letters every week; and though
      I have looked in vain lately for my Loudon's name, still I learn something
      of the life he is leading in that strange, old world, depicted by an able
      pen.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Here was a letter that no young man could possibly digest in solitude. It
      marked one of those junctures when the confidant is necessary; and the
      confidant selected was none other than Jim Pinkerton. My father's message
      may have had an influence in this decision; but I scarce suppose so, for
      the intimacy was already far advanced. I had a genuine and lively taste
      for my compatriot; I laughed at, I scolded, and I loved him. He, upon his
      side, paid me a kind of doglike service of admiration, gazing at me from
      afar off as at one who had liberally enjoyed those &ldquo;advantages&rdquo;
      which he envied for himself. He followed at heel; his laugh was ready
      chorus; our friends gave him the nickname of &ldquo;The Henchman.&rdquo;
      It was in this insidious form that servitude approached me.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pinkerton and I read and re-read the famous news: he, I can swear, with an
      enjoyment as unalloyed and far more vocal than my own. The statue was
      nearly done: a few days' work sufficed to prepare it for exhibition; the
      master was approached; he gave his consent; and one cloudless morning of
      May beheld us gathered in my studio for the hour of trial. The master wore
      his many-hued rosette; he came attended by two of my French fellow-pupils&mdash;friends
      of mine and both considerable sculptors in Paris at this hour. &ldquo;Corporal
      John&rdquo; (as we used to call him) breaking for once those habits of
      study and reserve which have since carried him so high in the opinion of
      the world, had left his easel of a morning to countenance a
      fellow-countryman in some suspense. My dear old Romney was there by
      particular request; for who that knew him would think a pleasure quite
      complete unless he shared it, or not support a mortification more easily
      if he were present to console? The party was completed by John Myner, the
      Englishman; by the brothers Stennis,&mdash;Stennis-aine and Stennis-frere,
      as they used to figure on their accounts at Barbizon&mdash;a pair of
      hare-brained Scots; and by the inevitable Jim, as white as a sheet and
      bedewed with the sweat of anxiety.
    </p>
    <p>
      I suppose I was little better myself when I unveiled the Genius of
      Muskegon. The master walked about it seriously; then he smiled.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is already not so bad,&rdquo; said he, in that funny English of
      which he was so proud. &ldquo;No, already not so bad.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      We all drew a deep breath of relief; and Corporal John (as the most
      considerable junior present) explained to him it was intended for a public
      building, a kind of prefecture&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He! Quoi?&rdquo; cried he, relapsing into French. &ldquo;Qu'est-ce
      que vous me chantez la? O, in America,&rdquo; he added, on further
      information being hastily furnished. &ldquo;That is anozer sing. O, very
      good, very good.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The idea of the required certificate had to be introduced to his mind in
      the light of a pleasantry&mdash;the fancy of a nabob little more advanced
      than the red Indians of &ldquo;Fennimore Cooperr&rdquo;; and it took all
      our talents combined to conceive a form of words that would be acceptable
      on both sides. One was found, however: Corporal John engrossed it in his
      undecipherable hand, the master lent it the sanction of his name and
      flourish, I slipped it into an envelope along with one of the two letters
      I had ready prepared in my pocket, and as the rest of us moved off along
      the boulevard to breakfast, Pinkerton was detached in a cab and duly
      committed it to the post.
    </p>
    <p>
      The breakfast was ordered at Lavenue's, where no one need be ashamed to
      entertain even the master; the table was laid in the garden; I had chosen
      the bill of fare myself; on the wine question we held a council of war
      with the most fortunate results; and the talk, as soon as the master laid
      aside his painful English, became fast and furious. There were a few
      interruptions, indeed, in the way of toasts. The master's health had to be
      drunk, and he responded in a little well-turned speech, full of neat
      allusions to my future and to the United States; my health followed; and
      then my father's must not only be proposed and drunk, but a full report
      must be despatched to him at once by cablegram&mdash;an extravagance which
      was almost the means of the master's dissolution. Choosing Corporal John
      to be his confidant (on the ground, I presume, that he was already too
      good an artist to be any longer an American except in name) he summed up
      his amazement in one oft-repeated formula&mdash;&ldquo;C'est barbare!&rdquo;
      Apart from these genial formalities, we talked, talked of art, and talked
      of it as only artists can. Here in the South Seas we talk schooners most
      of the time; in the Quarter we talked art with the like unflagging
      interest, and perhaps as much result.
    </p>
    <p>
      Before very long, the master went away; Corporal John (who was already a
      sort of young master) followed on his heels; and the rank and file were
      naturally relieved by their departure. We were now among equals; the
      bottle passed, the conversation sped. I think I can still hear the Stennis
      brothers pour forth their copious tirades; Dijon, my portly French
      fellow-student, drop witticisms well-conditioned like himself; and another
      (who was weak in foreign languages) dash hotly into the current of talk
      with some &ldquo;Je trove que pore oon sontimong de delicacy, Corot ...,&rdquo;
      or some &ldquo;Pour moi Corot est le plou ...,&rdquo; and then, his little
      raft of French foundering at once, scramble silently to shore again. He at
      least could understand; but to Pinkerton, I think the noise, the wine, the
      sun, the shadows of the leaves, and the esoteric glory of being seated at
      a foreign festival, made up the whole available means of entertainment.
    </p>
    <p>
      We sat down about half past eleven; I suppose it was two when, some point
      arising and some particular picture being instanced, an adjournment to the
      Louvre was proposed. I paid the score, and in a moment we were trooping
      down the Rue de Renne. It was smoking hot; Paris glittered with that
      superficial brilliancy which is so agreeable to the man in high spirits,
      and in moods of dejection so depressing; the wine sang in my ears, it
      danced and brightened in my eyes. The pictures that we saw that afternoon,
      as we sped briskly and loquaciously through the immortal galleries, appear
      to me, upon a retrospect, the loveliest of all; the comments we exchanged
      to have touched the highest mark of criticism, grave or gay.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was only when we issued again from the museum that a difference of race
      broke up the party. Dijon proposed an adjournment to a cafe, there to
      finish the afternoon on beer; the elder Stennis, revolted at the thought,
      moved for the country, a forest if possible, and a long walk. At once the
      English speakers rallied to the name of any exercise: even to me, who have
      been often twitted with my sedentary habits, the thought of country air
      and stillness proved invincibly attractive. It appeared, upon
      investigation, we had just time to hail a cab and catch one of the fast
      trains for Fontainebleau. Beyond the clothes we stood in, all were
      destitute of what is called (with dainty vagueness) personal effects; and
      it was earnestly mooted, on the other side, whether we had not time to
      call upon the way and pack a satchel? But the Stennis boys exclaimed upon
      our effeminacy. They had come from London, it appeared, a week before with
      nothing but greatcoats and tooth-brushes. No baggage&mdash;there was the
      secret of existence. It was expensive, to be sure; for every time you had
      to comb your hair, a barber must be paid, and every time you changed your
      linen, one shirt must be bought and another thrown away; but anything was
      better (argued these young gentlemen) than to be the slaves of haversacks.
      &ldquo;A fellow has to get rid gradually of all material attachments; that
      was manhood&rdquo; (said they); &ldquo;and as long as you were bound down
      to anything,&mdash;house, umbrella, or portmanteau,&mdash;you were still
      tethered by the umbilical cord.&rdquo; Something engaging in this theory
      carried the most of us away. The two Frenchmen, indeed, retired, scoffing,
      to their bock; and Romney, being too poor to join the excursion on his own
      resources and too proud to borrow, melted unobtrusively away. Meanwhile
      the remainder of the company crowded the benches of a cab; the horse was
      urged (as horses have to be) by an appeal to the pocket of the driver; the
      train caught by the inside of a minute; and in less than an hour and a
      half we were breathing deep of the sweet air of the forest and stretching
      our legs up the hill from Fontainebleau octroi, bound for Barbizon. That
      the leading members of our party covered the distance in fifty-one minutes
      and a half is (I believe) one of the historic landmarks of the colony; but
      you will scarce be surprised to learn that I was somewhat in the rear.
      Myner, a comparatively philosophic Briton, kept me company in my
      deliberate advance; the glory of the sun's going down, the fall of the
      long shadows, the inimitable scent and the inspiration of the woods,
      attuned me more and more to walk in a silence which progressively infected
      my companion; and I remember that, when at last he spoke, I was startled
      from a deep abstraction.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your father seems to be a pretty good kind of a father,&rdquo; said
      he. &ldquo;Why don't he come to see you?&rdquo; I was ready with some
      dozen of reasons, and had more in stock; but Myner, with that shrewdness
      which made him feared and admired, suddenly fixed me with his eye-glass
      and asked, &ldquo;Ever press him?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The blood came in my face. No; I had never pressed him; I had never even
      encouraged him to come. I was proud of him; proud of his handsome looks,
      of his kind, gentle ways, of that bright face he could show when others
      were happy; proud, too (meanly proud, if you like) of his great wealth and
      startling liberalities. And yet he would have been in the way of my Paris
      life, of much of which he would have disapproved. I had feared to expose
      to criticism his innocent remarks on art; I had told myself, I had even
      partly believed, he did not want to come; I had been (and still am)
      convinced that he was sure to be unhappy out of Muskegon; in short, I had
      a thousand reasons, good and bad, not all of which could alter one iota of
      the fact that I knew he only waited for my invitation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you, Myner,&rdquo; said I; &ldquo;you're a much better fellow
      than ever I supposed. I'll write to-night.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, you're a pretty decent sort yourself,&rdquo; returned Myner,
      with more than his usual flippancy of manner, but (as I was gratefully
      aware) not a trace of his occasional irony of meaning.
    </p>
    <p>
      Well, these were brave days, on which I could dwell forever. Brave, too,
      were those that followed, when Pinkerton and I walked Paris and the
      suburbs, viewing and pricing houses for my new establishment, or covered
      ourselves with dust and returned laden with Chinese gods and brass
      warming-pans from the dealers in antiquities. I found Pinkerton well up in
      the situation of these establishments as well as in the current prices,
      and with quite a smattering of critical judgment; it turned out he was
      investing capital in pictures and curiosities for the States, and the
      superficial thoroughness of the creature appeared in the fact, that
      although he would never be a connoisseur, he was already something of an
      expert. The things themselves left him as near as may be cold; but he had
      a joy of his own in understanding how to buy and sell them.
    </p>
    <p>
      In such engagements the time passed until I might very well expect an
      answer from my father. Two mails followed each other, and brought nothing.
      By the third I received a long and almost incoherent letter of remorse,
      encouragement, consolation, and despair. From this pitiful document, which
      (with a movement of piety) I burned as soon as I had read it, I gathered
      that the bubble of my father's wealth was burst, that he was now both
      penniless and sick; and that I, so far from expecting ten thousand dollars
      to throw away in juvenile extravagance, must look no longer for the
      quarterly remittances on which I lived. My case was hard enough; but I had
      sense enough to perceive, and decency enough to do my duty. I sold my
      curiosities, or rather I sent Pinkerton to sell them; and he had
      previously bought and now disposed of them so wisely that the loss was
      trifling. This, with what remained of my last allowance, left me at the
      head of no less than five thousand francs. Five hundred I reserved for my
      own immediate necessities; the rest I mailed inside of the week to my
      father at Muskegon, where they came in time to pay his funeral expenses.
    </p>
    <p>
      The news of his death was scarcely a surprise and scarce a grief to me. I
      could not conceive my father a poor man. He had led too long a life of
      thoughtless and generous profusion to endure the change; and though I
      grieved for myself, I was able to rejoice that my father had been taken
      from the battle. I grieved, I say, for myself; and it is probable there
      were at the same date many thousands of persons grieving with less cause.
      I had lost my father; I had lost the allowance; my whole fortune
      (including what had been returned from Muskegon) scarce amounted to a
      thousand francs; and to crown my sorrows, the statuary contract had
      changed hands. The new contractor had a son of his own, or else a nephew;
      and it was signified to me, with business-like plainness, that I must find
      another market for my pigs. In the meanwhile I had given up my room, and
      slept on a truckle-bed in the corner of the studio, where as I read myself
      to sleep at night, and when I awoke in the morning, that now useless bulk,
      the Genius of Muskegon, was ever present to my eyes. Poor stone lady! born
      to be enthroned under the gilded, echoing dome of the new capitol, whither
      was she now to drift? for what base purposes be ultimately broken up, like
      an unseaworthy ship? and what should befall her ill-starred artificer,
      standing, with his thousand francs, on the threshold of a life so hard as
      that of the unbefriended sculptor?
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a subject often and earnestly debated by myself and Pinkerton. In
      his opinion, I should instantly discard my profession. &ldquo;Just drop
      it, here and now,&rdquo; he would say. &ldquo;Come back home with me, and
      let's throw our whole soul into business. I have the capital; you bring
      the culture. Dodd &amp; Pinkerton&mdash;I never saw a better name for an
      advertisement; and you can't think, Loudon, how much depends upon a name.&rdquo;
      On my side, I would admit that a sculptor should possess one of three
      things&mdash;capital, influence, or an energy only to be qualified as
      hellish. The first two I had now lost; to the third I never had the
      smallest claim; and yet I wanted the cowardice (or perhaps it was the
      courage) to turn my back on my career without a fight. I told him,
      besides, that however poor my chances were in sculpture, I was convinced
      they were yet worse in business, for which I equally lacked taste and
      aptitude. But upon this head, he was my father over again; assured me that
      I spoke in ignorance; that any intelligent and cultured person was Bound
      to succeed; that I must, besides, have inherited some of my father's
      fitness; and, at any rate, that I had been regularly trained for that
      career in the commercial college.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pinkerton,&rdquo; I said, &ldquo;can't you understand that, as long
      as I was there, I never took the smallest interest in any stricken thing?
      The whole affair was poison to me.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's not possible,&rdquo; he would cry; &ldquo;it can't be; you
      couldn't live in the midst of it and not feel the charm; with all your
      poetry of soul, you couldn't help! Loudon,&rdquo; he would go on, &ldquo;you
      drive me crazy. You expect a man to be all broken up about the sunset, and
      not to care a dime for a place where fortunes are fought for and made and
      lost all day; or for a career that consists in studying up life till you
      have it at your finger-ends, spying out every cranny where you can get
      your hand in and a dollar out, and standing there in the midst&mdash;one
      foot on bankruptcy, the other on a borrowed dollar, and the whole thing
      spinning round you like a mill&mdash;raking in the stamps, in spite of
      fate and fortune.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      To this romance of dickering I would reply with the romance (which is also
      the virtue) of art: reminding him of those examples of constancy through
      many tribulations, with which the role of Apollo is illustrated; from the
      case of Millet, to those of many of our friends and comrades, who had
      chosen this agreeable mountain path through life, and were now bravely
      clambering among rocks and brambles, penniless and hopeful.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will never understand it, Pinkerton,&rdquo; I would say.
      &ldquo;You look to the result, you want to see some profit of your
      endeavours: that is why you could never learn to paint, if you lived to be
      Methusalem. The result is always a fizzle: the eyes of the artist are
      turned in; he lives for a frame of mind. Look at Romney, now. There is the
      nature of the artist. He hasn't a cent; and if you offered him to-morrow
      the command of an army, or the presidentship of the United States, he
      wouldn't take it, and you know he wouldn't.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I suppose not,&rdquo; Pinkerton would cry, scouring his hair with
      both his hands; &ldquo;and I can't see why; I can't see what in fits he
      would be after, not to; I don't seem to rise to these views. Of course,
      it's the fault of not having had advantages in early life; but, Loudon,
      I'm so miserably low that it seems to me silly. The fact is,&rdquo; he
      might add with a smile, &ldquo;I don't seem to have the least use for a
      frame of mind without square meals; and you can't get it out of my head
      that it's a man's duty to die rich, if he can.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What for?&rdquo; I asked him once.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, I don't know,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;Why in snakes should
      anybody want to be a sculptor, if you come to that? I would love to sculp
      myself. But what I can't see is why you should want to do nothing else. It
      seems to argue a poverty of nature.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Whether or not he ever came to understand me&mdash;and I have been so
      tossed about since then that I am not very sure I understand myself&mdash;he
      soon perceived that I was perfectly in earnest; and after about ten days
      of argument, suddenly dropped the subject, and announced that he was
      wasting capital, and must go home at once. No doubt he should have gone
      long before, and had already lingered over his intended time for the sake
      of our companionship and my misfortune; but man is so unjustly minded that
      the very fact, which ought to have disarmed, only embittered my vexation.
      I resented his departure in the light of a desertion; I would not say, but
      doubtless I betrayed it; and something hang-dog in the man's face and
      bearing led me to believe he was himself remorseful. It is certain at
      least that, during the time of his preparations, we drew sensibly apart&mdash;a
      circumstance that I recall with shame. On the last day, he had me to
      dinner at a restaurant which he knew I had formerly frequented, and had
      only forsworn of late from considerations of economy. He seemed ill at
      ease; I was myself both sorry and sulky; and the meal passed with little
      conversation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, Loudon,&rdquo; said he, with a visible effort, after the
      coffee was come and our pipes lighted, &ldquo;you can never understand the
      gratitude and loyalty I bear you. You don't know what a boon it is to be
      taken up by a man that stands on the pinnacle of civilization; you can't
      think how it's refined and purified me, how it's appealed to my spiritual
      nature; and I want to tell you that I would die at your door like a dog.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      I don't know what answer I tried to make, but he cut me short.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let me say it out!&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;I revere you for your
      whole-souled devotion to art; I can't rise to it, but there's a strain of
      poetry in my nature, Loudon, that responds to it. I want you to carry it
      out, and I mean to help you.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pinkerton, what nonsense is this?&rdquo; I interrupted.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now don't get mad, Loudon; this is a plain piece of business,&rdquo;
      said he; &ldquo;it's done every day; it's even typical. How are all those
      fellows over here in Paris, Henderson, Sumner, Long?&mdash;it's all the
      same story: a young man just plum full of artistic genius on the one side,
      a man of business on the other who doesn't know what to do with his
      dollars&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, you fool, you're as poor as a rat,&rdquo; I cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You wait till I get my irons in the fire!&rdquo; returned
      Pinkerton. &ldquo;I'm bound to be rich; and I tell you I mean to have some
      of the fun as I go along. Here's your first allowance; take it at the hand
      of a friend; I'm one that holds friendship sacred as you do yourself. It's
      only a hundred francs; you'll get the same every month, and as soon as my
      business begins to expand we'll increase it to something fitting. And so
      far from it's being a favour, just let me handle your statuary for the
      American market, and I'll call it one of the smartest strokes of business
      in my life.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      It took me a long time, and it had cost us both much grateful and painful
      emotion, before I had finally managed to refuse his offer and compounded
      for a bottle of particular wine. He dropped the subject at last suddenly
      with a &ldquo;Never mind; that's all done with,&rdquo; nor did he again
      refer to the subject, though we passed together the rest of the afternoon,
      and I accompanied him, on his departure; to the doors of the waiting-room
      at St. Lazare. I felt myself strangely alone; a voice told me that I had
      rejected both the counsels of wisdom and the helping hand of friendship;
      and as I passed through the great bright city on my homeward way, I
      measured it for the first time with the eye of an adversary.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005">
       <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER V. IN WHICH I AM DOWN ON MY LUCK IN PARIS.
    </h2>
    <p>
      In no part of the world is starvation an agreeable business; but I believe
      it is admitted there is no worse place to starve in than this city of
      Paris. The appearances of life are there so especially gay, it is so much
      a magnified beer-garden, the houses are so ornate, the theatres so
      numerous, the very pace of the vehicles is so brisk, that a man in any
      deep concern of mind or pain of body is constantly driven in upon himself.
      In his own eyes, he seems the one serious creature moving in a world of
      horrible unreality; voluble people issuing from a cafe, the queue at
      theatre doors, Sunday cabfuls of second-rate pleasure-seekers, the
      bedizened ladies of the pavement, the show in the jewellers' windows&mdash;all
      the familiar sights contributing to flout his own unhappiness, want, and
      isolation. At the same time, if he be at all after my pattern, he is
      perhaps supported by a childish satisfaction: this is life at last, he may
      tell himself, this is the real thing; the bladders on which I was set
      swimming are now empty, my own weight depends upon the ocean; by my own
      exertions I must perish or succeed; and I am now enduring in the vivid
      fact, what I so much delighted to read of in the case of Lonsteau or
      Lucien, Rodolphe or Schaunard.
    </p>
    <p>
      Of the steps of my misery, I cannot tell at length. In ordinary times what
      were politically called &ldquo;loans&rdquo; (although they were never
      meant to be repaid) were matters of constant course among the students,
      and many a man has partly lived on them for years. But my misfortune
      befell me at an awkward juncture. Many of my friends were gone; others
      were themselves in a precarious situation. Romney (for instance) was
      reduced to tramping Paris in a pair of country sabots, his only suit of
      clothes so imperfect (in spite of cunningly adjusted pins) that the
      authorities at the Luxembourg suggested his withdrawal from the gallery.
      Dijon, too, was on a leeshore, designing clocks and gas-brackets for a
      dealer; and the most he could do was to offer me a corner of his studio
      where I might work. My own studio (it will be gathered) I had by that time
      lost; and in the course of my expulsion the Genius of Muskegon was finally
      separated from her author. To continue to possess a full-sized statue, a
      man must have a studio, a gallery, or at least the freedom of a back
      garden. He cannot carry it about with him, like a satchel, in the bottom
      of a cab, nor can he cohabit in a garret, ten by fifteen, with so
      momentous a companion. It was my first idea to leave her behind at my
      departure. There, in her birthplace, she might lend an inspiration,
      methought, to my successor. But the proprietor, with whom I had unhappily
      quarrelled, seized the occasion to be disagreeable, and called upon me to
      remove my property. For a man in such straits as I now found myself, the
      hire of a lorry was a consideration; and yet even that I could have faced,
      if I had had anywhere to drive to after it was hired. Hysterical laughter
      seized upon me as I beheld (in imagination) myself, the waggoner, and the
      Genius of Muskegon, standing in the public view of Paris, without the
      shadow of a destination; perhaps driving at last to the nearest rubbish
      heap, and dumping there, among the ordures of a city, the beloved child of
      my invention. From these extremities I was relieved by a seasonable offer,
      and I parted from the Genius of Muskegon for thirty francs. Where she now
      stands, under what name she is admired or criticised, history does not
      inform us; but I like to think she may adorn the shrubbery of some
      suburban tea-garden, where holiday shop-girls hang their hats upon the
      mother, and their swains (by way of an approach of gallantry) identify the
      winged infant with the god of love.
    </p>
    <p>
      In a certain cabman's eating-house on the outer boulevard I got credit for
      my midday meal. Supper I was supposed not to require, sitting down nightly
      to the delicate table of some rich acquaintances. This arrangement was
      extremely ill-considered. My fable, credible enough at first, and so long
      as my clothes were in good order, must have seemed worse than doubtful
      after my coat became frayed about the edges, and my boots began to squelch
      and pipe along the restaurant floors. The allowance of one meal a day
      besides, though suitable enough to the state of my finances, agreed poorly
      with my stomach. The restaurant was a place I had often visited
      experimentally, to taste the life of students then more unfortunate than
      myself; and I had never in those days entered it without disgust, or left
      it without nausea. It was strange to find myself sitting down with
      avidity, rising up with satisfaction, and counting the hours that divided
      me from my return to such a table. But hunger is a great magician; and so
      soon as I had spent my ready cash, and could no longer fill up on bowls of
      chocolate or hunks of bread, I must depend entirely on that cabman's
      eating-house, and upon certain rare, long-expected, long-remembered
      windfalls. Dijon (for instance) might get paid for some of his pot-boiling
      work, or else an old friend would pass through Paris; and then I would be
      entertained to a meal after my own soul, and contract a Latin Quarter
      loan, which would keep me in tobacco and my morning coffee for a
      fortnight. It might be thought the latter would appear the more important.
      It might be supposed that a life, led so near the confines of actual
      famine, should have dulled the nicety of my palate. On the contrary, the
      poorer a man's diet, the more sharply is he set on dainties. The last of
      my ready cash, about thirty francs, was deliberately squandered on a
      single dinner; and a great part of my time when I was alone was passed
      upon the details of imaginary feasts.
    </p>
    <p>
      One gleam of hope visited me&mdash;an order for a bust from a rich
      Southerner. He was free-handed, jolly of speech, merry of countenance;
      kept me in good humour through the sittings, and when they were over,
      carried me off with him to dinner and the sights of Paris. I ate well; I
      laid on flesh; by all accounts, I made a favourable likeness of the being,
      and I confess I thought my future was assured. But when the bust was done,
      and I had despatched it across the Atlantic, I could never so much as
      learn of its arrival. The blow felled me; I should have lain down and
      tried no stroke to right myself, had not the honour of my country been
      involved. For Dijon improved the opportunity in the European style;
      informing me (for the first time) of the manners of America: how it was a
      den of banditti without the smallest rudiment of law or order, and debts
      could be there only collected with a shotgun. &ldquo;The whole world knows
      it,&rdquo; he would say; &ldquo;you are alone, mon petit Loudon, you are
      alone to be in ignorance of these facts. The judges of the Supreme Court
      fought but the other day with stilettos on the bench at Cincinnati. You
      should read the little book of one of my friends: <i>Le Touriste dans le
      Far-West</i>; you will see it all there in good French.&rdquo; At last,
      incensed by days of such discussion, I undertook to prove to him the
      contrary, and put the affair in the hands of my late father's lawyer. From
      him I had the gratification of hearing, after a due interval, that my
      debtor was dead of the yellow fever in Key West, and had left his affairs
      in some confusion. I suppress his name; for though he treated me with
      cruel nonchalance, it is probable he meant to deal fairly in the end.
    </p>
    <p>
      Soon after this a shade of change in my reception at the cabman's
      eating-house marked the beginning of a new phase in my distress. The first
      day, I told myself it was but fancy; the next, I made quite sure it was a
      fact; the third, in mere panic I stayed away, and went for forty-eight
      hours fasting. This was an act of great unreason; for the debtor who stays
      away is but the more remarked, and the boarder who misses a meal is sure
      to be accused of infidelity. On the fourth day, therefore, I returned,
      inwardly quaking. The proprietor looked askance upon my entrance; the
      waitresses (who were his daughters) neglected my wants and sniffed at the
      affected joviality of my salutations; last and most plain, when I called
      for a suisse (such as was being served to all the other diners) I was
      bluntly told there were no more. It was obvious I was near the end of my
      tether; one plank divided me from want, and now I felt it tremble. I
      passed a sleepless night, and the first thing in the morning took my way
      to Myner's studio. It was a step I had long meditated and long refrained
      from; for I was scarce intimate with the Englishman; and though I knew him
      to possess plenty of money, neither his manner nor his reputation were the
      least encouraging to beggars.
    </p>
    <p>
      I found him at work on a picture, which I was able conscientiously to
      praise, dressed in his usual tweeds, plain, but pretty fresh, and standing
      out in disagreeable contrast to my own withered and degraded outfit. As we
      talked, he continued to shift his eyes watchfully between his handiwork
      and the fat model, who sat at the far end of the studio in a state of
      nature, with one arm gallantly arched above her head. My errand would have
      been difficult enough under the best of circumstances: placed between
      Myner, immersed in his art, and the white, fat, naked female in a
      ridiculous attitude, I found it quite impossible. Again and again I
      attempted to approach the point, again and again fell back on
      commendations of the picture; and it was not until the model had enjoyed
      an interval of repose, during which she took the conversation in her own
      hands and regaled us (in a soft, weak voice) with details as to her
      husband's prosperity, her sister's lamented decline from the paths of
      virtue, and the consequent wrath of her father, a peasant of stern
      principles, in the vicinity of Chalons on the Marne;&mdash;it was not, I
      say, until after this was over, and I had once more cleared my throat for
      the attack, and once more dropped aside into some commonplace about the
      picture, that Myner himself brought me suddenly and vigorously to the
      point.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You didn't come here to talk this rot,&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; I replied sullenly; &ldquo;I came to borrow money.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      He painted awhile in silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't think we were ever very intimate?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;I can take my answer,&rdquo; and I
      made as if to go, rage boiling in my heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course you can go if you like,&rdquo; said Myner; &ldquo;but I
      advise you to stay and have it out.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What more is there to say?&rdquo; I cried. &ldquo;You don't want to
      keep me here for a needless humiliation?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look here, Dodd, you must try and command your temper,&rdquo; said
      he. &ldquo;This interview is of your own seeking, and not mine; if you
      suppose it's not disagreeable to me, you're wrong; and if you think I will
      give you money without knowing thoroughly about your prospects, you take
      me for a fool. Besides,&rdquo; he added, &ldquo;if you come to look at it,
      you've got over the worst of it by now: you have done the asking, and you
      have every reason to know I mean to refuse. I hold out no false hopes, but
      it may be worth your while to let me judge.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus&mdash;I was going to say&mdash;encouraged, I stumbled through my
      story; told him I had credit at the cabman's eating-house, but began to
      think it was drawing to a close; how Dijon lent me a corner of his studio,
      where I tried to model ornaments, figures for clocks, Time with the
      scythe, Leda and the swan, musketeers for candlesticks, and other
      kickshaws, which had never (up to that day) been honoured with the least
      approval.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And your room?&rdquo; asked Myner.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, my room is all right, I think,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;She is a
      very good old lady, and has never even mentioned her bill.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because she is a very good old lady, I don't see why she should be
      fined,&rdquo; observed Myner.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you mean by that?&rdquo; I cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I mean this,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;The French give a great deal of
      credit amongst themselves; they find it pays on the whole, or the system
      would hardly be continued; but I can't see where WE come in; I can't see
      that it's honest of us Anglo-Saxons to profit by their easy ways, and then
      skip over the Channel or (as you Yankees do) across the Atlantic.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I'm not proposing to skip,&rdquo; I objected.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Exactly,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;And shouldn't you? There's the
      problem. You seem to me to have a lack of sympathy for the proprietors of
      cabmen's eating-houses. By your own account you're not getting on: the
      longer you stay, it'll only be the more out of the pocket of the dear old
      lady at your lodgings. Now, I'll tell you what I'll do: if you consent to
      go, I'll pay your passage to New York, and your railway fare and expenses
      to Muskegon (if I have the name right) where your father lived, where he
      must have left friends, and where, no doubt, you'll find an opening. I
      don't seek any gratitude, for of course you'll think me a beast; but I do
      ask you to pay it back when you are able. At any rate, that's all I can
      do. It might be different if I thought you a genius, Dodd; but I don't,
      and I advise you not to.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think that was uncalled for, at least,&rdquo; said I.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I daresay it was,&rdquo; he returned, with the same steadiness.
      &ldquo;It seemed to me pertinent; and, besides, when you ask me for money
      upon no security, you treat me with the liberty of a friend, and it's to
      be presumed that I can do the like. But the point is, do you accept?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, thank you,&rdquo; said I; &ldquo;I have another string to my
      bow.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All right,&rdquo; says Myner. &ldquo;Be sure it's honest.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Honest? honest?&rdquo; I cried. &ldquo;What do you mean by calling
      my honesty in question?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I won't, if you don't like it,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;You seem
      to think honesty as easy as Blind Man's Buff: I don't. It's some
      difference of definition.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      I went straight from this irritating interview, during which Myner had
      never discontinued painting, to the studio of my old master. Only one card
      remained for me to play, and I was now resolved to play it: I must drop
      the gentleman and the frock-coat, and approach art in the workman's tunic.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tiens, this little Dodd!&rdquo; cried the master; and then, as his
      eye fell on my dilapidated clothing, I thought I could perceive his
      countenance to darken.
    </p>
    <p>
      I made my plea in English; for I knew, if he were vain of anything, it was
      of his achievement of the island tongue. &ldquo;Master,&rdquo; said I,
      &ldquo;will you take me in your studio again? but this time as a workman.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I sought your fazer was immensely reech,&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      I explained to him that I was now an orphan and penniless.
    </p>
    <p>
      He shook his head. &ldquo;I have betterr workmen waiting at my door,&rdquo;
      said he, &ldquo;far betterr workmen.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You used to think something of my work, sir,&rdquo; I pleaded.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Somesing, somesing&mdash;yes!&rdquo; he cried; &ldquo;enough for a
      son of a reech man&mdash;not enough for an orphan. Besides, I sought you
      might learn to be an artist; I did not sink you might learn to be a
      workman.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      On a certain bench on the outer boulevard, not far from the tomb of
      Napoleon, a bench shaded at that date by a shabby tree, and commanding a
      view of muddy roadway and blank wall, I sat down to wrestle with my
      misery. The weather was cheerless and dark; in three days I had eaten but
      once; I had no tobacco; my shoes were soaked, my trousers horrid with
      mire; my humour and all the circumstances of the time and place
      lugubriously attuned. Here were two men who had both spoken fairly of my
      work while I was rich and wanted nothing; now that I was poor and lacked
      all: &ldquo;no genius,&rdquo; said the one; &ldquo;not enough for an
      orphan,&rdquo; the other; and the first offered me my passage like a
      pauper immigrant, and the second refused me a day's wage as a hewer of
      stone&mdash;plain dealing for an empty belly. They had not been insincere
      in the past; they were not insincere to-day: change of circumstance had
      introduced a new criterion: that was all.
    </p>
    <p>
      But if I acquitted my two Job's comforters of insincerity, I was yet far
      from admitting them infallible. Artists had been contemned before, and had
      lived to turn the laugh on their contemners. How old was Corot before he
      struck the vein of his own precious metal? When had a young man been more
      derided (or more justly so) than the god of my admiration, Balzac? Or if I
      required a bolder inspiration, what had I to do but turn my head to where
      the gold dome of the Invalides glittered against inky squalls, and recall
      the tale of him sleeping there: from the day when a young artillery-sub
      could be giggled at and nicknamed Puss-in-Boots by frisky misses; on to
      the days of so many crowns and so many victories, and so many hundred
      mouths of cannon, and so many thousand war-hoofs trampling the roadways of
      astonished Europe eighty miles in front of the grand army? To go back, to
      give up, to proclaim myself a failure, an ambitious failure, first a
      rocket, then a stick! I, Loudon Dodd, who had refused all other
      livelihoods with scorn, and been advertised in the Saint Joseph <i>Sunday
      Herald</i> as a patriot and an artist, to be returned upon my native
      Muskegon like damaged goods, and go the circuit of my father's
      acquaintance, cap in hand, and begging to sweep offices! No, by Napoleon!
      I would die at my chosen trade; and the two who had that day flouted me
      should live to envy my success, or to weep tears of unavailing penitence
      behind my pauper coffin.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meantime, if my courage was still undiminished, I was none the nearer to a
      meal. At no great distance my cabman's eating-house stood, at the tail of
      a muddy cab-rank, on the shores of a wide thoroughfare of mud, offering
      (to fancy) a face of ambiguous invitation. I might be received, I might
      once more fill my belly there; on the other hand, it was perhaps this day
      the bolt was destined to fall, and I might be expelled instead, with
      vulgar hubbub. It was policy to make the attempt, and I knew it was
      policy; but I had already, in the course of that one morning, endured too
      many affronts, and I felt I could rather starve than face another. I had
      courage and to spare for the future, none left for that day; courage for
      the main campaign, but not a spark of it for that preliminary skirmish of
      the cabman's restaurant. I continued accordingly to sit upon my bench, not
      far from the ashes of Napoleon, now drowsy, now light-headed, now in
      complete mental obstruction, or only conscious of an animal pleasure in
      quiescence; and now thinking, planning, and remembering with unexampled
      clearness, telling myself tales of sudden wealth, and gustfully ordering
      and greedily consuming imaginary meals: in the course of which I must have
      dropped asleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was towards dark that I was suddenly recalled to famine by a cold souse
      of rain, and sprang shivering to my feet. For a moment I stood bewildered:
      the whole train of my reasoning and dreaming passed afresh through my
      mind; I was again tempted, drawn as if with cords, by the image of the
      cabman's eating-house, and again recoiled from the possibility of insult.
      &ldquo;Qui dort dine,&rdquo; thought I to myself; and took my homeward way
      with wavering footsteps, through rainy streets in which the lamps and the
      shop-windows now began to gleam; still marshalling imaginary dinners as I
      went.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, Monsieur Dodd,&rdquo; said the porter, &ldquo;there has been a
      registered letter for you. The facteur will bring it again to-morrow.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      A registered letter for me, who had been so long without one? Of what it
      could possibly contain, I had no vestige of a guess; nor did I delay
      myself guessing; far less from any conscious plan of dishonesty: the lies
      flowed from me like a natural secretion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;my remittance at last! What a bother I
      should have missed it! Can you lend me a hundred francs until to-morrow?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      I had never attempted to borrow from the porter till that moment: the
      registered letter was, besides, my warranty; and he gave me what he had&mdash;three
      napoleons and some francs in silver. I pocketed the money carelessly,
      lingered a while chaffing, strolled leisurely to the door; and then (fast
      as my trembling legs could carry me) round the corner to the Cafe de
      Cluny. French waiters are deft and speedy; they were not deft enough for
      me; and I had scarce decency to let the man set the wine upon the table or
      put the butter alongside the bread, before my glass and my mouth were
      filled. Exquisite bread of the Cafe Cluny, exquisite first glass of old
      Pomard tingling to my wet feet, indescribable first olive culled from the
      hors d'oeuvre&mdash;I suppose, when I come to lie dying, and the lamp
      begins to grow dim, I shall still recall your savour. Over the rest of
      that meal, and the rest of the evening, clouds lie thick; clouds perhaps
      of Burgundy; perhaps, more properly, of famine and repletion.
    </p>
    <p>
      I remember clearly, at least, the shame, the despair, of the next morning,
      when I reviewed what I had done, and how I had swindled the poor honest
      porter; and, as if that were not enough, fairly burnt my ships, and
      brought bankruptcy home to that last refuge, my garret. The porter would
      expect his money; I could not pay him; here was scandal in the house; and
      I knew right well the cause of scandal would have to pack. &ldquo;What do
      you mean by calling my honesty in question?&rdquo; I had cried the day
      before, turning upon Myner. Ah, that day before! the day before Waterloo,
      the day before the Flood; the day before I had sold the roof over my head,
      my future, and my self-respect, for a dinner at the Cafe Cluny!
    </p>
    <p>
      In the midst of these lamentations the famous registered letter came to my
      door, with healing under its seals. It bore the postmark of San Francisco,
      where Pinkerton was already struggling to the neck in multifarious
      affairs: it renewed the offer of an allowance, which his improved estate
      permitted him to announce at the figure of two hundred francs a month; and
      in case I was in some immediate pinch, it enclosed an introductory draft
      for forty dollars. There are a thousand excellent reasons why a man, in
      this self-helpful epoch, should decline to be dependent on another; but
      the most numerous and cogent considerations all bow to a necessity as
      stern as mine; and the banks were scarce open ere the draft was cashed.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was early in December that I thus sold myself into slavery; and for six
      months I dragged a slowly lengthening chain of gratitude and uneasiness.
      At the cost of some debt I managed to excel myself and eclipse the Genius
      of Muskegon, in a small but highly patriotic Standard Bearer for the
      Salon; whither it was duly admitted, where it stood the proper length of
      days entirely unremarked, and whence it came back to me as patriotic as
      before. I threw my whole soul (as Pinkerton would have phrased it) into
      clocks and candlesticks; the devil a candlestick-maker would have anything
      to say to my designs. Even when Dijon, with his infinite good humour and
      infinite scorn for all such journey-work, consented to peddle them in
      indiscriminately with his own, the dealers still detected and rejected
      mine. Home they returned to me, true as the Standard Bearer; who now, at
      the head of quite a regiment of lesser idols, began to grow an eyesore in
      the scanty studio of my friend. Dijon and I have sat by the hour, and
      gazed upon that company of images. The severe, the frisky, the classical,
      the Louis Quinze, were there&mdash;from Joan of Arc in her soldierly
      cuirass to Leda with the swan; nay, and God forgive me for a man that knew
      better! the humorous was represented also. We sat and gazed, I say; we
      criticised, we turned them hither and thither; even upon the closest
      inspection they looked quite like statuettes; and yet nobody would have a
      gift of them!
    </p>
    <p>
      Vanity dies hard; in some obstinate cases it outlives the man: but about
      the sixth month, when I already owed near two hundred dollars to
      Pinkerton, and half as much again in debts scattered about Paris, I awoke
      one morning with a horrid sentiment of oppression, and found I was alone:
      my vanity had breathed her last during the night. I dared not plunge
      deeper in the bog; I saw no hope in my poor statuary; I owned myself
      beaten at last; and sitting down in my nightshirt beside the window,
      whence I had a glimpse of the tree-tops at the corner of the boulevard,
      and where the music of its early traffic fell agreeably upon my ear, I
      penned my farewell to Paris, to art, to my whole past life, and my whole
      former self. &ldquo;I give in,&rdquo; I wrote. &ldquo;When the next
      allowance arrives, I shall go straight out West, where you can do what you
      like with me.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      It is to be understood that Pinkerton had been, in a sense, pressing me to
      come from the beginning; depicting his isolation among new acquaintances,
      &ldquo;who have none of them your culture,&rdquo; he wrote; expressing his
      friendship in terms so warm that it sometimes embarrassed me to think how
      poorly I could echo them; dwelling upon his need for assistance; and the
      next moment turning about to commend my resolution and press me to remain
      in Paris. &ldquo;Only remember, Loudon,&rdquo; he would write, &ldquo;if
      you ever DO tire of it, there's plenty of work here for you&mdash;honest,
      hard, well-paid work, developing the resources of this practically virgin
      State. And of course I needn't say what a pleasure it would be to me if we
      were going at it SHOULDER TO SHOULDER.&rdquo; I marvel (looking back) that
      I could so long have resisted these appeals, and continue to sink my
      friend's money in a manner that I knew him to dislike. At least, when I
      did awake to any sense of my position, I awoke to it entirely; and
      determined not only to follow his counsel for the future, but even as
      regards the past, to rectify his losses. For in this juncture of affairs I
      called to mind that I was not without a possible resource, and resolved,
      at whatever cost of mortification, to beard the Loudon family in their
      historic city.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the excellent Scots' phrase, I made a moonlight flitting, a thing never
      dignified, but in my case unusually easy. As I had scarce a pair of boots
      worth portage, I deserted the whole of my effects without a pang. Dijon
      fell heir to Joan of Arc, the Standard Bearer, and the Musketeers. He was
      present when I bought and frugally stocked my new portmanteau; and it was
      at the door of the trunk shop that I took my leave of him, for my last few
      hours in Paris must be spent alone. It was alone (and at a far higher
      figure than my finances warranted) that I discussed my dinner; alone that
      I took my ticket at Saint Lazare; all alone, though in a carriage full of
      people, that I watched the moon shine on the Seine flood with its tufted
      islets, on Rouen with her spires, and on the shipping in the harbour of
      Dieppe. When the first light of the morning called me from troubled
      slumbers on the deck, I beheld the dawn at first with pleasure; I watched
      with pleasure the green shores of England rising out of rosy haze; I took
      the salt air with delight into my nostrils; and then all came back to me;
      that I was no longer an artist, no longer myself; that I was leaving all I
      cared for, and returning to all that I detested, the slave of debt and
      gratitude, a public and a branded failure.
    </p>
    <p>
      From this picture of my own disgrace and wretchedness, it is not wonderful
      if my mind turned with relief to the thought of Pinkerton, waiting for me,
      as I knew, with unwearied affection, and regarding me with a respect that
      I had never deserved, and might therefore fairly hope that I should never
      forfeit. The inequality of our relation struck me rudely. I must have been
      stupid, indeed, if I could have considered the history of that friendship
      without shame&mdash;I, who had given so little, who had accepted and
      profited by so much. I had the whole day before me in London, and I
      determined (at least in words) to set the balance somewhat straighter.
      Seated in the corner of a public place, and calling for sheet after sheet
      of paper, I poured forth the expression of my gratitude, my penitence for
      the past, my resolutions for the future. Till now, I told him, my course
      had been mere selfishness. I had been selfish to my father and to my
      friend, taking their help, and denying them (which was all they asked) the
      poor gratification of my company and countenance.
    </p>
    <p>
      Wonderful are the consolations of literature! As soon as that letter was
      written and posted, the consciousness of virtue glowed in my veins like
      some rare vintage.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006">
       <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VI. IN WHICH I GO WEST.
    </h2>
    <p>
      I reached my uncle's door next morning in time to sit down with the family
      to breakfast. More than three years had intervened almost without mutation
      in that stationary household, since I had sat there first, a young
      American freshman, bewildered among unfamiliar dainties, Finnan haddock,
      kippered salmon, baps and mutton ham, and had wearied my mind in vain to
      guess what should be under the tea-cosey. If there were any change at all,
      it seemed that I had risen in the family esteem. My father's death once
      fittingly referred to, with a ceremonial lengthening of Scotch upper lips
      and wagging of the female head, the party launched at once (God help me)
      into the more cheerful topic of my own successes. They had been so pleased
      to hear such good accounts of me; I was quite a great man now; where was
      that beautiful statue of the Genius of Something or other? &ldquo;You
      haven't it here? not here? Really?&rdquo; asks the sprightliest of my
      cousins, shaking curls at me; as though it were likely I had brought it in
      a cab, or kept it concealed about my person like a birthday surprise. In
      the bosom of this family, unaccustomed to the tropical nonsense of the
      West, it became plain the <i>Sunday Herald</i> and poor, blethering
      Pinkerton had been accepted for their face. It is not possible to invent a
      circumstance that could have more depressed me; and I am conscious that I
      behaved all through that breakfast like a whipt schoolboy.
    </p>
    <p>
      At length, the meal and family prayers being both happily over, I
      requested the favour of an interview with Uncle Adam on &ldquo;the state
      of my affairs.&rdquo; At sound of this ominous expression, the good man's
      face conspicuously lengthened; and when my grandfather, having had the
      proposition repeated to him (for he was hard of hearing) announced his
      intention of being present at the interview, I could not but think that
      Uncle Adam's sorrow kindled into momentary irritation. Nothing, however,
      but the usual grim cordiality appeared upon the surface; and we all three
      passed ceremoniously to the adjoining library, a gloomy theatre for a
      depressing piece of business. My grandfather charged a clay pipe, and sat
      tremulously smoking in a corner of the fireless chimney; behind him,
      although the morning was both chill and dark, the window was partly open
      and the blind partly down: I cannot depict what an air he had of being out
      of place, like a man shipwrecked there. Uncle Adam had his station at the
      business table in the midst. Valuable rows of books looked down upon the
      place of torture; and I could hear sparrows chirping in the garden, and my
      sprightly cousin already banging the piano and pouring forth an acid
      stream of song from the drawing-room overhead.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was in these circumstances that, with all brevity of speech and a
      certain boyish sullenness of manner, looking the while upon the floor, I
      informed my relatives of my financial situation: the amount I owed
      Pinkerton; the hopelessness of any maintenance from sculpture; the career
      offered me in the States; and how, before becoming more beholden to a
      stranger, I had judged it right to lay the case before my family.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am only sorry you did not come to me at first,&rdquo; said Uncle
      Adam. &ldquo;I take the liberty to say it would have been more decent.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think so too, Uncle Adam,&rdquo; I replied; &ldquo;but you must
      bear in mind I was ignorant in what light you might regard my application.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hope I would never turn my back on my own flesh and blood,&rdquo;
      he returned with emphasis; but to my anxious ear, with more of temper than
      affection. &ldquo;I could never forget you were my sister's son. I regard
      this as a manifest duty. I have no choice but to accept the entire
      responsibility of the position you have made.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      I did not know what else to do but murmur &ldquo;thank you.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he pursued, &ldquo;and there is something providential
      in the circumstance that you come at the right time. In my old firm there
      is a vacancy; they call themselves Italian Warehousemen now,&rdquo; he
      continued, regarding me with a twinkle of humour; &ldquo;so you may think
      yourself in luck: we were only grocers in my day. I shall place you there
      to-morrow.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stop a moment, Uncle Adam,&rdquo; I broke in. &ldquo;This is not at
      all what I am asking. I ask you to pay Pinkerton, who is a poor man. I ask
      you to clear my feet of debt, not to arrange my life or any part of it.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I wished to be harsh, I might remind you that beggars cannot be
      choosers,&rdquo; said my uncle; &ldquo;and as to managing your life, you
      have tried your own way already, and you see what you have made of it. You
      must now accept the guidance of those older and (whatever you may think of
      it) wiser than yourself. All these schemes of your friend (of whom I know
      nothing, by the by) and talk of openings in the West, I simply disregard.
      I have no idea whatever of your going trekking across a continent on a
      wild-goose chase. In this situation, which I am fortunately able to place
      at your disposal, and which many a well-conducted young man would be glad
      to jump at, you will receive, to begin with, eighteen shillings a week.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eighteen shillings a week!&rdquo; I cried. &ldquo;Why, my poor
      friend gave me more than that for nothing!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I think it is this very friend you are now trying to repay?&rdquo;
      observed my uncle, with an air of one advancing a strong argument.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aadam!&rdquo; said my grandfather.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm vexed you should be present at this business,&rdquo; quoth
      Uncle Adam, swinging rather obsequiously towards the stonemason; &ldquo;but
      I must remind you it is of your own seeking.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aadam!&rdquo; repeated the old man.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, sir, I am listening,&rdquo; says my uncle.
    </p>
    <p>
      My grandfather took a puff or two in silence; and then, &ldquo;Ye're
      makin' an awfu' poor appearance, Aadam,&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      My uncle visibly reared at the affront. &ldquo;I'm sorry you should think
      so,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;and still more sorry you should say so before
      present company.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A believe that; A ken that, Aadam,&rdquo; returned old Loudon,
      dryly; &ldquo;and the curiis thing is, I'm no very carin'. See here, ma
      man,&rdquo; he continued, addressing himself to me. &ldquo;A'm your
      grandfaither, amn't I not? Never you mind what Aadam says. A'll see
      justice din ye. A'm rich.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Father,&rdquo; said Uncle Adam, &ldquo;I would like one word with
      you in private.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      I rose to go.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Set down upon your hinderlands,&rdquo; cried my grandfather, almost
      savagely. &ldquo;If Aadam has anything to say, let him say it. It's me
      that has the money here; and by Gravy! I'm goin' to be obeyed.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Upon this scurvy encouragement, it appeared that my uncle had no remark to
      offer: twice challenged to &ldquo;speak out and be done with it,&rdquo; he
      twice sullenly declined; and I may mention that about this period of the
      engagement, I began to be sorry for him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;See here, then, Jeannie's yin!&rdquo; resumed my grandfather.
      &ldquo;A'm goin' to give ye a set-off. Your mither was always my fav'rite,
      for A never could agree with Aadam. A like ye fine yoursel'; there's nae
      noansense aboot ye; ye've a fine nayteral idee of builder's work; ye've
      been to France, where they tell me they're grand at the stuccy. A splendid
      thing for ceilin's, the stuccy! and it's a vailyable disguise, too; A
      don't believe there's a builder in Scotland has used more stuccy than me.
      But as A was sayin', if ye'll follie that trade, with the capital that A'm
      goin' to give ye, ye may live yet to be as rich as mysel'. Ye see, ye
      would have always had a share of it when A was gone; it appears ye're
      needin' it now; well, ye'll get the less, as is only just and proper.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Uncle Adam cleared his throat. &ldquo;This is very handsome, father,&rdquo;
      said he; &ldquo;and I am sure Loudon feels it so. Very handsome, and as
      you say, very just; but will you allow me to say that it had better,
      perhaps, be put in black and white?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The enmity always smouldering between the two men at this ill-judged
      interruption almost burst in flame. The stonemason turned upon his
      offspring, his long upper lip pulled down, for all the world, like a
      monkey's. He stared a while in virulent silence; and then &ldquo;Get
      Gregg!&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      The effect of these words was very visible. &ldquo;He will be gone to his
      office,&rdquo; stammered my uncle.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Get Gregg!&rdquo; repeated my grandfather.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I tell you, he will be gone to his office,&rdquo; reiterated Adam.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I tell ye, he's takin' his smoke,&rdquo; retorted the old man.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well, then,&rdquo; cried my uncle, getting to his feet with
      some alacrity, as upon a sudden change of thought, &ldquo;I will get him
      myself.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ye will not!&rdquo; cried my grandfather. &ldquo;Ye will sit there
      upon your hinderland.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then how the devil am I to get him?&rdquo; my uncle broke forth,
      with not unnatural petulance.
    </p>
    <p>
      My grandfather (having no possible answer) grinned at his son with the
      malice of a schoolboy; then he rang the bell.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take the garden key,&rdquo; said Uncle Adam to the servant; &ldquo;go
      over to the garden, and if Mr. Gregg the lawyer is there (he generally
      sits under the red hawthorn), give him old Mr. Loudon's compliments, and
      will he step in here for a moment?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Gregg the lawyer!&rdquo; At once I understood (what had been
      puzzling me) the significance of my grandfather and the alarm of my poor
      uncle: the stonemason's will, it was supposed, hung trembling in the
      balance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look here, grandfather,&rdquo; I said, &ldquo;I didn't want any of
      this. All I wanted was a loan of (say) two hundred pounds. I can take care
      of myself; I have prospects and opportunities, good friends in the States&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The old man waved me down. &ldquo;It's me that speaks here,&rdquo; he said
      curtly; and we waited the coming of the lawyer in a triple silence. He
      appeared at last, the maid ushering him in&mdash;a spectacled, dry, but
      not ungenial looking man.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here, Gregg,&rdquo; cried my grandfather. &ldquo;Just a question:
      What has Aadam got to do with my will?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm afraid I don't quite understand,&rdquo; said the lawyer,
      staring.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What has he got to do with it?&rdquo; repeated the old man, smiting
      with his fist upon the arm of his chair. &ldquo;Is my money mine's, or is
      it Aadam's? Can Aadam interfere?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, I see,&rdquo; said Mr. Gregg. &ldquo;Certainly not. On the
      marriage of both of your children a certain sum was paid down and accepted
      in full of legitim. You have surely not forgotten the circumstance, Mr.
      Loudon?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So that, if I like,&rdquo; concluded my grandfather, hammering out
      his words, &ldquo;I can leave every doit I die possessed of to the Great
      Magunn?&rdquo;&mdash;meaning probably the Great Mogul.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No doubt of it,&rdquo; replied Gregg, with a shadow of a smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ye hear that, Aadam?&rdquo; asked my grandfather.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I may be allowed to say I had no need to hear it,&rdquo; said my
      uncle.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well,&rdquo; says my grandfather. &ldquo;You and Jeannie's yin
      can go for a bit walk. Me and Gregg has business.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      When once I was in the hall alone with Uncle Adam, I turned to him, sick
      at heart. &ldquo;Uncle Adam,&rdquo; I said, &ldquo;you can understand,
      better than I can say, how very painful all this is to me.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I am sorry you have seen your grandfather in so unamiable a
      light,&rdquo; replied this extraordinary man. &ldquo;You shouldn't allow
      it to affect your mind though. He has sterling qualities, quite an
      extraordinary character; and I have no fear but he means to behave
      handsomely to you.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      His composure was beyond my imitation: the house could not contain me, nor
      could I even promise to return to it: in concession to which weakness, it
      was agreed that I should call in about an hour at the office of the
      lawyer, whom (as he left the library) Uncle Adam should waylay and inform
      of the arrangement. I suppose there was never a more topsy-turvy
      situation: you would have thought it was I who had suffered some rebuff,
      and that iron-sided Adam was a generous conqueror who scorned to take
      advantage.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was plain enough that I was to be endowed: to what extent and upon what
      conditions I was now left for an hour to meditate in the wide and solitary
      thoroughfares of the new town, taking counsel with street-corner statues
      of George IV. and William Pitt, improving my mind with the pictures in the
      window of a music-shop, and renewing my acquaintance with Edinburgh east
      wind. By the end of the hour I made my way to Mr. Gregg's office, where I
      was placed, with a few appropriate words, in possession of a cheque for
      two thousand pounds and a small parcel of architectural works.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Loudon bids me add,&rdquo; continued the lawyer, consulting a
      little sheet of notes, &ldquo;that although these volumes are very
      valuable to the practical builder, you must be careful not to lose
      originality. He tells you also not to be 'hadden doun'&mdash;his own
      expression&mdash;by the theory of strains, and that Portland cement,
      properly sanded, will go a long way.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      I smiled, and remarked that I supposed it would.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I once lived in one of my excellent client's houses,&rdquo;
      observed the lawyer; &ldquo;and I was tempted, in that case, to think it
      had gone far enough.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Under these circumstances, sir,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;you will be
      rather relieved to hear that I have no intention of becoming a builder.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      At this, he fairly laughed; and, the ice being broken, I was able to
      consult him as to my conduct. He insisted I must return to the house, at
      least, for luncheon, and one of my walks with Mr. Loudon. &ldquo;For the
      evening, I will furnish you with an excuse, if you please,&rdquo; said he,
      &ldquo;by asking you to a bachelor dinner with myself. But the luncheon
      and the walk are unavoidable. He is an old man, and, I believe, really
      fond of you; he would naturally feel aggrieved if there were any
      appearance of avoiding him; and as for Mr. Adam, do you know, I think your
      delicacy out of place.... And now, Mr. Dodd, what are you to do with this
      money?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Ay, there was the question. With two thousand pounds&mdash;fifty thousand
      francs&mdash;I might return to Paris and the arts, and be a prince and
      millionaire in that thrifty Latin Quarter. I think I had the grace, with
      one corner of my mind, to be glad that I had sent the London letter: I
      know very well that with the rest and worst of me, I repented bitterly of
      that precipitate act. On one point, however, my whole multiplex estate of
      man was unanimous: the letter being gone, there was no help but I must
      follow. The money was accordingly divided in two unequal shares: for the
      first, Mr. Gregg got me a bill in the name of Dijon to meet my liabilities
      in Paris; for the second, as I had already cash in hand for the expenses
      of my journey, he supplied me with drafts on San Francisco.
    </p>
    <p>
      The rest of my business in Edinburgh, not to dwell on a very agreeable
      dinner with the lawyer or the horrors of the family luncheon, took the
      form of an excursion with the stonemason, who led me this time to no
      suburb or work of his old hands, but with an impulse both natural and
      pretty, to that more enduring home which he had chosen for his clay. It
      was in a cemetery, by some strange chance, immured within the bulwarks of
      a prison; standing, besides, on the margin of a cliff, crowded with
      elderly stone memorials, and green with turf and ivy. The east wind (which
      I thought too harsh for the old man) continually shook the boughs, and the
      thin sun of a Scottish summer drew their dancing shadows.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wanted ye to see the place,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;Yon's the
      stane. Euphemia Ross: that was my goodwife, your grandmither&mdash;hoots!
      I'm wrong; that was my first yin; I had no bairns by her;&mdash;yours is
      the second, Mary Murray, Born 1819, Died 1850: that's her&mdash;a fine,
      plain, decent sort of a creature, tak' her athegether. Alexander Loudon,
      Born Seventeen Ninety-Twa, Died&mdash;and then a hole in the ballant:
      that's me. Alexander's my name. They ca'd me Ecky when I was a boy. Eh,
      Ecky! ye're an awfu' auld man!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      I had a second and sadder experience of graveyards at my next
      alighting-place, the city of Muskegon, now rendered conspicuous by the
      dome of the new capitol encaged in scaffolding. It was late in the
      afternoon when I arrived, and raining; and as I walked in great streets,
      of the very name of which I was quite ignorant&mdash;double, treble, and
      quadruple lines of horse-cars jingling by&mdash;hundred-fold wires of
      telegraph and telephone matting heaven above my head&mdash;huge, staring
      houses, garish and gloomy, flanking me from either hand&mdash;the thought
      of the Rue Racine, ay, and of the cabman's eating-house, brought tears to
      my eyes. The whole monotonous Babel had grown, or I should rather say
      swelled, with such a leap since my departure, that I must continually
      inquire my way; and the very cemetery was brand new. Death, however, had
      been active; the graves were already numerous, and I must pick my way in
      the rain, among the tawdry sepulchres of millionnaires, and past the plain
      black crosses of Hungarian labourers, till chance or instinct led me to
      the place that was my father's. The stone had been erected (I knew
      already) &ldquo;by admiring friends&rdquo;; I could now judge their taste
      in monuments; their taste in literature, methought, I could imagine, and I
      refrained from drawing near enough to read the terms of the inscription.
      But the name was in larger letters and stared at me&mdash;JAMES K. DODD.
      What a singular thing is a name, I thought; how it clings to a man, and
      continually misrepresents, and then survives him; and it flashed across my
      mind, with a mixture of regret and bitter mirth, that I had never known,
      and now probably never should know, what the K had represented. King,
      Kilter, Kay, Kaiser, I went, running over names at random, and then
      stumbled with ludicrous misspelling on Kornelius, and had nearly laughed
      aloud. I have never been more childish; I suppose (although the deeper
      voices of my nature seemed all dumb) because I have never been more moved.
      And at this last incongruous antic of my nerves, I was seized with a panic
      of remorse and fled the cemetery.
    </p>
    <p>
      Scarce less funereal was the rest of my experience in Muskegon, where,
      nevertheless, I lingered, visiting my father's circle, for some days. It
      was in piety to him I lingered; and I might have spared myself the pain.
      His memory was already quite gone out. For his sake, indeed, I was made
      welcome; and for mine the conversation rolled awhile with laborious effort
      on the virtues of the deceased. His former comrades dwelt, in my company,
      upon his business talents or his generosity for public purposes; when my
      back was turned, they remembered him no more. My father had loved me; I
      had left him alone to live and die among the indifferent; now I returned
      to find him dead and buried and forgotten. Unavailing penitence translated
      itself in my thoughts to fresh resolve. There was another poor soul who
      loved me: Pinkerton. I must not be guilty twice of the same error.
    </p>
    <p>
      A week perhaps had been thus wasted, nor had I prepared my friend for the
      delay. Accordingly, when I had changed trains at Council Bluffs, I was
      aware of a man appearing at the end of the car with a telegram in his hand
      and inquiring whether there were any one aboard &ldquo;of the name of
      LONDON Dodd?&rdquo; I thought the name near enough, claimed the despatch,
      and found it was from Pinkerton: &ldquo;What day do you arrive? Awfully
      important.&rdquo; I sent him an answer giving day and hour, and at Ogden
      found a fresh despatch awaiting me: &ldquo;That will do. Unspeakable
      relief. Meet you at Sacramento.&rdquo; In Paris days I had a private name
      for Pinkerton: &ldquo;The Irrepressible&rdquo; was what I had called him
      in hours of bitterness, and the name rose once more on my lips. What
      mischief was he up to now? What new bowl was my benignant monster brewing
      for his Frankenstein? In what new imbroglio should I alight on the Pacific
      coast? My trust in the man was entire, and my distrust perfect. I knew he
      would never mean amiss; but I was convinced he would almost never (in my
      sense) do aright.
    </p>
    <p>
      I suppose these vague anticipations added a shade of gloom to that already
      gloomy place of travel: Nebraska, Wyoming, Utah, Nevada, scowled in my
      face at least, and seemed to point me back again to that other native land
      of mine, the Latin Quarter. But when the Sierras had been climbed, and the
      train, after so long beating and panting, stretched itself upon the
      downward track&mdash;when I beheld that vast extent of prosperous country
      rolling seaward from the woods and the blue mountains, that illimitable
      spread of rippling corn, the trees growing and blowing in the merry
      weather, the country boys thronging aboard the train with figs and
      peaches, and the conductors, and the very darky stewards, visibly exulting
      in the change&mdash;up went my soul like a balloon; Care fell from his
      perch upon my shoulders; and when I spied my Pinkerton among the crowd at
      Sacramento, I thought of nothing but to shout and wave for him, and grasp
      him by the hand, like what he was&mdash;my dearest friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O Loudon!&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;Man, how I've pined for you! And
      you haven't come an hour too soon. You're known here and waited for; I've
      been booming you already; you're billed for a lecture to-morrow night: <i>Student
      Life in Paris, Grave and Gay</i>: twelve hundred places booked at the last
      stock! Tut, man, you're looking thin! Here, try a drop of this.&rdquo; And
      he produced a case bottle, staringly labelled PINKERTON'S THIRTEEN STAR
      GOLDEN STATE BRANDY, WARRANTED ENTIRE.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God bless me!&rdquo; said I, gasping and winking after my first
      plunge into this fiery fluid. &ldquo;And what does 'Warranted Entire'
      mean?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Loudon! you ought to know that!&rdquo; cried Pinkerton.
      &ldquo;It's real, copper-bottomed English; you see it on all the old-time
      wayside hostelries over there.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But if I'm not mistaken, it means something Warranted Entirely
      different,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;and applies to the public house, and not
      the beverages sold.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's very possible,&rdquo; said Jim, quite unabashed. &ldquo;It's
      effective, anyway; and I can tell you, sir, it has boomed that spirit: it
      goes now by the gross of cases. By the way, I hope you won't mind; I've
      got your portrait all over San Francisco for the lecture, enlarged from
      that carte de visite: H. Loudon Dodd, the Americo-Parisienne Sculptor.
      Here's a proof of the small handbills; the posters are the same, only in
      red and blue, and the letters fourteen by one.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      I looked at the handbill, and my head turned. What was the use of words?
      why seek to explain to Pinkerton the knotted horrors of &ldquo;Americo-Parisienne&rdquo;?
      He took an early occasion to point it out as &ldquo;rather a good phrase;
      gives the two sides at a glance: I wanted the lecture written up to that.&rdquo;
      Even after we had reached San Francisco, and at the actual physical shock
      of my own effigy placarded on the streets I had broken forth in petulant
      words, he never comprehended in the least the ground of my aversion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I had only known you disliked red lettering!&rdquo; was as high
      as he could rise. &ldquo;You are perfectly right: a clear-cut black is
      preferable, and shows a great deal further. The only thing that pains me
      is the portrait: I own I thought that a success. I'm dreadfully and truly
      sorry, my dear fellow: I see now it's not what you had a right to expect;
      but I did it, Loudon, for the best; and the press is all delighted.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      At the moment, sweeping through green tule swamps, I fell direct on the
      essential. &ldquo;But, Pinkerton,&rdquo; I cried, &ldquo;this lecture is
      the maddest of your madnesses. How can I prepare a lecture in thirty
      hours?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All done, Loudon!&rdquo; he exclaimed in triumph. &ldquo;All ready.
      Trust me to pull a piece of business through. You'll find it all
      type-written in my desk at home. I put the best talent of San Francisco on
      the job: Harry Miller, the brightest pressman in the city.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And so he rattled on, beyond reach of my modest protestations, blurting
      out his complicated interests, crying up his new acquaintances, and ever
      and again hungering to introduce me to some &ldquo;whole-souled, grand
      fellow, as sharp as a needle,&rdquo; from whom, and the very thought of
      whom, my spirit shrank instinctively.
    </p>
    <p>
      Well, I was in for it: in for Pinkerton, in for the portrait, in for the
      type-written lecture. One promise I extorted&mdash;that I was never again
      to be committed in ignorance; even for that, when I saw how its extortion
      puzzled and depressed the Irrepressible, my soul repented me; and in all
      else I suffered myself to be led uncomplaining at his chariot wheels. The
      Irrepressible, did I say? The Irresistible were nigher truth.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the time to have seen me was when I sat down to Harry Miller's
      lecture. He was a facetious dog, this Harry Miller; he had a gallant way
      of skirting the indecent which (in my case) produced physical nausea; and
      he could be sentimental and even melodramatic about grisettes and starving
      genius. I found he had enjoyed the benefit of my correspondence with
      Pinkerton: adventures of my own were here and there horridly
      misrepresented, sentiments of my own echoed and exaggerated till I blushed
      to recognise them. I will do Harry Miller justice: he must have had a kind
      of talent, almost of genius; all attempts to lower his tone proving
      fruitless, and the Harry-Millerism ineradicable. Nay, the monster had a
      certain key of style, or want of style, so that certain milder passages,
      which I sought to introduce, discorded horribly, and impoverished (if that
      were possible) the general effect.
    </p>
    <p>
      By an early hour of the numbered evening I might have been observed at the
      sign of the Poodle Dog, dining with my agent: so Pinkerton delighted to
      describe himself. Thence, like an ox to the slaughter, he led me to the
      hall, where I stood presently alone, confronting assembled San Francisco,
      with no better allies than a table, a glass of water, and a mass of
      manuscript and typework, representing Harry Miller and myself. I read the
      lecture; for I had lacked both time and will to get the trash by heart&mdash;read
      it hurriedly, humbly, and with visible shame. Now and then I would catch
      in the auditorium an eye of some intelligence, now and then, in the
      manuscript, would stumble on a richer vein of Harry Miller, and my heart
      would fail me, and I gabbled. The audience yawned, it stirred uneasily, it
      muttered, grumbled, and broke forth at last in articulate cries of &ldquo;Speak
      up!&rdquo; and &ldquo;Nobody can hear!&rdquo; I took to skipping, and
      being extremely ill-acquainted with the country, almost invariably cut in
      again in the unintelligible midst of some new topic. What struck me as
      extremely ominous, these misfortunes were allowed to pass without a laugh.
      Indeed, I was beginning to fear the worst, and even personal indignity,
      when all at once the humour of the thing broke upon me strongly. I could
      have laughed aloud; and being again summoned to speak up, I faced my
      patrons for the first time with a smile. &ldquo;Very well,&rdquo; I said,
      &ldquo;I will try, though I don't suppose anybody wants to hear, and I
      can't see why anybody should.&rdquo; Audience and lecturer laughed
      together till the tears ran down; vociferous and repeated applause hailed
      my impromptu sally. Another hit which I made but a little after, as I
      turned three pages of the copy: &ldquo;You see, I am leaving out as much
      as I possibly can,&rdquo; increased the esteem with which my patrons had
      begun to regard me; and when I left the stage at last, my departing form
      was cheered with laughter, stamping, shouting, and the waving of hats.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pinkerton was in the waiting-room, feverishly jotting in his pocket-book.
      As he saw me enter, he sprang up, and I declare the tears were trickling
      on his cheeks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear boy,&rdquo; he cried, &ldquo;I can never forgive myself,
      and you can never forgive me. Never mind: I did it for the best. And how
      nobly you clung on! I dreaded we should have had to return the money at
      the doors.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It would have been more honest if we had,&rdquo; said I.
    </p>
    <p>
      The pressmen followed me, Harry Miller in the front ranks; and I was
      amazed to find them, on the whole, a pleasant set of lads, probably more
      sinned against than sinning, and even Harry Miller apparently a gentleman.
      I had in oysters and champagne&mdash;for the receipts were excellent&mdash;and
      being in a high state of nervous tension, kept the table in a roar.
      Indeed, I was never in my life so well inspired as when I described my
      vigil over Harry Miller's literature or the series of my emotions as I
      faced the audience. The lads vowed I was the soul of good company and the
      prince of lecturers; and&mdash;so wonderful an institution is the popular
      press&mdash;if you had seen the notices next day in all the papers, you
      must have supposed my evening's entertainment an unqualified success.
    </p>
    <p>
      I was in excellent spirits when I returned home that night, but the
      miserable Pinkerton sorrowed for us both.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, Loudon,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;I shall never forgive myself.
      When I saw you didn't catch on to the idea of the lecture, I should have
      given it myself!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007">
       <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VII. IRONS IN THE FIRE.
    </h2>
    <p>
      Opes Strepitumque.
    </p>
    <p>
      The food of the body differs not so greatly for the fool or the sage, the
      elephant or the cock-sparrow; and similar chemical elements, variously
      disguised, support all mortals. A brief study of Pinkerton in his new
      setting convinced me of a kindred truth about that other and mental
      digestion, by which we extract what is called &ldquo;fun for our money&rdquo;
      out of life. In the same spirit as a schoolboy, deep in Mayne Reid,
      handles a dummy gun and crawls among imaginary forests, Pinkerton sped
      through Kearney Street upon his daily business, representing to himself a
      highly coloured part in life's performance, and happy for hours if he
      should have chanced to brush against a millionnaire. Reality was his
      romance; he gloried to be thus engaged; he wallowed in his business.
      Suppose a man to dig up a galleon on the Coromandel coast, his rakish
      schooner keeping the while an offing under easy sail, and he, by the blaze
      of a great fire of wreckwood, to measure ingots by the bucketful on the
      uproarious beach: such an one might realise a greater material spoil; he
      should have no more profit of romance than Pinkerton when he cast up his
      weekly balance-sheet in a bald office. Every dollar gained was like
      something brought ashore from a mysterious deep; every venture made was
      like a diver's plunge; and as he thrust his bold hand into the plexus of
      the money-market, he was delightedly aware of how he shook the pillars of
      existence, turned out men (as at a battle-cry) to labour in far countries,
      and set the gold twitching in the drawers of millionnaires.
    </p>
    <p>
      I could never fathom the full extent of his speculations; but there were
      five separate businesses which he avowed and carried like a banner. The
      Thirteen Star Golden State Brandy, Warranted Entire (a very flagrant
      distillation) filled a great part of his thoughts, and was kept before the
      public in an eloquent but misleading treatise: <i>Why Drink French Brandy?
      A Word to the Wise.</i> He kept an office for advertisers, counselling,
      designing, acting as middleman with printers and bill-stickers, for the
      inexperienced or the uninspired: the dull haberdasher came to him for
      ideas, the smart theatrical agent for his local knowledge; and one and all
      departed with a copy of his pamphlet: <i>How, When, and Where; or, the
      Advertiser's Vade-Mecum.</i> He had a tug chartered every Saturday
      afternoon and night, carried people outside the Heads, and provided them
      with lines and bait for six hours' fishing, at the rate of five dollars a
      person. I am told that some of them (doubtless adroit anglers) made a
      profit on the transaction. Occasionally he bought wrecks and condemned
      vessels; these latter (I cannot tell you how) found their way to sea again
      under aliases, and continued to stem the waves triumphantly enough under
      the colours of Bolivia or Nicaragua. Lastly, there was a certain
      agricultural engine, glorying in a great deal of vermilion and blue paint,
      and filling (it appeared) a &ldquo;long-felt want,&rdquo; in which his
      interest was something like a tenth.
    </p>
    <p>
      This for the face or front of his concerns. &ldquo;On the outside,&rdquo;
      as he phrased it, he was variously and mysteriously engaged. No dollar
      slept in his possession; rather he kept all simultaneously flying like a
      conjurer with oranges. My own earnings, when I began to have a share, he
      would but show me for a moment, and disperse again, like those illusive
      money gifts which are flashed in the eyes of childhood only to be entombed
      in the missionary box. And he would come down radiant from a weekly
      balance-sheet, clap me on the shoulder, declare himself a winner by
      Gargantuan figures, and prove destitute of a quarter for a drink.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What on earth have you done with it?&rdquo; I would ask.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Into the mill again; all re-invested!&rdquo; he would cry, with
      infinite delight. Investment was ever his word. He could not bear what he
      called gambling. &ldquo;Never touch stocks, Loudon,&rdquo; he would say;
      &ldquo;nothing but legitimate business.&rdquo; And yet, Heaven knows, many
      an indurated gambler might have drawn back appalled at the first hint of
      some of Pinkerton's investments! One, which I succeeded in tracking home,
      and instance for a specimen, was a seventh share in the charter of a
      certain ill-starred schooner bound for Mexico, to smuggle weapons on the
      one trip, and cigars upon the other. The latter end of this enterprise,
      involving (as it did) shipwreck, confiscation, and a lawsuit with the
      underwriters, was too painful to be dwelt upon at length. &ldquo;It's
      proved a disappointment,&rdquo; was as far as my friend would go with me
      in words; but I knew, from observation, that the fabric of his fortunes
      tottered. For the rest, it was only by accident I got wind of the
      transaction; for Pinkerton, after a time, was shy of introducing me to his
      arcana: the reason you are to hear presently.
    </p>
    <p>
      The office which was (or should have been) the point of rest for so many
      evolving dollars stood in the heart of the city: a high and spacious room,
      with many plate-glass windows. A glazed cabinet of polished redwood
      offered to the eye a regiment of some two hundred bottles, conspicuously
      labelled. These were all charged with Pinkerton's Thirteen Star, although
      from across the room it would have required an expert to distinguish them
      from the same number of bottles of Courvoisier. I used to twit my friend
      with this resemblance, and propose a new edition of the pamphlet, with the
      title thus improved: <i>Why Drink French Brandy, when we give you the same
      labels?</i> The doors of the cabinet revolved all day upon their hinges;
      and if there entered any one who was a stranger to the merits of the
      brand, he departed laden with a bottle. When I used to protest at this
      extravagance, &ldquo;My dear Loudon,&rdquo; Pinkerton would cry, &ldquo;you
      don't seem to catch on to business principles! The prime cost of the
      spirit is literally nothing. I couldn't find a cheaper advertisement if I
      tried.&rdquo; Against the side post of the cabinet there leaned a gaudy
      umbrella, preserved there as a relic. It appears that when Pinkerton was
      about to place Thirteen Star upon the market, the rainy season was at
      hand. He lay dark, almost in penury, awaiting the first shower, at which,
      as upon a signal, the main thoroughfares became dotted with his agents,
      vendors of advertisements; and the whole world of San Francisco, from the
      businessman fleeing for the ferry-boat, to the lady waiting at the corner
      for her car, sheltered itself under umbrellas with this strange device:
      Are you wet? Try Thirteen Star. &ldquo;It was a mammoth boom,&rdquo; said
      Pinkerton, with a sigh of delighted recollection. &ldquo;There wasn't
      another umbrella to be seen. I stood at this window, Loudon, feasting my
      eyes; and I declare, I felt like Vanderbilt.&rdquo; And it was to this
      neat application of the local climate that he owed, not only much of the
      sale of Thirteen Star, but the whole business of his advertising agency.
    </p>
    <p>
      The large desk (to resume our survey of the office) stood about the
      middle, knee-deep in stacks of handbills and posters, of <i>Why Drink
      French Brandy?</i> and <i>The Advertiser's Vade-Mecum.</i> It was flanked
      upon the one hand by two female type-writers, who rested not between the
      hours of nine and four, and upon the other by a model of the agricultural
      machine. The walls, where they were not broken by telephone boxes and a
      couple of photographs&mdash;one representing the wreck of the James L.
      Moody on a bold and broken coast, the other the Saturday tug alive with
      amateur fishers&mdash;almost disappeared under oil-paintings gaudily
      framed. Many of these were relics of the Latin Quarter, and I must do
      Pinkerton the justice to say that none of them were bad, and some had
      remarkable merit. They went off slowly but for handsome figures; and their
      places were progressively supplied with the work of local artists. These
      last it was one of my first duties to review and criticise. Some of them
      were villainous, yet all were saleable. I said so; and the next moment saw
      myself, the figure of a miserable renegade, bearing arms in the wrong
      camp. I was to look at pictures thenceforward, not with the eye of the
      artist, but the dealer; and I saw the stream widen that divided me from
      all I loved.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, Loudon,&rdquo; Pinkerton had said, the morning after the
      lecture, &ldquo;now Loudon, we can go at it shoulder to shoulder. This is
      what I have longed for: I wanted two heads and four arms; and now I have
      'em. You'll find it's just the same as art&mdash;all observation and
      imagination; only more movement. Just wait till you begin to feel the
      charm!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      I might have waited long. Perhaps I lack a sense; for our whole existence
      seemed to me one dreary bustle, and the place we bustled in fitly to be
      called the Place of Yawning. I slept in a little den behind the office;
      Pinkerton, in the office itself, stretched on a patent sofa which
      sometimes collapsed, his slumbers still further menaced by an imminent
      clock with an alarm. Roused by this diabolical contrivance, we rose early,
      went forth early to breakfast, and returned by nine to what Pinkerton
      called work, and I distraction. Masses of letters must be opened, read,
      and answered; some by me at a subsidiary desk which had been introduced on
      the morning of my arrival; others by my bright-eyed friend, pacing the
      room like a caged lion as he dictated to the tinkling type-writers. Masses
      of wet proof had to be overhauled and scrawled upon with a blue pencil&mdash;&ldquo;rustic&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;six-inch
      caps&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;bold spacing here&rdquo;&mdash;or sometimes terms
      more fervid, as for instance this, which I remember Pinkerton to have
      spirted on the margin of an advertisement of Soothing Syrup: &ldquo;Throw
      this all down. Have you never printed an advertisement? I'll be round in
      half an hour.&rdquo; The ledger and sale-book, besides, we had always with
      us. Such was the backbone of our occupation, and tolerable enough; but the
      far greater proportion of our time was consumed by visitors, whole-souled,
      grand fellows no doubt, and as sharp as a needle, but to me unfortunately
      not diverting. Some were apparently half-witted, and must be talked over
      by the hour before they could reach the humblest decision, which they only
      left the office to return again (ten minutes later) and rescind. Others
      came with a vast show of hurry and despatch, but I observed it to be
      principally show. The agricultural model for instance, which was
      practicable, proved a kind of flypaper for these busybodies. I have seen
      them blankly turn the crank of it for five minutes at a time, simulating
      (to nobody's deception) business interest: &ldquo;Good thing this,
      Pinkerton? Sell much of it? Ha! Couldn't use it, I suppose, as a medium of
      advertisement for my article?&rdquo;&mdash;which was perhaps toilet soap.
      Others (a still worse variety) carried us to neighbouring saloons to dice
      for cocktails and (after the cocktails were paid) for dollars on a corner
      of the counter. The attraction of dice for all these people was indeed
      extraordinary: at a certain club, where I once dined in the character of
      &ldquo;my partner, Mr. Dodd,&rdquo; the dice-box came on the table with
      the wine, an artless substitute for after-dinner wit.
    </p>
    <p>
      Of all our visitors, I believe I preferred Emperor Norton; the very
      mention of whose name reminds me I am doing scanty justice to the folks of
      San Francisco. In what other city would a harmless madman who supposed
      himself emperor of the two Americas have been so fostered and encouraged?
      Where else would even the people of the streets have respected the poor
      soul's illusion? Where else would bankers and merchants have received his
      visits, cashed his cheques, and submitted to his small assessments? Where
      else would he have been suffered to attend and address the exhibition days
      of schools and colleges? where else, in God's green earth, have taken his
      pick of restaurants, ransacked the bill of fare, and departed scathless?
      They tell me he was even an exacting patron, threatening to withdraw his
      custom when dissatisfied; and I can believe it, for his face wore an
      expression distinctly gastronomical. Pinkerton had received from this
      monarch a cabinet appointment; I have seen the brevet, wondering mainly at
      the good nature of the printer who had executed the forms, and I think my
      friend was at the head either of foreign affairs or education: it
      mattered, indeed, nothing, the presentation being in all offices
      identical. It was at a comparatively early date that I saw Jim in the
      exercise of his public functions. His Majesty entered the office&mdash;a
      portly, rather flabby man, with the face of a gentleman, rendered
      unspeakably pathetic and absurd by the great sabre at his side and the
      peacock's feather in his hat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have called to remind you, Mr. Pinkerton, that you are somewhat
      in arrear of taxes,&rdquo; he said, with old-fashioned, stately courtesy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, your Majesty, what is the amount?&rdquo; asked Jim; and when
      the figure was named (it was generally two or three dollars), paid upon
      the nail and offered a bonus in the shape of Thirteen Star.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am always delighted to patronise native industries,&rdquo; said
      Norton the First. &ldquo;San Francisco is public-spirited in what concerns
      its Emperor; and indeed, sir, of all my domains, it is my favourite city.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come,&rdquo; said I, when he was gone, &ldquo;I prefer that
      customer to the lot.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's really rather a distinction,&rdquo; Jim admitted. &ldquo;I
      think it must have been the umbrella racket that attracted him.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      We were distinguished under the rose by the notice of other and greater
      men. There were days when Jim wore an air of unusual capacity and resolve,
      spoke with more brevity like one pressed for time, and took often on his
      tongue such phrases as &ldquo;Longhurst told me so this morning,&rdquo; or
      &ldquo;I had it straight from Longhurst himself.&rdquo; It was no wonder,
      I used to think, that Pinkerton was called to council with such Titans;
      for the creature's quickness and resource were beyond praise. In the early
      days when he consulted me without reserve, pacing the room, projecting,
      ciphering, extending hypothetical interests, trebling imaginary capital,
      his &ldquo;engine&rdquo; (to renew an excellent old word) labouring full
      steam ahead, I could never decide whether my sense of respect or
      entertainment were the stronger. But these good hours were destined to
      curtailment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, it's smart enough,&rdquo; I once observed. &ldquo;But,
      Pinkerton, do you think it's honest?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don't think it's honest!&rdquo; he wailed. &ldquo;O dear me,
      that ever I should have heard such an expression on your lips!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      At sight of his distress, I plagiarised unblushingly from Myner. &ldquo;You
      seem to think honesty as simple as Blind Man's Buff,&rdquo; said I.
      &ldquo;It's a more delicate affair than that: delicate as any art.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O well! at that rate!&rdquo; he exclaimed, with complete relief.
      &ldquo;That's casuistry.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am perfectly certain of one thing: that what you propose is
      dishonest,&rdquo; I returned.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, say no more about it. That's settled,&rdquo; he replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus, almost at a word, my point was carried. But the trouble was that
      such differences continued to recur, until we began to regard each other
      with alarm. If there were one thing Pinkerton valued himself upon, it was
      his honesty; if there were one thing he clung to, it was my good opinion;
      and when both were involved, as was the case in these commercial cruces,
      the man was on the rack. My own position, if you consider how much I owed
      him, how hateful is the trade of fault-finder, and that yet I lived and
      fattened on these questionable operations, was perhaps equally
      distressing. If I had been more sterling or more combative things might
      have gone extremely far. But, in truth, I was just base enough to profit
      by what was not forced on my attention, rather than seek scenes: Pinkerton
      quite cunning enough to avail himself of my weakness; and it was a relief
      to both when he began to involve his proceedings in a decent mystery.
    </p>
    <p>
      Our last dispute, which had a most unlooked-for consequence, turned on the
      refitting of condemned ships. He had bought a miserable hulk, and came,
      rubbing his hands, to inform me she was already on the slip, under a new
      name, to be repaired. When first I had heard of this industry I suppose I
      scarcely comprehended; but much discussion had sharpened my faculties, and
      now my brow became heavy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can be no party to that, Pinkerton,&rdquo; said I.
    </p>
    <p>
      He leaped like a man shot. &ldquo;What next?&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;What
      ails you, anyway? You seem to me to dislike everything that's profitable.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This ship has been condemned by Lloyd's agent,&rdquo; said I.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I tell you it's a deal. The ship's in splendid condition;
      there's next to nothing wrong with her but the garboard streak and the
      sternpost. I tell you Lloyd's is a ring like everybody else; only it's an
      English ring, and that's what deceives you. If it was American, you would
      be crying it down all day. It's Anglomania, common Anglomania,&rdquo; he
      cried, with growing irritation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will not make money by risking men's lives,&rdquo; was my
      ultimatum.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Great Caesar! isn't all speculation a risk? Isn't the fairest kind
      of shipowning to risk men's lives? And mining&mdash;how's that for risk?
      And look at the elevator business&mdash;there's danger, if you like!
      Didn't I take my risk when I bought her? She might have been too far gone;
      and where would I have been? Loudon,&rdquo; he cried, &ldquo;I tell you
      the truth: you're too full of refinement for this world!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I condemn you out of your own lips,&rdquo; I replied. &ldquo;'The
      fairest kind of shipowning,' says you. If you please, let us only do the
      fairest kind of business.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The shot told; the Irrepressible was silenced; and I profited by the
      chance to pour in a broadside of another sort. He was all sunk in
      money-getting, I pointed out; he never dreamed of anything but dollars.
      Where were all his generous, progressive sentiments? Where was his
      culture? I asked. And where was the American Type?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's true, Loudon,&rdquo; he cried, striding up and down the room,
      and wildly scouring at his hair. &ldquo;You're perfectly right. I'm
      becoming materialised. O, what a thing to have to say, what a confession
      to make! Materialised! Me! Loudon, this must go on no longer. You've been
      a loyal friend to me once more; give me your hand!&mdash;you've saved me
      again. I must do something to rouse the spiritual side; something
      desperate; study something, something dry and tough. What shall it be?
      Theology? Algebra? What's Algebra?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's dry and tough enough,&rdquo; said I; &ldquo;a squared + 2ab +
      b squared.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's stimulating, though?&rdquo; he inquired.
    </p>
    <p>
      I told him I believed so, and that it was considered fortifying to Types.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then that's the thing for me. I'll study Algebra,&rdquo; he
      concluded.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next day, by application to one of his type-writing women, he got word
      of a young lady, one Miss Mamie McBride, who was willing and able to
      conduct him in these bloomless meadows; and, her circumstances being lean,
      and terms consequently moderate, he and Mamie were soon in agreement for
      two lessons in the week. He took fire with unexampled rapidity; he seemed
      unable to tear himself away from the symbolic art; an hour's lesson
      occupied the whole evening; and the original two was soon increased to
      four, and then to five. I bade him beware of female blandishments. &ldquo;The
      first thing you know, you'll be falling in love with the algebraist,&rdquo;
      said I.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't say it even in jest,&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;She's a lady I
      revere. I could no more lay a hand upon her than I could upon a spirit.
      Loudon, I don't believe God ever made a purer-minded woman.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Which appeared to me too fervent to be reassuring.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile I had been long expostulating with my friend upon a different
      matter. &ldquo;I'm the fifth wheel,&rdquo; I kept telling him. &ldquo;For
      any use I am, I might as well be in Senegambia. The letters you give me to
      attend to might be answered by a sucking child. And I tell you what it is,
      Pinkerton: either you've got to find me some employment, or I'll have to
      start in and find it for myself.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      This I said with a corner of my eye in the usual quarter, toward the arts,
      little dreaming what destiny was to provide.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I've got it, Loudon,&rdquo; Pinkerton at last replied. &ldquo;Got
      the idea on the Potrero cars. Found I hadn't a pencil, borrowed one from
      the conductor, and figured on it roughly all the way in town. I saw it was
      the thing at last; gives you a real show. All your talents and
      accomplishments come in. Here's a sketch advertisement. Just run your eye
      over it. 'Sun, Ozone, and Music! PINKERTON'S HEBDOMADARY PICNICS!' (That's
      a good, catching phrase, 'hebdomadary,' though it's hard to say. I made a
      note of it when I was looking in the dictionary how to spell hectagonal.
      'Well, you're a boss word,' I said. 'Before you're very much older, I'll
      have you in type as long as yourself.' And here it is, you see.) 'Five
      dollars a head, and ladies free. MONSTER OLIO OF ATTRACTIONS.' (How does
      that strike you?) 'Free luncheon under the greenwood tree. Dance on the
      elastic sward. Home again in the Bright Evening Hours. Manager and
      Honorary Steward, H. Loudon Dodd, Esq., the well-known connoisseur.'&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Singular how a man runs from Scylla to Charybdis! I was so intent on
      securing the disappearance of a single epithet that I accepted the rest of
      the advertisement and all that it involved without discussion. So it
      befell that the words &ldquo;well-known connoisseur&rdquo; were deleted;
      but that H. Loudon Dodd became manager and honorary steward of Pinkerton's
      Hebdomadary Picnics, soon shortened, by popular consent, to the Dromedary.
    </p>
    <p>
      By eight o'clock, any Sunday morning, I was to be observed by an admiring
      public on the wharf. The garb and attributes of sacrifice consisted of a
      black frock coat, rosetted, its pockets bulging with sweetmeats and
      inferior cigars, trousers of light blue, a silk hat like a reflector, and
      a varnished wand. A goodly steamer guarded my one flank, panting and
      throbbing, flags fluttering fore and aft of her, illustrative of the
      Dromedary and patriotism. My other flank was covered by the ticket-office,
      strongly held by a trusty character of the Scots persuasion, rosetted like
      his superior and smoking a cigar to mark the occasion festive. At
      half-past, having assured myself that all was well with the free
      luncheons, I lit a cigar myself, and awaited the strains of the &ldquo;Pioneer
      Band.&rdquo; I had never to wait long&mdash;they were German and punctual&mdash;and
      by a few minutes after the half-hour, I would hear them booming down
      street with a long military roll of drums, some score of gratuitous asses
      prancing at the head in bearskin hats and buckskin aprons, and conspicuous
      with resplendent axes. The band, of course, we paid for; but so strong is
      the San Franciscan passion for public masquerade, that the asses (as I
      say) were all gratuitous, pranced for the love of it, and cost us nothing
      but their luncheon.
    </p>
    <p>
      The musicians formed up in the bows of my steamer, and struck into a
      skittish polka; the asses mounted guard upon the gangway and the
      ticket-office; and presently after, in family parties of father, mother,
      and children, in the form of duplicate lovers or in that of solitary
      youth, the public began to descend upon us by the carful at a time; four
      to six hundred perhaps, with a strong German flavour, and all merry as
      children. When these had been shepherded on board, and the inevitable
      belated two or three had gained the deck amidst the cheering of the
      public, the hawser was cast off, and we plunged into the bay.
    </p>
    <p>
      And now behold the honorary steward in hour of duty and glory; see me
      circulate amid crowd, radiating affability and laughter, liberal with my
      sweetmeats and cigars. I say unblushing things to hobbledehoy girls, tell
      shy young persons this is the married people's boat, roguishly ask the
      abstracted if they are thinking of their sweethearts, offer Paterfamilias
      a cigar, am struck with the beauty and grow curious about the age of
      mamma's youngest who (I assure her gaily) will be a man before his mother;
      or perhaps it may occur to me, from the sensible expression of her face,
      that she is a person of good counsel, and I ask her earnestly if she knows
      any particularly pleasant place on the Saucelito or San Rafael coast, for
      the scene of our picnic is always supposed to be uncertain. The next
      moment I am back at my giddy badinage with the young ladies, wakening
      laughter as I go, and leaving in my wake applausive comments of &ldquo;Isn't
      Mr. Dodd a funny gentleman?&rdquo; and &ldquo;O, I think he's just too
      nice!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      An hour having passed in this airy manner, I start upon my rounds afresh,
      with a bag full of coloured tickets, all with pins attached, and all with
      legible inscriptions: &ldquo;Old Germany,&rdquo; &ldquo;California,&rdquo;
      &ldquo;True Love,&rdquo; &ldquo;Old Fogies,&rdquo; &ldquo;La Belle France,&rdquo;
      &ldquo;Green Erin,&rdquo; &ldquo;The Land of Cakes,&rdquo; &ldquo;Washington,&rdquo;
      &ldquo;Blue Jay,&rdquo; &ldquo;Robin Red-Breast,&rdquo;&mdash;twenty of
      each denomination; for when it comes to the luncheon, we sit down by
      twenties. These are distributed with anxious tact&mdash;for, indeed, this
      is the most delicate part of my functions&mdash;but outwardly with
      reckless unconcern, amidst the gayest flutter and confusion; and are
      immediately after sported upon hats and bonnets, to the extreme diffusion
      of cordiality, total strangers hailing each other by &ldquo;the number of
      their mess&rdquo;&mdash;so we humorously name it&mdash;and the deck
      ringing with cries of, &ldquo;Here, all Blue Jays to the rescue!&rdquo;
      or, &ldquo;I say, am I alone in this blame' ship? Ain't there no more
      Californians?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      By this time we are drawing near to the appointed spot. I mount upon the
      bridge, the observed of all observers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Captain,&rdquo; I say, in clear, emphatic tones, heard far and
      wide, &ldquo;the majority of the company appear to be in favour of the
      little cove beyond One Tree Point.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All right, Mr. Dodd,&rdquo; responds the captain, heartily; &ldquo;all
      one to me. I am not exactly sure of the place you mean; but just you stay
      here and pilot me.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      I do, pointing with my wand. I do pilot him, to the inexpressible
      entertainment of the picnic; for I am (why should I deny it?) the popular
      man. We slow down off the mouth of a grassy valley, watered by a brook,
      and set in pines and redwoods. The anchor is let go; the boats are
      lowered, two of them already packed with the materials of an impromptu
      bar; and the Pioneer Band, accompanied by the resplendent asses, fill the
      other, and move shoreward to the inviting strains of Buffalo Gals, won't
      you come out to-night? It is a part of our programme that one of the asses
      shall, from sheer clumsiness, in the course of this embarkation, drop a
      dummy axe into the water, whereupon the mirth of the picnic can hardly be
      assuaged. Upon one occasion, the dummy axe floated, and the laugh turned
      rather the wrong way.
    </p>
    <p>
      In from ten to twenty minutes the boats are along-side again, the messes
      are marshalled separately on the deck, and the picnic goes ashore, to find
      the band and the impromptu bar awaiting them. Then come the hampers, which
      are piled upon the beach, and surrounded by a stern guard of stalwart
      asses, axe on shoulder. It is here I take my place, note-book in hand,
      under a banner bearing the legend, &ldquo;Come here for hampers.&rdquo;
      Each hamper contains a complete outfit for a separate twenty, cold
      provender, plates, glasses, knives, forks, and spoons: an agonized printed
      appeal from the fevered pen of Pinkerton, pasted on the inside of the lid,
      beseeches that care be taken of the glass and silver. Beer, wine, and
      lemonade are flowing already from the bar, and the various clans of twenty
      file away into the woods, with bottles under their arms, and the hampers
      strung upon a stick. Till one they feast there, in a very moderate
      seclusion, all being within earshot of the band. From one till four,
      dancing takes place upon the grass; the bar does a roaring business; and
      the honorary steward, who has already exhausted himself to bring life into
      the dullest of the messes, must now indefatigably dance with the plainest
      of the women. At four a bugle-call is sounded; and by half-past behold us
      on board again, pioneers, corrugated iron bar, empty bottles, and all;
      while the honorary steward, free at last, subsides into the captain's
      cabin over a brandy and soda and a book. Free at last, I say; yet there
      remains before him the frantic leave-takings at the pier, and a sober
      journey up to Pinkerton's office with two policemen and the day's takings
      in a bag.
    </p>
    <p>
      What I have here sketched was the routine. But we appealed to the taste of
      San Francisco more distinctly in particular fetes. &ldquo;Ye Olde Time
      Pycke-Nycke,&rdquo; largely advertised in hand-bills beginning &ldquo;Oyez,
      Oyez!&rdquo; and largely frequented by knights, monks, and cavaliers, was
      drowned out by unseasonable rain, and returned to the city one of the
      saddest spectacles I ever remember to have witnessed. In pleasing
      contrast, and certainly our chief success, was &ldquo;The Gathering of the
      Clans,&rdquo; or Scottish picnic. So many milk-white knees were never
      before simultaneously exhibited in public, and to judge by the prevalence
      of &ldquo;Royal Stewart&rdquo; and the number of eagle's feathers, we were
      a high-born company. I threw forward the Scottish flank of my own
      ancestry, and passed muster as a clansman with applause. There was,
      indeed, but one small cloud on this red-letter day. I had laid in a large
      supply of the national beverage, in the shape of The &ldquo;Rob Roy
      MacGregor O&rdquo; Blend, Warranted Old and Vatted; and this must
      certainly have been a generous spirit, for I had some anxious work between
      four and half-past, conveying on board the inanimate forms of chieftains.
    </p>
    <p>
      To one of our ordinary festivities, where he was the life and soul of his
      own mess, Pinkerton himself came incognito, bringing the algebraist on his
      arm. Miss Mamie proved to be a well-enough-looking mouse, with a large,
      limpid eye, very good manners, and a flow of the most correct expressions
      I have ever heard upon the human lip. As Pinkerton's incognito was strict,
      I had little opportunity to cultivate the lady's acquaintance; but I was
      informed afterwards that she considered me &ldquo;the wittiest gentleman
      she had ever met.&rdquo; &ldquo;The Lord mend your taste in wit!&rdquo;
      thought I; but I cannot conceal that such was the general impression. One
      of my pleasantries even went the round of San Francisco, and I have heard
      it (myself all unknown) bandied in saloons. To be unknown began at last to
      be a rare experience; a bustle woke upon my passage; above all, in humble
      neighbourhoods. &ldquo;Who's that?&rdquo; one would ask, and the other
      would cry, &ldquo;That! Why, Dromedary Dodd!&rdquo; or, with withering
      scorn, &ldquo;Not know Mr. Dodd of the Picnics? Well!&rdquo; and indeed I
      think it marked a rather barren destiny; for our picnics, if a trifle
      vulgar, were as gay and innocent as the age of gold; I am sure no people
      divert themselves so easily and so well: and even with the cares of my
      stewardship, I was often happy to be there.
    </p>
    <p>
      Indeed, there were but two drawbacks in the least considerable. The first
      was my terror of the hobbledehoy girls, to whom (from the demands of my
      situation) I was obliged to lay myself so open. The other, if less
      momentous, was more mortifying. In early days, at my mother's knee, as a
      man may say, I had acquired the unenviable accomplishment (which I have
      never since been able to lose) of singing <i>Just before the Battle.</i> I
      have what the French call a fillet of voice, my best notes scarce audible
      about a dinner-table, and the upper register rather to be regarded as a
      higher power of silence: experts tell me besides that I sing flat; nor, if
      I were the best singer in the world, does <i>Just before the Battle</i>
      occur to my mature taste as the song that I would choose to sing. In spite
      of all which considerations, at one picnic, memorably dull, and after I
      had exhausted every other art of pleasing, I gave, in desperation, my one
      song. From that hour my doom was gone forth. Either we had a chronic
      passenger (though I could never detect him), or the very wood and iron of
      the steamer must have retained the tradition. At every successive picnic
      word went round that Mr. Dodd was a singer; that Mr. Dodd sang <i>Just
      before the Battle</i>, and finally that now was the time when Mr. Dodd
      sang <i>Just before the Battle;</i> so that the thing became a fixture
      like the dropping of the dummy axe, and you are to conceive me, Sunday
      after Sunday, piping up my lamentable ditty and covered, when it was done,
      with gratuitous applause. It is a beautiful trait in human nature that I
      was invariably offered an encore.
    </p>
    <p>
      I was well paid, however, even to sing. Pinkerton and I, after an average
      Sunday, had five hundred dollars to divide. Nay, and the picnics were the
      means, although indirectly, of bringing me a singular windfall. This was
      at the end of the season, after the &ldquo;Grand Farewell Fancy Dress
      Gala.&rdquo; Many of the hampers had suffered severely; and it was judged
      wiser to save storage, dispose of them, and lay in a fresh stock when the
      campaign re-opened. Among my purchasers was a workingman of the name of
      Speedy, to whose house, after several unavailing letters, I must proceed
      in person, wondering to find myself once again on the wrong side, and
      playing the creditor to some one else's debtor. Speedy was in the
      belligerent stage of fear. He could not pay. It appeared he had already
      resold the hampers, and he defied me to do my worst. I did not like to
      lose my own money; I hated to lose Pinkerton's; and the bearing of my
      creditor incensed me.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you know, Mr. Speedy, that I can send you to the penitentiary?&rdquo;
      said I, willing to read him a lesson.
    </p>
    <p>
      The dire expression was overheard in the next room. A large, fresh,
      motherly Irishwoman ran forth upon the instant, and fell to besiege me
      with caresses and appeals. &ldquo;Sure now, and ye couldn't have the heart
      to ut, Mr. Dodd, you, that's so well known to be a pleasant gentleman; and
      it's a pleasant face ye have, and the picture of me own brother that's
      dead and gone. It's a truth that he's been drinking. Ye can smell it off
      of him, more blame to him. But, indade, and there's nothing in the house
      beyont the furnicher, and Thim Stock. It's the stock that ye'll be taking,
      dear. A sore penny it has cost me, first and last, and by all tales, not
      worth an owld tobacco pipe.&rdquo; Thus adjured, and somewhat embarrassed
      by the stern attitude I had adopted, I suffered myself to be invested with
      a considerable quantity of what is called wild-cat stock, in which this
      excellent if illogical female had been squandering her hard-earned gold.
      It could scarce be said to better my position, but the step quieted the
      woman; and, on the other hand, I could not think I was taking much risk,
      for the shares in question (they were those of what I will call the
      Catamount Silver Mine) had fallen some time before to the bed-rock
      quotation, and now lay perfectly inert, or were only kicked (like other
      waste paper) about the kennel of the exchange by bankrupt speculators.
    </p>
    <p>
      A month or two after, I perceived by the stock-list that Catamount had
      taken a bound; before afternoon, &ldquo;thim stock&rdquo; were worth a
      quite considerable pot of money; and I learned, upon inquiry, that a
      bonanza had been found in a condemned lead, and the mine was now expected
      to do wonders. Remarkable to philosophers how bonanzas are found in
      condemned leads, and how the stock is always at freezing-point immediately
      before! By some stroke of chance the, Speedys had held on to the right
      thing; they had escaped the syndicate; yet a little more, if I had not
      come to dun them, and Mrs. Speedy would have been buying a silk dress. I
      could not bear, of course, to profit by the accident, and returned to
      offer restitution. The house was in a bustle; the neighbours (all
      stock-gamblers themselves) had crowded to condole; and Mrs. Speedy sat
      with streaming tears, the centre of a sympathetic group. &ldquo;For
      fifteen year I've been at ut,&rdquo; she was lamenting, as I entered,
      &ldquo;and grudging the babes the very milk, more shame to me! to pay
      their dhirty assessments. And now, my dears, I should be a lady, and
      driving in my coach, if all had their rights; and a sorrow on that man
      Dodd! As soon as I set eyes on him, I seen the divil was in the house.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      It was upon these words that I made my entrance, which was therefore
      dramatic enough, though nothing to what followed. For when it appeared
      that I was come to restore the lost fortune, and when Mrs. Speedy (after
      copiously weeping on my bosom) had refused the restitution, and when Mr.
      Speedy (summoned to that end from a camp of the Grand Army of the
      Republic) had added his refusal, and when I had insisted, and they had
      insisted, and the neighbours had applauded and supported each of us in
      turn; and when at last it was agreed we were to hold the stock together,
      and share the proceeds in three parts&mdash;one for me, one for Mr.
      Speedy, and one for his spouse&mdash;I will leave you to conceive the
      enthusiasm that reigned in that small, bare apartment, with the
      sewing-machine in the one corner, and the babes asleep in the other, and
      pictures of Garfield and the Battle of Gettysburg on the yellow walls.
      Port wine was had in by a sympathiser, and we drank it mingled with tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I dhrink to your health, my dear,&rdquo; sobbed Mrs. Speedy,
      especially affected by my gallantry in the matter of the third share;
      &ldquo;and I'm sure we all dhrink to his health&mdash;Mr. Dodd of the
      picnics, no gentleman better known than him; and it's my prayer, dear, the
      good God may be long spared to see ye in health and happiness!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      In the end I was the chief gainer; for I sold my third while it was worth
      five thousand dollars, but the Speedys more adventurously held on until
      the syndicate reversed the process, when they were happy to escape with
      perhaps a quarter of that sum. It was just as well; for the bulk of the
      money was (in Pinkerton's phrase) reinvested; and when next I saw Mrs.
      Speedy, she was still gorgeously dressed from the proceeds of the late
      success, but was already moist with tears over the new catastrophe.
      &ldquo;We're froze out, me darlin'! All the money we had, dear, and the
      sewing-machine, and Jim's uniform, was in the Golden West; and the vipers
      has put on a new assessment.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      By the end of the year, therefore, this is how I stood. I had made
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     By Catamount Silver Mine..................... $5,000
     By the picnics...............................  3,000
     By the lecture...............................    600
     By profit and loss on capital
     in Pinkerton's business......................  1,350
     &mdash;&mdash;&mdash;
     $9,950

     to which must be added

     What remained of my grandfather's
     donation.....................................  8,500
     &mdash;&mdash;&mdash;
     $18,450

     It appears, on the other hand, that

     I had spent..........................  4,000
     &mdash;&mdash;&mdash;-
     Which thus left me to the good............... $14,450
</pre>
    <p>
      A result on which I am not ashamed to say I looked with gratitude and
      pride. Some eight thousand (being late conquest) was liquid and actually
      tractile in the bank; the rest whirled beyond reach and even sight (save
      in the mirror of a balance-sheet) under the compelling spell of wizard
      Pinkerton. Dollars of mine were tacking off the shores of Mexico, in peril
      of the deep and the guarda-costas; they rang on saloon-counters in the
      city of Tombstone, Arizona; they shone in faro-tents among the mountain
      diggings; the imagination flagged in following them, so wide were they
      diffused, so briskly they span to the turning of the wizard's crank. But
      here, there, or everywhere I could still tell myself it was all mine, and
      what was more convincing, draw substantial dividends. My fortune, I called
      it; and it represented, when expressed in dollars, or even British pounds,
      an honest pot of money; when extended into francs, a veritable fortune.
      Perhaps I have let the cat out of the bag; perhaps you see already where
      my hopes were pointing, and begin to blame my inconsistency. But I must
      first tell you my excuse, and the change that had befallen Pinkerton.
    </p>
    <p>
      About a week after the picnic to which he escorted Mamie, Pinkerton avowed
      the state of his affections. From what I had observed on board the
      steamer, where methought Mamie waited on him with her limpid eyes, I
      encouraged the bashful lover to proceed; and the very next evening he was
      carrying me to call on his affianced.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must befriend her, Loudon, as you have always befriended me,&rdquo;
      he said, pathetically.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By saying disagreeable things? I doubt if that be the way to a
      young lady's favour,&rdquo; I replied; &ldquo;and since this picnicking I
      begin to be a man of some experience.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, you do nobly there; I can't describe how I admire you,&rdquo;
      he cried. &ldquo;Not that she will ever need it; she has had every
      advantage. God knows what I have done to deserve her. O man, what a
      responsibility this is for a rough fellow and not always truthful!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Brace up, old man, brace up!&rdquo; said I.
    </p>
    <p>
      But when we reached Mamie's boarding-house, it was almost with tears that
      he presented me. &ldquo;Here is Loudon, Mamie,&rdquo; were his words.
      &ldquo;I want you to love him; he has a grand nature.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are certainly no stranger to me, Mr. Dodd,&rdquo; was her
      gracious expression. &ldquo;James is never weary of descanting on your
      goodness.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear lady,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;when you know our friend a
      little better, you will make a large allowance for his warm heart. My
      goodness has consisted in allowing him to feed and clothe and toil for me
      when he could ill afford it. If I am now alive, it is to him I owe it; no
      man had a kinder friend. You must take good care of him,&rdquo; I added,
      laying my hand on his shoulder, &ldquo;and keep him in good order, for he
      needs it.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Pinkerton was much affected by this speech, and so, I fear, was Mamie. I
      admit it was a tactless performance. &ldquo;When you know our friend a
      little better,&rdquo; was not happily said; and even &ldquo;keep him in
      good order, for he needs it&rdquo; might be construed into matter of
      offence; but I lay it before you in all confidence of your acquittal: was
      the general tone of it &ldquo;patronising&rdquo;? Even if such was the
      verdict of the lady, I cannot but suppose the blame was neither wholly
      hers nor wholly mine; I cannot but suppose that Pinkerton had already
      sickened the poor woman of my very name; so that if I had come with the
      songs of Apollo, she must still have been disgusted.
    </p>
    <p>
      Here, however, were two finger-posts to Paris. Jim was going to be
      married, and so had the less need of my society. I had not pleased his
      bride, and so was, perhaps, better absent. Late one evening I broached the
      idea to my friend. It had been a great day for me; I had just banked my
      five thousand catamountain dollars; and as Jim had refused to lay a finger
      on the stock, risk and profit were both wholly mine, and I was celebrating
      the event with stout and crackers. I began by telling him that if it
      caused him any pain or any anxiety about his affairs, he had but to say
      the word, and he should hear no more of my proposal. He was the truest and
      best friend I ever had or was ever like to have; and it would be a strange
      thing if I refused him any favour he was sure he wanted. At the same time
      I wished him to be sure; for my life was wasting in my hands. I was like
      one from home; all my true interests summoned me away. I must remind him,
      besides, that he was now about to marry and assume new interests, and that
      our extreme familiarity might be even painful to his wife.&mdash;&ldquo;O
      no, Loudon; I feel you are wrong there,&rdquo; he interjected warmly;
      &ldquo;she DOES appreciate your nature.&rdquo;&mdash;So much the better,
      then, I continued; and went on to point out that our separation need not
      be for long; that, in the way affairs were going, he might join me in two
      years with a fortune, small, indeed, for the States, but in France almost
      conspicuous; that we might unite our resources, and have one house in
      Paris for the winter and a second near Fontainebleau for summer, where we
      could be as happy as the day was long, and bring up little Pinkertons as
      practical artistic workmen, far from the money-hunger of the West. &ldquo;Let
      me go then,&rdquo; I concluded; &ldquo;not as a deserter, but as the
      vanguard, to lead the march of the Pinkerton men.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      So I argued and pleaded, not without emotion; my friend sitting opposite,
      resting his chin upon his hand and (but for that single interjection)
      silent. &ldquo;I have been looking for this, Loudon,&rdquo; said he, when
      I had done. &ldquo;It does pain me, and that's the fact&mdash;I'm so
      miserably selfish. And I believe it's a death blow to the picnics; for
      it's idle to deny that you were the heart and soul of them with your wand
      and your gallant bearing, and wit and humour and chivalry, and throwing
      that kind of society atmosphere about the thing. But for all that, you're
      right, and you ought to go. You may count on forty dollars a week; and if
      Depew City&mdash;one of nature's centres for this State&mdash;pan out the
      least as I expect, it may be double. But it's forty dollars anyway; and to
      think that two years ago you were almost reduced to beggary!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I WAS reduced to it,&rdquo; said I.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, the brutes gave you nothing, and I'm glad of it now!&rdquo;
      cried Jim. &ldquo;It's the triumphant return I glory in! Think of the
      master, and that cold-blooded Myner too! Yes, just let the Depew City boom
      get on its legs, and you shall go; and two years later, day for day, I'll
      shake hands with you in Paris, with Mamie on my arm, God bless her!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      We talked in this vein far into the night. I was myself so exultant in my
      new-found liberty, and Pinkerton so proud of my triumph, so happy in my
      happiness, in so warm a glow about the gallant little woman of his choice,
      and the very room so filled with castles in the air and cottages at
      Fontainebleau, that it was little wonder if sleep fled our eyelids, and
      three had followed two upon the office clock before Pinkerton unfolded the
      mechanism of his patent sofa.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008">
       <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VIII. FACES ON THE CITY FRONT.
    </h2>
    <p>
      It is very much the custom to view life as if it were exactly ruled in
      two, like sleep and waking; the provinces of play and business standing
      separate. The business side of my career in San Francisco has been now
      disposed of; I approach the chapter of diversion; and it will be found
      they had about an equal share in building up the story of the Wrecker&mdash;a
      gentleman whose appearance may be presently expected.
    </p>
    <p>
      With all my occupations, some six afternoons and two or three odd evenings
      remained at my disposal every week: a circumstance the more agreeable as I
      was a stranger in a city singularly picturesque. From what I had once
      called myself, The Amateur Parisian, I grew (or declined) into a waterside
      prowler, a lingerer on wharves, a frequenter of shy neighbourhoods, a
      scraper of acquaintance with eccentric characters. I visited Chinese and
      Mexican gambling-hells, German secret societies, sailors' boarding-houses,
      and &ldquo;dives&rdquo; of every complexion of the disreputable and
      dangerous. I have seen greasy Mexican hands pinned to the table with a
      knife for cheating, seamen (when blood-money ran high) knocked down upon
      the public street and carried insensible on board short-handed ships,
      shots exchanged, and the smoke (and the company) dispersing from the doors
      of the saloon. I have heard cold-minded Polacks debate upon the readiest
      method of burning San Francisco to the ground, hot-headed working men and
      women bawl and swear in the tribune at the Sandlot, and Kearney himself
      open his subscription for a gallows, name the manufacturers who were to
      grace it with their dangling bodies, and read aloud to the delighted
      multitude a telegram of adhesion from a member of the State legislature:
      all which preparations of proletarian war were (in a moment) breathed upon
      and abolished by the mere name and fame of Mr. Coleman. That lion of the
      Vigilantes had but to rouse himself and shake his ears, and the whole
      brawling mob was silenced. I could not but reflect what a strange manner
      of man this was, to be living unremarked there as a private merchant, and
      to be so feared by a whole city; and if I was disappointed, in my character
      of looker-on, to have the matter end ingloriously without the firing of a
      shot or the hanging of a single millionnaire, philosophy tried to tell me
      that this sight was truly the more picturesque. In a thousand towns and
      different epochs I might have had occasion to behold the cowardice and
      carnage of street fighting; where else, but only there and then, could I
      have enjoyed a view of Coleman (the intermittent despot) walking
      meditatively up hill in a quiet part of town, with a very rolling gait,
      and slapping gently his great thigh?
    </p>
    <p>
      Minora Canamus. This historic figure stalks silently through a corner of
      the San Francisco of my memory: the rest is bric-a-brac, the reminiscences
      of a vagrant sketcher. My delight was much in slums. Little Italy was a
      haunt of mine; there I would look in at the windows of small eating-shops,
      transported bodily from Genoa or Naples, with their macaroni, and chianti
      flasks, and portraits of Garibaldi, and coloured political caricatures; or
      (entering in) hold high debate with some ear-ringed fisher of the bay as
      to the designs of &ldquo;Mr. Owstria&rdquo; and &ldquo;Mr. Rooshia.&rdquo;
      I was often to be observed (had there been any to observe me) in that
      dis-peopled, hill-side solitude of Little Mexico, with its crazy wooden
      houses, endless crazy wooden stairs, and perilous mountain goat-paths in
      the sand. Chinatown by a thousand eccentricities drew and held me; I could
      never have enough of its ambiguous, interracial atmosphere, as of a
      vitalised museum; never wonder enough at its outlandish,
      necromantic-looking vegetables set forth to sell in commonplace American
      shop-windows, its temple doors open and the scent of the joss-stick
      streaming forth on the American air, its kites of Oriental fashion hanging
      fouled in Western telegraph-wires, its flights of paper prayers which the
      trade-wind hunts and dissipates along Western gutters. I was a frequent
      wanderer on North Beach, gazing at the straits, and the huge Cape-Horners
      creeping out to sea, and imminent Tamalpais. Thence, on my homeward way, I
      might visit that strange and filthy shed, earth-paved and walled with the
      cages of wild animals and birds, where at a ramshackle counter, amid the
      yells of monkeys, and a poignant atmosphere of menagerie, forty-rod
      whiskey was administered by a proprietor as dirty as his beasts. Nor did I
      even neglect Nob Hill, which is itself a kind of slum, being the habitat
      of the mere millionnaire. There they dwell upon the hill-top, high raised
      above man's clamour, and the trade-wind blows between their palaces about
      deserted streets.
    </p>
    <p>
      But San Francisco is not herself only. She is not only the most
      interesting city in the Union, and the hugest smelting-pot of races and
      the precious metals. She keeps, besides, the doors of the Pacific, and is
      the port of entry to another world and an earlier epoch in man's history.
      Nowhere else shall you observe (in the ancient phrase) so many tall ships
      as here convene from round the Horn, from China, from Sydney, and the
      Indies; but scarce remarked amid that crowd of deep-sea giants, another
      class of craft, the Island schooner, circulates: low in the water, with
      lofty spars and dainty lines, rigged and fashioned like a yacht, manned
      with brown-skinned, soft-spoken, sweet-eyed native sailors, and equipped
      with their great double-ender boats that tell a tale of boisterous
      sea-beaches. These steal out and in again, unnoted by the world or even
      the newspaper press, save for the line in the clearing column, &ldquo;Schooner
      So-and-so for Yap and South Sea Islands&rdquo;&mdash;steal out with
      nondescript cargoes of tinned salmon, gin, bolts of gaudy cotton stuff,
      women's hats, and Waterbury watches, to return, after a year, piled as
      high as to the eaves of the house with copra, or wallowing deep with the
      shells of the tortoise or the pearl oyster. To me, in my character of the
      Amateur Parisian, this island traffic, and even the island world, were
      beyond the bounds of curiosity, and how much more of knowledge. I stood
      there on the extreme shore of the West and of to-day. Seventeen hundred
      years ago, and seven thousand miles to the east, a legionary stood,
      perhaps, upon the wall of Antoninus, and looked northward toward the
      mountains of the Picts. For all the interval of time and space, I, when I
      looked from the cliff-house on the broad Pacific, was that man's heir and
      analogue: each of us standing on the verge of the Roman Empire (or, as we
      now call it, Western civilization), each of us gazing onward into zones
      unromanised. But I was dull. I looked rather backward, keeping a kind eye
      on Paris; and it required a series of converging incidents to change my
      attitude of nonchalance for one of interest, and even longing, which I
      little dreamed that I should live to gratify.
    </p>
    <p>
      The first of these incidents brought me in acquaintance with a certain San
      Francisco character, who had something of a name beyond the limits of the
      city, and was known to many lovers of good English. I had discovered a new
      slum, a place of precarious, sandy cliffs, deep, sandy cuttings, solitary,
      ancient houses, and the butt-ends of streets. It was already environed.
      The ranks of the street-lamps threaded it unbroken. The city, upon all
      sides of it, was tightly packed, and growled with traffic. To-day, I do
      not doubt the very landmarks are all swept away; but it offered then,
      within narrow limits, a delightful peace, and (in the morning, when I
      chiefly went there) a seclusion almost rural. On a steep sand-hill, in
      this neighbourhood, toppled, on the most insecure foundation, a certain
      row of houses, each with a bit of garden, and all (I have to presume)
      inhabited. Thither I used to mount by a crumbling footpath, and in front
      of the last of the houses, would sit down to sketch. The very first day I
      saw I was observed, out of the ground-floor window by a youngish,
      good-looking fellow, prematurely bald, and with an expression both lively
      and engaging. The second, as we were still the only figures in the
      landscape, it was no more than natural that we should nod. The third, he
      came out fairly from his intrenchments, praised my sketch, and with the
      impromptu cordiality of artists carried me into his apartment; where I sat
      presently in the midst of a museum of strange objects,&mdash;paddles and
      battle-clubs and baskets, rough-hewn stone images, ornaments of threaded
      shell, cocoanut bowls, snowy cocoanut plumes&mdash;evidences and examples
      of another earth, another climate, another race, and another (if a ruder)
      culture. Nor did these objects lack a fitting commentary in the
      conversation of my new acquaintance. Doubtless you have read his book. You
      know already how he tramped and starved, and had so fine a profit of
      living, in his days among the islands; and meeting him, as I did, one
      artist with another, after months of offices and picnics, you can imagine
      with what charm he would speak, and with what pleasure I would hear. It
      was in such talks, which we were both eager to repeat, that I first heard
      the names&mdash;first fell under the spell&mdash;of the islands; and it
      was from one of the first of them that I returned (a happy man) with <i>Omoo</i>
      under one arm, and my friend's own adventures under the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      The second incident was more dramatic, and had, besides, a bearing on my
      future. I was standing, one day, near a boat-landing under Telegraph Hill.
      A large barque, perhaps of eighteen hundred tons, was coming more than
      usually close about the point to reach her moorings; and I was observing
      her with languid inattention, when I observed two men to stride across the
      bulwarks, drop into a shore boat, and, violently dispossessing the boatman
      of his oars, pull toward the landing where I stood. In a surprisingly
      short time they came tearing up the steps; and I could see that both were
      too well dressed to be foremast hands&mdash;the first even with research,
      and both, and specially the first, appeared under the empire of some
      strong emotion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nearest police office!&rdquo; cried the leader.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This way,&rdquo; said I, immediately falling in with their
      precipitate pace. &ldquo;What's wrong? What ship is that?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's the Gleaner,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;I am chief officer,
      this gentleman's third; and we've to get in our depositions before the
      crew. You see they might corral us with the captain; and that's no kind of
      berth for me. I've sailed with some hard cases in my time, and seen pins
      flying like sand on a squally day&mdash;but never a match to our old man.
      It never let up from the Hook to the Farallones; and the last man was
      dropped not sixteen hours ago. Packet rats our men were, and as tough a
      crowd as ever sand-bagged a man's head in; but they looked sick enough
      when the captain started in with his fancy shooting.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, he's done up,&rdquo; observed the other. &ldquo;He won't go to
      sea no more.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You make me tired,&rdquo; retorted his superior. &ldquo;If he gets
      ashore in one piece and isn't lynched in the next ten minutes, he'll do
      yet. The owners have a longer memory than the public; they'll stand by
      him; they don't find as smart a captain every day in the year.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, he's a son of a gun of a fine captain; there ain't no doubt of
      that,&rdquo; concurred the other, heartily. &ldquo;Why, I don't suppose
      there's been no wages paid aboard that Gleaner for three trips.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No wages?&rdquo; I exclaimed, for I was still a novice in maritime
      affairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not to sailor-men before the mast,&rdquo; agreed the mate. &ldquo;Men
      cleared out; wasn't the soft job they maybe took it for. She isn' the
      first ship that never paid wages.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      I could not but observe that our pace was progressively relaxing; and
      indeed I have often wondered since whether the hurry of the start were not
      intended for the gallery alone. Certain it is at least, that when we had
      reached the police office, and the mates had made their deposition, and
      told their horrid tale of five men murdered, some with savage passion,
      some with cold brutality, between Sandy Hook and San Francisco, the police
      were despatched in time to be too late. Before we arrived, the ruffian had
      slipped out upon the dock, had mingled with the crowd, and found a refuge
      in the house of an acquaintance; and the ship was only tenanted by his
      late victims. Well for him that he had been thus speedy. For when word
      began to go abroad among the shore-side characters, when the last victim
      was carried by to the hospital, when those who had escaped (as by miracle)
      from that floating shambles, began to circulate and show their wounds in
      the crowd, it was strange to witness the agitation that seized and shook
      that portion of the city. Men shed tears in public; bosses of
      lodging-houses, long inured to brutality, and above all, brutality to
      sailors, shook their fists at heaven: if hands could have been laid on the
      captain of the Gleaner, his shrift would have been short. That night (so
      gossip reports) he was headed up in a barrel and smuggled across the bay:
      in two ships already he had braved the penitentiary and the gallows; and
      yet, by last accounts, he now commands another on the Western Ocean.
    </p>
    <p>
      As I have said, I was never quite certain whether Mr. Nares (the mate) did
      not intend that his superior should escape. It would have been like his
      preference of loyalty to law; it would have been like his prejudice, which
      was all in favour of the after-guard. But it must remain a matter of
      conjecture only. Well as I came to know him in the sequel, he was never
      communicative on that point, nor indeed on any that concerned the voyage
      of the Gleaner. Doubtless he had some reason for his reticence. Even
      during our walk to the police office, he debated several times with
      Johnson, the third officer, whether he ought not to give up himself, as
      well as to denounce the captain. He had decided in the negative, arguing
      that &ldquo;it would probably come to nothing; and even if there was a
      stink, he had plenty good friends in San Francisco.&rdquo; And to nothing
      it came; though it must have very nearly come to something, for Mr. Nares
      disappeared immediately from view and was scarce less closely hidden than
      his captain.
    </p>
    <p>
      Johnson, on the other hand, I often met. I could never learn this man's
      country; and though he himself claimed to be American, neither his English
      nor his education warranted the claim. In all likelihood he was of
      Scandinavian birth and blood, long pickled in the forecastles of English
      and American ships. It is possible that, like so many of his race in
      similar positions, he had already lost his native tongue. In mind, at
      least, he was quite denationalised; thought only in English&mdash;to call
      it so; and though by nature one of the mildest, kindest, and most feebly
      playful of mankind, he had been so long accustomed to the cruelty of sea
      discipline, that his stories (told perhaps with a giggle) would sometimes
      turn me chill. In appearance, he was tall, light of weight, bold and
      high-bred of feature, dusky-haired, and with a face of a clean even brown:
      the ornament of outdoor men. Seated in a chair, you might have passed him
      off for a baronet or a military officer; but let him rise, and it was
      Fo'c's'le Jack that came rolling toward you, crab-like; let him but open
      his lips, and it was Fo'c's'le Jack that piped and drawled his
      ungrammatical gibberish. He had sailed (among other places) much among the
      islands; and after a Cape Horn passage with its snow-squalls and its
      frozen sheets, he announced his intention of &ldquo;taking a turn among
      them Kanakas.&rdquo; I thought I should have lost him soon; but according
      to the unwritten usage of mariners, he had first to dissipate his wages.
      &ldquo;Guess I'll have to paint this town red,&rdquo; was his hyperbolical
      expression; for sure no man ever embarked upon a milder course of
      dissipation, most of his days being passed in the little parlour behind
      Black Tom's public house, with a select corps of old particular
      acquaintances, all from the South Seas, and all patrons of a long yarn, a
      short pipe, and glasses round.
    </p>
    <p>
      Black Tom's, to the front, presented the appearance of a fourth-rate
      saloon, devoted to Kanaka seamen, dirt, negrohead tobacco, bad cigars,
      worse gin, and guitars and banjos in a state of decline. The proprietor, a
      powerful coloured man, was at once a publican, a ward politician, leader
      of some brigade of &ldquo;lambs&rdquo; or &ldquo;smashers,&rdquo; at the
      wind of whose clubs the party bosses and the mayor were supposed to
      tremble, and (what hurt nothing) an active and reliable crimp. His front
      quarters, then, were noisy, disreputable, and not even safe. I have seen
      worse frequented saloons where there were fewer scandals; for Tom was
      often drunk himself; and there is no doubt the Lambs must have been a
      useful body, or the place would have been closed. I remember one day, not
      long before an election, seeing a blind man, very well dressed, led up to
      the counter and remain a long while in consultation with the negro. The
      pair looked so ill-assorted, and the awe with which the drinkers fell back
      and left them in the midst of an impromptu privacy was so unusual in such
      a place, that I turned to my next neighbour with a question. He told me
      the blind man was a distinguished party boss, called by some the King of
      San Francisco, but perhaps better known by his picturesque Chinese
      nickname of the Blind White Devil. &ldquo;The Lambs must be wanted pretty
      bad, I guess,&rdquo; my informant added. I have here a sketch of the Blind
      White Devil leaning on the counter; on the next page, and taken the same
      hour, a jotting of Black Tom threatening a whole crowd of customers with a
      long Smith and Wesson: to such heights and depths we rose and fell in the
      front parts of the saloon.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile, away in the back quarters, sat the small informal South Sea
      club, talking of another world and surely of a different century. Old
      schooner captains they were, old South Sea traders, cooks, and mates: fine
      creatures, softened by residence among a softer race: full men besides,
      though not by reading, but by strange experience; and for days together I
      could hear their yarns with an unfading pleasure. All had indeed some
      touch of the poetic; for the beach-comber, when not a mere ruffian, is the
      poor relation of the artist. Even through Johnson's inarticulate speech,
      his &ldquo;O yes, there ain't no harm in them Kanakas,&rdquo; or &ldquo;O
      yes, that's a son of a gun of a fine island, mountainious right down; I
      didn't never ought to have left that island,&rdquo; there pierced a
      certain gusto of appreciation: and some of the rest were master-talkers.
      From their long tales, their traits of character and unpremeditated
      landscape, there began to piece itself together in my head some image of
      the islands and the island life: precipitous shores, spired mountain tops,
      the deep shade of hanging forests, the unresting surf upon the reef, and
      the unending peace of the lagoon; sun, moon, and stars of an imperial
      brightness; man moving in these scenes scarce fallen, and woman lovelier
      than Eve; the primal curse abrogated, the bed made ready for the stranger,
      life set to perpetual music, and the guest welcomed, the boat urged, and
      the long night beguiled, with poetry and choral song. A man must have been
      an unsuccessful artist; he must have starved on the streets of Paris; he
      must have been yoked to a commercial force like Pinkerton, before he can
      conceive the longings that at times assailed me. The draughty, rowdy city
      of San Francisco, the bustling office where my friend Jim paced like a
      caged lion daily between ten and four, even (at times) the retrospect of
      Paris, faded in comparison. Many a man less tempted would have thrown up
      all to realise his visions; but I was by nature unadventurous and
      uninitiative: to divert me from all former paths and send me cruising
      through the isles of paradise, some force external to myself must be
      exerted; Destiny herself must use the fitting wedge; and little as I
      deemed it, that tool was already in her hand of brass.
    </p>
    <p>
      I sat, one afternoon, in the corner of a great, glassy, silvered saloon, a
      free lunch at my one elbow, at the other a &ldquo;conscientious nude&rdquo;
      from the brush of local talent; when, with the tramp of feet and a sudden
      buzz of voices, the swing-doors were flung broadly open and the place
      carried as by storm. The crowd which thus entered (mostly seafaring men,
      and all prodigiously excited) contained a sort of kernel or general centre
      of interest, which the rest merely surrounded and advertised, as children
      in the Old World surround and escort the Punch-and-Judy man; the word went
      round the bar like wildfire that these were Captain Trent and the
      survivors of the British brig Flying Scud, picked up by a British war-ship
      on Midway Island, arrived that morning in San Francisco Bay, and now fresh
      from making the necessary declarations. Presently I had a good sight of
      them: four brown, seamanlike fellows, standing by the counter, glass in
      hand, the centre of a score of questioners. One was a Kanaka&mdash;the
      cook, I was informed; one carried a cage with a canary, which occasionally
      trilled into thin song; one had his left arm in a sling and looked
      gentlemanlike, and somewhat sickly, as though the injury had been severe
      and he was scarce recovered; and the captain himself&mdash;a red-faced,
      blue-eyed, thickset man of five and forty&mdash;wore a bandage on his
      right hand. The incident struck me; I was struck particularly to see
      captain, cook, and foremost hands walking the street and visiting saloons
      in company; and, as when anything impressed me, I got my sketch-book out,
      and began to steal a sketch of the four castaways. The crowd, sympathising
      with my design, made a clear lane across the room; and I was thus enabled,
      all unobserved myself, to observe with a still-growing closeness the face
      and the demeanour of Captain Trent.
    </p>
    <p>
      Warmed by whiskey and encouraged by the eagerness of the bystanders, that
      gentleman was now rehearsing the history of his misfortune. It was but
      scraps that reached me: how he &ldquo;filled her on the starboard tack,&rdquo;
      and how &ldquo;it came up sudden out of the nor'nor'west,&rdquo; and
      &ldquo;there she was, high and dry.&rdquo; Sometimes he would appeal to
      one of the men&mdash;&ldquo;That was how it was, Jack?&rdquo;&mdash;and
      the man would reply, &ldquo;That was the way of it, Captain Trent.&rdquo;
      Lastly, he started a fresh tide of popular sympathy by enunciating the
      sentiment, &ldquo;Damn all these Admirality Charts, and that's what I say!&rdquo;
      From the nodding of heads and the murmurs of assent that followed, I could
      see that Captain Trent had established himself in the public mind as a
      gentleman and a thorough navigator: about which period, my sketch of the
      four men and the canary-bird being finished, and all (especially the
      canary-bird) excellent likenesses, I buckled up my book, and slipped from
      the saloon.
    </p>
    <p>
      Little did I suppose that I was leaving Act I, Scene I, of the drama of my
      life; and yet the scene, or rather the captain's face, lingered for some
      time in my memory. I was no prophet, as I say; but I was something else: I
      was an observer; and one thing I knew, I knew when a man was terrified.
      Captain Trent, of the British brig Flying Scud, had been glib; he had been
      ready; he had been loud; but in his blue eyes I could detect the chill,
      and in the lines of his countenance spy the agitation of perpetual terror.
      Was he trembling for his certificate? In my judgment, it was some livelier
      kind of fear that thrilled in the man's marrow as he turned to drink. Was
      it the result of recent shock, and had he not yet recovered the disaster
      to his brig? I remembered how a friend of mine had been in a railway
      accident, and shook and started for a month; and although Captain Trent of
      the Flying Scud had none of the appearance of a nervous man, I told
      myself, with incomplete conviction, that his must be a similar case.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009">
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    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER IX. THE WRECK OF THE &ldquo;FLYING SCUD.&rdquo;
    </h2>
    <p>
      The next morning I found Pinkerton, who had risen before me, seated at our
      usual table, and deep in the perusal of what I will call the <i>Daily
      Occidental</i>. This was a paper (I know not if it be so still) that stood
      out alone among its brethren in the West; the others, down to their
      smallest item, were defaced with capitals, head-lines, alliterations,
      swaggering misquotations, and the shoddy picturesque and unpathetic pathos
      of the Harry Millers: the <i>Occidental</i> alone appeared to be written
      by a dull, sane, Christian gentleman, singly desirous of communicating
      knowledge. It had not only this merit, which endeared it to me, but was
      admittedly the best informed on business matters, which attracted
      Pinkerton.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Loudon,&rdquo; said he, looking up from the journal, &ldquo;you
      sometimes think I have too many irons in the fire. My notion, on the other
      hand, is, when you see a dollar lying, pick it up! Well, here I've tumbled
      over a whole pile of 'em on a reef in the middle of the Pacific.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Jim, you miserable fellow!&rdquo; I exclaimed; &ldquo;haven't
      we Depew City, one of God's green centres for this State? haven't we&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just listen to this,&rdquo; interrupted Jim. &ldquo;It's miserable
      copy; these <i>Occidental</i> reporter fellows have no fire; but the facts
      are right enough, I guess.&rdquo; And he began to read:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;WRECK OF THE BRITISH BRIG, 'FLYING SCUD.'
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;H.B.M.S. Tempest, which arrived yesterday at this port, brings
      Captain Trent and four men of the British brig Flying Scud, cast away
      February 12th on Midway Island, and most providentially rescued the next
      day. The Flying Scud was of 200 tons burthen, owned in London, and has
      been out nearly two years tramping. Captain Trent left Hong Kong December
      8th, bound for this port in rice and a small mixed cargo of silks, teas,
      and China notions, the whole valued at $10,000, fully covered by
      insurance. The log shows plenty of fine weather, with light airs, calms,
      and squalls. In lat. 28 N., long. 177 W., his water going rotten, and
      misled by Hoyt's <i>North Pacific Directory</i>, which informed him there
      was a coaling station on the island, Captain Trent put in to Midway
      Island. He found it a literal sandbank, surrounded by a coral reef mostly
      submerged. Birds were very plenty, there was good fish in the lagoon, but
      no firewood; and the water, which could be obtained by digging, brackish.
      He found good holding-ground off the north end of the larger bank in
      fifteen fathoms water; bottom sandy, with coral patches. Here he was
      detained seven days by a calm, the crew suffering severely from the water,
      which was gone quite bad; and it was only on the evening of the 12th, that
      a little wind sprang up, coming puffy out of N.N.E. Late as it was,
      Captain Trent immediately weighed anchor and attempted to get out. While
      the vessel was beating up to the passage, the wind took a sudden lull, and
      then veered squally into N. and even N.N.W., driving the brig ashore on
      the sand at about twenty minutes before six o'clock. John Wallen, a native
      of Finland, and Charles Holdorsen, a native of Sweden, were drowned
      alongside, in attempting to lower a boat, neither being able to swim, the
      squall very dark, and the noise of the breakers drowning everything. At
      the same time John Brown, another of the crew, had his arm broken by the
      falls. Captain Trent further informed the OCCIDENTAL reporter, that the
      brig struck heavily at first bows on, he supposes upon coral; that she
      then drove over the obstacle, and now lies in sand, much down by the head
      and with a list to starboard. In the first collision she must have
      sustained some damage, as she was making water forward. The rice will
      probably be all destroyed: but the more valuable part of the cargo is
      fortunately in the afterhold. Captain Trent was preparing his long-boat
      for sea, when the providential arrival of the Tempest, pursuant to
      Admiralty orders to call at islands in her course for castaways, saved the
      gallant captain from all further danger. It is scarcely necessary to add
      that both the officers and men of the unfortunate vessel speak in high
      terms of the kindness they received on board the man-of-war. We print a
      list of the survivors: Jacob Trent, master, of Hull, England; Elias
      Goddedaal, mate, native of Christiansand, Sweden; Ah Wing, cook, native of
      Sana, China; John Brown, native of Glasgow, Scotland; John Hardy, native
      of London, England. The Flying Scud is ten years old, and this morning
      will be sold as she stands, by order of Lloyd's agent, at public auction
      for the benefit of the underwriters. The auction will take place in the
      Merchants' Exchange at ten o'clock.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Farther Particulars.&mdash;Later in the afternoon the OCCIDENTAL
      reporter found Lieutenant Sebright, first officer of H.B.M.S. Tempest, at
      the Palace Hotel. The gallant officer was somewhat pressed for time, but
      confirmed the account given by Captain Trent in all particulars. He added
      that the Flying Scud is in an excellent berth, and except in the highly
      improbable event of a heavy N.W. gale, might last until next winter.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will never know anything of literature,&rdquo; said I, when Jim
      had finished. &ldquo;That is a good, honest, plain piece of work, and
      tells the story clearly. I see only one mistake: the cook is not a
      Chinaman; he is a Kanaka, and I think a Hawaiian.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, how do you know that?&rdquo; asked Jim.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I saw the whole gang yesterday in a saloon,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;I
      even heard the tale, or might have heard it, from Captain Trent himself,
      who struck me as thirsty and nervous.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, that's neither here nor there,&rdquo; cried Pinkerton.
      &ldquo;The point is, how about these dollars lying on a reef?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will it pay?&rdquo; I asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pay like a sugar trust!&rdquo; exclaimed Pinkerton. &ldquo;Don't
      you see what this British officer says about the safety? Don't you see the
      cargo's valued at ten thousand? Schooners are begging just now; I can get
      my pick of them at two hundred and fifty a month; and how does that foot
      up? It looks like three hundred per cent. to me.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You forget,&rdquo; I objected, &ldquo;the captain himself declares
      the rice is damaged.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's a point, I know,&rdquo; admitted Jim. &ldquo;But the rice is
      the sluggish article, anyway; it's little more account than ballast; it's
      the tea and silks that I look to: all we have to find is the proportion,
      and one look at the manifest will settle that. I've rung up Lloyd's on
      purpose; the captain is to meet me there in an hour, and then I'll be as
      posted on that brig as if I built her. Besides, you've no idea what
      pickings there are about a wreck&mdash;copper, lead, rigging, anchors,
      chains, even the crockery, Loudon!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You seem to me to forget one trifle,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;Before
      you pick that wreck, you've got to buy her, and how much will she cost?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One hundred dollars,&rdquo; replied Jim, with the promptitude of an
      automaton.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How on earth do you guess that?&rdquo; I cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't guess; I know it,&rdquo; answered the Commercial Force.
      &ldquo;My dear boy, I may be a galoot about literature, but you'll always
      be an outsider in business. How do you suppose I bought the James L. Moody
      for two hundred and fifty, her boats alone worth four times the money?
      Because my name stood first in the list. Well it stands there again; I
      have the naming of the figure, and I name a small one because of the
      distance: but it wouldn't matter what I named; that would be the price.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It sounds mysterious enough,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;Is this public
      auction conducted in a subterranean vault? Could a plain citizen&mdash;myself,
      for instance&mdash;come and see?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, everything's open and above board!&rdquo; he cried indignantly.
      &ldquo;Anybody can come, only nobody bids against us; and if he did, he
      would get frozen out. It's been tried before now, and once was enough. We
      hold the plant; we've got the connection; we can afford to go higher than
      any outsider; there's two million dollars in the ring; and we stick at
      nothing. Or suppose anybody did buy over our head&mdash;I tell you,
      Loudon, he would think this town gone crazy; he could no more get business
      through on the city front than I can dance; schooners, divers, men&mdash;all
      he wanted&mdash;the prices would fly right up and strike him.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But how did you get in?&rdquo; I asked. &ldquo;You were once an
      outsider like your neighbours, I suppose?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I took hold of that thing, Loudon, and just studied it up,&rdquo;
      he replied. &ldquo;It took my fancy; it was so romantic, and then I saw
      there was boodle in the thing; and I figured on the business till no man
      alive could give me points. Nobody knew I had an eye on wrecks till one
      fine morning I dropped in upon Douglas B. Longhurst in his den, gave him
      all the facts and figures, and put it to him straight: 'Do you want me in
      this ring? or shall I start another?' He took half an hour, and when I
      came back, 'Pink,' says he, 'I've put your name on.' The first time I came
      to the top, it was that Moody racket; now it's the Flying Scud.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Whereupon Pinkerton, looking at his watch, uttered an exclamation, made a
      hasty appointment with myself for the doors of the Merchants' Exchange,
      and fled to examine manifests and interview the skipper. I finished my
      cigarette with the deliberation of a man at the end of many picnics;
      reflecting to myself that of all forms of the dollar hunt, this wrecking
      had by far the most address to my imagination. Even as I went down town,
      in the brisk bustle and chill of the familiar San Francisco thoroughfares,
      I was haunted by a vision of the wreck, baking so far away in the strong
      sun, under a cloud of sea-birds; and even then, and for no better reason,
      my heart inclined towards the adventure. If not myself, something that was
      mine, some one at least in my employment, should voyage to that
      ocean-bounded pin-point and descend to that deserted cabin.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pinkerton met me at the appointed moment, pinched of lip and more than
      usually erect of bearing, like one conscious of great resolves.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well?&rdquo; I asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;it might be better, and it might be
      worse. This Captain Trent is a remarkably honest fellow&mdash;one out of a
      thousand. As soon as he knew I was in the market, he owned up about the
      rice in so many words. By his calculation, if there's thirty mats of it
      saved, it's an outside figure. However, the manifest was cheerier. There's
      about five thousand dollars of the whole value in silks and teas and
      nut-oils and that, all in the lazarette, and as safe as if it was in
      Kearney Street. The brig was new coppered a year ago. There's upwards of a
      hundred and fifty fathom away-up chain. It's not a bonanza, but there's
      boodle in it; and we'll try it on.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      It was by that time hard on ten o'clock, and we turned at once into the
      place of sale. The Flying Scud, although so important to ourselves,
      appeared to attract a very humble share of popular attention. The
      auctioneer was surrounded by perhaps a score of lookers-on, big fellows,
      for the most part, of the true Western build, long in the leg, broad in
      the shoulder, and adorned (to a plain man's taste) with needless finery. A
      jaunty, ostentatious comradeship prevailed. Bets were flying, and
      nicknames. &ldquo;The boys&rdquo; (as they would have called themselves)
      were very boyish; and it was plain they were here in mirth, and not on
      business. Behind, and certainly in strong contrast to these gentlemen, I
      could detect the figure of my friend Captain Trent, come (as I could very
      well imagine that a captain would) to hear the last of his old vessel.
      Since yesterday, he had rigged himself anew in ready-made black clothes,
      not very aptly fitted; the upper left-hand pocket showing a corner of silk
      handkerchief, the lower, on the other side, bulging with papers. Pinkerton
      had just given this man a high character. Certainly he seemed to have been
      very frank, and I looked at him again to trace (if possible) that virtue
      in his face. It was red and broad and flustered and (I thought) false. The
      whole man looked sick with some unknown anxiety; and as he stood there,
      unconscious of my observation, he tore at his nails, scowled on the floor,
      or glanced suddenly, sharply, and fearfully at passers-by. I was still
      gazing at the man in a kind of fascination, when the sale began.
    </p>
    <p>
      Some preliminaries were rattled through, to the irreverent, uninterrupted
      gambolling of the boys; and then, amid a trifle more attention, the
      auctioneer sounded for some two or three minutes the pipe of the charmer.
      Fine brig&mdash;new copper&mdash;valuable fittings&mdash;three fine boats&mdash;remarkably
      choice cargo&mdash;what the auctioneer would call a perfectly safe
      investment; nay, gentlemen, he would go further, he would put a figure on
      it: he had no hesitation (had that bold auctioneer) in putting it in
      figures; and in his view, what with this and that, and one thing and
      another, the purchaser might expect to clear a sum equal to the entire
      estimated value of the cargo; or, gentlemen, in other words, a sum of ten
      thousand dollars. At this modest computation the roof immediately above
      the speaker's head (I suppose, through the intervention of a spectator of
      ventriloquial tastes) uttered a clear &ldquo;Cock-a-doodle-doo!&rdquo;&mdash;whereat
      all laughed, the auctioneer himself obligingly joining.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, gentlemen, what shall we say?&rdquo; resumed that gentleman,
      plainly ogling Pinkerton,&mdash;&ldquo;what shall we say for this
      remarkable opportunity?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One hundred dollars,&rdquo; said Pinkerton.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One hundred dollars from Mr. Pinkerton,&rdquo; went the auctioneer,
      &ldquo;one hundred dollars. No other gentleman inclined to make any
      advance? One hundred dollars, only one hundred dollars&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The auctioneer was droning on to some such tune as this, and I, on my
      part, was watching with something between sympathy and amazement the
      undisguised emotion of Captain Trent, when we were all startled by the
      interjection of a bid.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And fifty,&rdquo; said a sharp voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pinkerton, the auctioneer, and the boys, who were all equally in the open
      secret of the ring, were now all equally and simultaneously taken aback.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I beg your pardon,&rdquo; said the auctioneer. &ldquo;Anybody bid?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And fifty,&rdquo; reiterated the voice, which I was now able to
      trace to its origin, on the lips of a small, unseemly rag of human-kind.
      The speaker's skin was gray and blotched; he spoke in a kind of broken
      song, with much variety of key; his gestures seemed (as in the disease
      called Saint Vitus's dance) to be imperfectly under control; he was badly
      dressed; he carried himself with an air of shrinking assumption, as though
      he were proud to be where he was and to do what he was doing, and yet half
      expected to be called in question and kicked out. I think I never saw a
      man more of a piece; and the type was new to me; I had never before set
      eyes upon his parallel, and I thought instinctively of Balzac and the
      lower regions of the <i>Comedie Humaine</i>.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pinkerton stared a moment on the intruder with no friendly eye, tore a
      leaf from his note-book, and scribbled a line in pencil, turned, beckoned
      a messenger boy, and whispered, &ldquo;To Longhurst.&rdquo; Next moment
      the boy had sped upon his errand, and Pinkerton was again facing the
      auctioneer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Two hundred dollars,&rdquo; said Jim.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And fifty,&rdquo; said the enemy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This looks lively,&rdquo; whispered I to Pinkerton.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; the little beast means cold drawn biz,&rdquo; returned my
      friend. &ldquo;Well, he'll have to have a lesson. Wait till I see
      Longhurst. Three hundred,&rdquo; he added aloud.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And fifty,&rdquo; came the echo.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was about this moment when my eye fell again on Captain Trent. A deeper
      shade had mounted to his crimson face: the new coat was unbuttoned and all
      flying open; the new silk handkerchief in busy requisition; and the man's
      eye, of a clear sailor blue, shone glassy with excitement. He was anxious
      still, but now (if I could read a face) there was hope in his anxiety.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jim,&rdquo; I whispered, &ldquo;look at Trent. Bet you what you
      please he was expecting this.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; was the reply, &ldquo;there's some blame' thing going
      on here.&rdquo; And he renewed his bid.
    </p>
    <p>
      The figure had run up into the neighbourhood of a thousand when I was
      aware of a sensation in the faces opposite, and looking over my shoulder,
      saw a very large, bland, handsome man come strolling forth and make a
      little signal to the auctioneer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One word, Mr. Borden,&rdquo; said he; and then to Jim, &ldquo;Well,
      Pink, where are we up to now?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Pinkerton gave him the figure. &ldquo;I ran up to that on my own
      responsibility, Mr. Longhurst,&rdquo; he added, with a flush. &ldquo;I
      thought it the square thing.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And so it was,&rdquo; said Mr. Longhurst, patting him kindly on the
      shoulder, like a gratified uncle. &ldquo;Well, you can drop out now; we
      take hold ourselves. You can run it up to five thousand; and if he likes
      to go beyond that, he's welcome to the bargain.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By the by, who is he?&rdquo; asked Pinkerton. &ldquo;He looks away
      down.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I've sent Billy to find out.&rdquo; And at the very moment Mr.
      Longhurst received from the hands of one of the expensive young gentlemen
      a folded paper. It was passed round from one to another till it came to
      me, and I read: &ldquo;Harry D. Bellairs, Attorney-at-Law; defended Clara
      Varden; twice nearly disbarred.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, that gets me!&rdquo; observed Mr. Longhurst. &ldquo;Who can
      have put up a shyster [1] like that? Nobody with money, that's a sure
      thing. Suppose you tried a big bluff? I think I would, Pink. Well, ta-ta!
      Your partner, Mr. Dodd? Happy to have the pleasure of your acquaintance,
      sir.&rdquo; And the great man withdrew.
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;[1] A low lawyer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, what do you think of Douglas B.?&rdquo; whispered Pinkerton,
      looking reverently after him as he departed. &ldquo;Six foot of perfect
      gentleman and culture to his boots.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      During this interview the auction had stood transparently arrested, the
      auctioneer, the spectators, and even Bellairs, all well aware that Mr.
      Longhurst was the principal, and Jim but a speaking-trumpet. But now that
      the Olympian Jupiter was gone, Mr. Borden thought proper to affect
      severity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, come, Mr. Pinkerton. Any advance?&rdquo; he snapped.
    </p>
    <p>
      And Pinkerton, resolved on the big bluff, replied, &ldquo;Two thousand
      dollars.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Bellairs preserved his composure. &ldquo;And fifty,&rdquo; said he. But
      there was a stir among the onlookers, and what was of more importance,
      Captain Trent had turned pale and visibly gulped.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pitch it in again, Jim,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;Trent is weakening.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Three thousand,&rdquo; said Jim.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And fifty,&rdquo; said Bellairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      And then the bidding returned to its original movement by hundreds and
      fifties; but I had been able in the meanwhile to draw two conclusions. In
      the first place, Bellairs had made his last advance with a smile of
      gratified vanity; and I could see the creature was glorying in the kudos
      of an unusual position and secure of ultimate success. In the second,
      Trent had once more changed colour at the thousand leap, and his relief,
      when he heard the answering fifty was manifest and unaffected. Here then
      was a problem: both were presumably in the same interest, yet the one was
      not in the confidence of the other. Nor was this all. A few bids later it
      chanced that my eye encountered that of Captain Trent, and his, which
      glittered with excitement, was instantly, and I thought guiltily,
      withdrawn. He wished, then, to conceal his interest? As Jim had said,
      there was some blamed thing going on. And for certain, here were these two
      men, so strangely united, so strangely divided, both sharp-set to keep the
      wreck from us, and that at an exorbitant figure.
    </p>
    <p>
      Was the wreck worth more than we supposed? A sudden heat was kindled in my
      brain; the bids were nearing Longhurst's limit of five thousand; another
      minute, and all would be too late. Tearing a leaf from my sketch-book, and
      inspired (I suppose) by vanity in my own powers of inference and
      observation, I took the one mad decision of my life. &ldquo;If you care to
      go ahead,&rdquo; I wrote, &ldquo;I'm in for all I'm worth.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Jim read and looked round at me like one bewildered; then his eyes
      lightened, and turning again to the auctioneer, he bid, &ldquo;Five
      thousand one hundred dollars.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And fifty,&rdquo; said monotonous Bellairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      Presently Pinkerton scribbled, &ldquo;What can it be?&rdquo; and I
      answered, still on paper: &ldquo;I can't imagine; but there's something.
      Watch Bellairs; he'll go up to the ten thousand, see if he don't.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And he did, and we followed. Long before this, word had gone abroad that
      there was battle royal: we were surrounded by a crowd that looked on
      wondering; and when Pinkerton had offered ten thousand dollars (the
      outside value of the cargo, even were it safe in San Francisco Bay) and
      Bellairs, smirking from ear to ear to be the centre of so much attention,
      had jerked out his answering, &ldquo;And fifty,&rdquo; wonder deepened to
      excitement.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ten thousand one hundred,&rdquo; said Jim; and even as he spoke he
      made a sudden gesture with his hand, his face changed, and I could see
      that he had guessed, or thought that he had guessed, the mystery. As he
      scrawled another memorandum in his note-book, his hand shook like a
      telegraph-operator's.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Chinese ship,&rdquo; ran the legend; and then, in big, tremulous
      half-text, and with a flourish that overran the margin, &ldquo;Opium!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      To be sure! thought I: this must be the secret. I knew that scarce a ship
      came in from any Chinese port, but she carried somewhere, behind a
      bulkhead, or in some cunning hollow of the beams, a nest of the valuable
      poison. Doubtless there was some such treasure on the Flying Scud. How
      much was it worth? We knew not, we were gambling in the dark; but Trent
      knew, and Bellairs; and we could only watch and judge.
    </p>
    <p>
      By this time neither Pinkerton nor I were of sound mind. Pinkerton was
      beside himself, his eyes like lamps. I shook in every member. To any
      stranger entering (say) in the course of the fifteenth thousand, we should
      probably have cut a poorer figure than Bellairs himself. But we did not
      pause; and the crowd watched us, now in silence, now with a buzz of
      whispers.
    </p>
    <p>
      Seventeen thousand had been reached, when Douglas B. Longhurst, forcing
      his way into the opposite row of faces, conspicuously and repeatedly shook
      his head at Jim. Jim's answer was a note of two words: &ldquo;My racket!&rdquo;
      which, when the great man had perused, he shook his finger warningly and
      departed, I thought, with a sorrowful countenance.
    </p>
    <p>
      Although Mr. Longhurst knew nothing of Bellairs, the shady lawyer knew all
      about the Wrecker Boss. He had seen him enter the ring with manifest
      expectation; he saw him depart, and the bids continue, with manifest
      surprise and disappointment. &ldquo;Hullo,&rdquo; he plainly thought,
      &ldquo;this is not the ring I'm fighting, then?&rdquo; And he determined
      to put on a spurt.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eighteen thousand,&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And fifty,&rdquo; said Jim, taking a leaf out of his adversary's
      book.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Twenty thousand,&rdquo; from Bellairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And fifty,&rdquo; from Jim, with a little nervous titter.
    </p>
    <p>
      And with one consent they returned to the old pace, only now it was
      Bellairs who took the hundreds, and Jim who did the fifty business. But by
      this time our idea had gone abroad. I could hear the word &ldquo;opium&rdquo;
      pass from mouth to mouth; and by the looks directed at us, I could see we
      were supposed to have some private information. And here an incident
      occurred highly typical of San Francisco. Close at my back there had stood
      for some time a stout, middle-aged gentleman, with pleasant eyes, hair
      pleasantly grizzled, and a ruddy, pleasing face. All of a sudden he
      appeared as a third competitor, skied the Flying Scud with four fat bids
      of a thousand dollars each, and then as suddenly fled the field, remaining
      thenceforth (as before) a silent, interested spectator.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ever since Mr. Longhurst's useless intervention, Bellairs had seemed
      uneasy; and at this new attack, he began (in his turn) to scribble a note
      between the bids. I imagined naturally enough that it would go to Captain
      Trent; but when it was done, and the writer turned and looked behind him
      in the crowd, to my unspeakable amazement, he did not seem to remark the
      captain's presence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Messenger boy, messenger boy!&rdquo; I heard him say. &ldquo;Somebody
      call me a messenger boy.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      At last somebody did, but it was not the captain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He's sending for instructions,&rdquo; I wrote to Pinkerton.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For money,&rdquo; he wrote back. &ldquo;Shall I strike out? I think
      this is the time.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      I nodded.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thirty thousand,&rdquo; said Pinkerton, making a leap of close upon
      three thousand dollars.
    </p>
    <p>
      I could see doubt in Bellairs's eye; then, sudden resolution. &ldquo;Thirty-five
      thousand,&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Forty thousand,&rdquo; said Pinkerton.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a long pause, during which Bellairs's countenance was as a book;
      and then, not much too soon for the impending hammer, &ldquo;Forty
      thousand and five dollars,&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pinkerton and I exchanged eloquent glances. We were of one mind. Bellairs
      had tried a bluff; now he perceived his mistake, and was bidding against
      time; he was trying to spin out the sale until the messenger boy returned.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Forty-five thousand dollars,&rdquo; said Pinkerton: his voice was
      like a ghost's and tottered with emotion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Forty-five thousand and five dollars,&rdquo; said Bellairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fifty thousand,&rdquo; said Pinkerton.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I beg your pardon, Mr. Pinkerton. Did I hear you make an advance,
      sir?&rdquo; asked the auctioneer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&mdash;I have a difficulty in speaking,&rdquo; gasped Jim. &ldquo;It's
      fifty thousand, Mr. Borden.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Bellairs was on his feet in a moment. &ldquo;Auctioneer,&rdquo; he said,
      &ldquo;I have to beg the favour of three moments at the telephone. In this
      matter, I am acting on behalf of a certain party to whom I have just
      written&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have nothing to do with any of this,&rdquo; said the auctioneer,
      brutally. &ldquo;I am here to sell this wreck. Do you make any advance on
      fifty thousand?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have the honour to explain to you, sir,&rdquo; returned Bellairs,
      with a miserable assumption of dignity. &ldquo;Fifty thousand was the
      figure named by my principal; but if you will give me the small favour of
      two moments at the telephone&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, nonsense!&rdquo; said the auctioneer. &ldquo;If you make no
      advance, I'll knock it down to Mr. Pinkerton.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I warn you,&rdquo; cried the attorney, with sudden shrillness.
      &ldquo;Have a care what you're about. You are here to sell for the
      underwriters, let me tell you&mdash;not to act for Mr. Douglas Longhurst.
      This sale has been already disgracefully interrupted to allow that person
      to hold a consultation with his minions. It has been much commented on.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There was no complaint at the time,&rdquo; said the auctioneer,
      manifestly discountenanced. &ldquo;You should have complained at the time.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am not here to conduct this sale,&rdquo; replied Bellairs;
      &ldquo;I am not paid for that.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I am, you see,&rdquo; retorted the auctioneer, his impudence
      quite restored; and he resumed his sing-song. &ldquo;Any advance on fifty
      thousand dollars? No advance on fifty thousand? No advance, gentlemen?
      Going at fifty thousand, the wreck of the brig Flying Scud&mdash;going&mdash;going&mdash;gone!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My God, Jim, can we pay the money?&rdquo; I cried, as the stroke of
      the hammer seemed to recall me from a dream.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's got to be raised,&rdquo; said he, white as a sheet. &ldquo;It'll
      be a hell of a strain, Loudon. The credit's good for it, I think; but I
      shall have to get around. Write me a cheque for your stuff. Meet me at the
      Occidental in an hour.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      I wrote my cheque at a desk, and I declare I could never have recognised
      my signature. Jim was gone in a moment; Trent had vanished even earlier;
      only Bellairs remained exchanging insults with the auctioneer; and,
      behold! as I pushed my way out of the exchange, who should run full tilt
      into my arms, but the messenger boy?
    </p>
    <p>
      It was by so near a margin that we became the owners of the Flying Scud.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010">
       <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER X. IN WHICH THE CREW VANISH.
    </h2>
    <p>
      At the door of the exchange I found myself along-side of the short,
      middle-aged gentleman who had made an appearance, so vigorous and so
      brief, in the great battle.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Congratulate you, Mr. Dodd,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;You and your
      friend stuck to your guns nobly.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No thanks to you, sir,&rdquo; I replied, &ldquo;running us up a
      thousand at a time, and tempting all the speculators in San Francisco to
      come and have a try.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, that was temporary insanity,&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;and I thank
      the higher powers I am still a free man. Walking this way, Mr. Dodd? I'll
      walk along with you. It's pleasant for an old fogy like myself to see the
      young bloods in the ring; I've done some pretty wild gambles in my time in
      this very city, when it was a smaller place and I was a younger man. Yes,
      I know you, Mr. Dodd. By sight, I may say I know you extremely well, you
      and your followers, the fellows in the kilts, eh? Pardon me. But I have
      the misfortune to own a little box on the Saucelito shore. I'll be glad to
      see you there any Sunday&mdash;without the fellows in kilts, you know; and
      I can give you a bottle of wine, and show you the best collection of
      Arctic voyages in the States. Morgan is my name&mdash;Judge Morgan&mdash;a
      Welshman and a forty-niner.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, if you're a pioneer,&rdquo; cried I, &ldquo;come to me and I'll
      provide you with an axe.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You'll want your axes for yourself, I fancy,&rdquo; he returned,
      with one of his quick looks. &ldquo;Unless you have private knowledge,
      there will be a good deal of rather violent wrecking to do before you find
      that&mdash;opium, do you call it?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, it's either opium, or we are stark, staring mad,&rdquo; I
      replied. &ldquo;But I assure you we have no private information. We went
      in (as I suppose you did yourself) on observation.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;An observer, sir?&rdquo; inquired the judge.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I may say it is my trade&mdash;or, rather, was,&rdquo; said I.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well now, and what did you think of Bellairs?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very little indeed,&rdquo; said I.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I may tell you,&rdquo; continued the judge, &ldquo;that to me, the
      employment of a fellow like that appears inexplicable. I knew him; he
      knows me, too; he has often heard from me in court; and I assure you the
      man is utterly blown upon; it is not safe to trust him with a dollar; and
      here we find him dealing up to fifty thousand. I can't think who can have
      so trusted him, but I am very sure it was a stranger in San Francisco.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Some one for the owners, I suppose,&rdquo; said I.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Surely not!&rdquo; exclaimed the judge. &ldquo;Owners in London can
      have nothing to say to opium smuggled between Hong Kong and San Francisco.
      I should rather fancy they would be the last to hear of it&mdash;until the
      ship was seized. No; I was thinking of the captain. But where would he get
      the money? above all, after having laid out so much to buy the stuff in
      China? Unless, indeed, he were acting for some one in 'Frisco; and in that
      case&mdash;here we go round again in the vicious circle&mdash;Bellairs
      would not have been employed.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think I can assure you it was not the captain,&rdquo; said I;
      &ldquo;for he and Bellairs are not acquainted.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wasn't that the captain with the red face and coloured
      handkerchief? He seemed to me to follow Bellairs's game with the most
      thrilling interest,&rdquo; objected Mr. Morgan.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perfectly true,&rdquo; said I; &ldquo;Trent is deeply interested;
      he very likely knew Bellairs, and he certainly knew what he was there for;
      but I can put my hand in the fire that Bellairs didn't know Trent.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Another singularity,&rdquo; observed the judge. &ldquo;Well, we
      have had a capital forenoon. But you take an old lawyer's advice, and get
      to Midway Island as fast as you can. There's a pot of money on the table,
      and Bellairs and Co. are not the men to stick at trifles.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      With this parting counsel Judge Morgan shook hands and made off along
      Montgomery Street, while I entered the Occidental Hotel, on the steps of
      which we had finished our conversation. I was well known to the clerks,
      and as soon as it was understood that I was there to wait for Pinkerton
      and lunch, I was invited to a seat inside the counter. Here, then, in a
      retired corner, I was beginning to come a little to myself after these so
      violent experiences, when who should come hurrying in, and (after a moment
      with a clerk) fly to one of the telephone boxes but Mr. Henry D. Bellairs
      in person? Call it what you will, but the impulse was irresistible, and I
      rose and took a place immediately at the man's back. It may be some excuse
      that I had often practised this very innocent form of eavesdropping upon
      strangers, and for fun. Indeed, I scarce know anything that gives a lower
      view of man's intelligence than to overhear (as you thus do) one side of a
      communication.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Central,&rdquo; said the attorney, &ldquo;2241 and 584 B&rdquo; (or
      some such numbers)&mdash;&ldquo;Who's that?&mdash;All right&mdash;Mr.
      Bellairs&mdash;Occidental; the wires are fouled in the other place&mdash;Yes,
      about three minutes&mdash;Yes&mdash;Yes&mdash;Your figure, I am sorry to
      say&mdash;No&mdash;I had no authority&mdash;Neither more nor less&mdash;I
      have every reason to suppose so&mdash;O, Pinkerton, Montana Block&mdash;Yes&mdash;Yes&mdash;Very
      good, sir&mdash;As you will, sir&mdash;Disconnect 584 B.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Bellairs turned to leave; at sight of me behind him, up flew his hands,
      and he winced and cringed, as though in fear of bodily attack. &ldquo;O,
      it's you!&rdquo; he cried; and then, somewhat recovered, &ldquo;Mr.
      Pinkerton's partner, I believe? I am pleased to see you, sir&mdash;to
      congratulate you on your late success.&rdquo; And with that he was gone,
      obsequiously bowing as he passed.
    </p>
    <p>
      And now a madcap humour came upon me. It was plain Bellairs had been
      communicating with his principal; I knew the number, if not the name;
      should I ring up at once, it was more than likely he would return in
      person to the telephone; why should not I dash (vocally) into the presence
      of this mysterious person, and have some fun for my money. I pressed the
      bell.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Central,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;connect again 2241 and 584 B.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      A phantom central repeated the numbers; there was a pause, and then
      &ldquo;Two two four one,&rdquo; came in a tiny voice into my ear&mdash;a
      voice with the English sing-song&mdash;the voice plainly of a gentleman.
      &ldquo;Is that you again, Mr. Bellairs?&rdquo; it trilled. &ldquo;I tell
      you it's no use. Is that you, Mr. Bellairs? Who is that?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I only want to put a single question,&rdquo; said I, civilly.
      &ldquo;Why do you want to buy the Flying Scud?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      No answer came. The telephone vibrated and hummed in miniature with all
      the numerous talk of a great city; but the voice of 2241 was silent. Once
      and twice I put my question; but the tiny, sing-song English voice, I
      heard no more. The man, then, had fled? fled from an impertinent question?
      It scarce seemed natural to me; unless on the principle that the wicked
      fleeth when no man pursueth. I took the telephone list and turned the
      number up: &ldquo;2241, Mrs. Keane, res. 942 Mission Street.&rdquo; And
      that, short of driving to the house and renewing my impertinence in
      person, was all that I could do.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yet, as I resumed my seat in the corner of the office, I was conscious of
      a new element of the uncertain, the underhand, perhaps even the dangerous,
      in our adventure; and there was now a new picture in my mental gallery, to
      hang beside that of the wreck under its canopy of sea-birds and of Captain
      Trent mopping his red brow&mdash;the picture of a man with a telephone
      dice-box to his ear, and at the small voice of a single question, struck
      suddenly as white as ashes.
    </p>
    <p>
      From these considerations I was awakened by the striking of the clock. An
      hour and nearly twenty minutes had elapsed since Pinkerton departed for
      the money: he was twenty minutes behind time; and to me who knew so well
      his gluttonous despatch of business and had so frequently admired his iron
      punctuality, the fact spoke volumes. The twenty minutes slowly stretched
      into an hour; the hour had nearly extended to a second; and I still sat in
      my corner of the office, or paced the marble pavement of the hall, a prey
      to the most wretched anxiety and penitence. The hour for lunch was nearly
      over before I remembered that I had not eaten. Heaven knows I had no
      appetite; but there might still be much to do&mdash;it was needful I
      should keep myself in proper trim, if it were only to digest the now too
      probable bad news; and leaving word at the office for Pinkerton, I sat
      down to table and called for soup, oysters, and a pint of champagne.
    </p>
    <p>
      I was not long set, before my friend returned. He looked pale and rather
      old, refused to hear of food, and called for tea.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I suppose all's up?&rdquo; said I, with an incredible sinking.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; he replied; &ldquo;I've pulled it through, Loudon; just
      pulled it through. I couldn't have raised another cent in all 'Frisco.
      People don't like it; Longhurst even went back on me; said he wasn't a
      three-card-monte man.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, what's the odds?&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;That's all we wanted,
      isn't it?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Loudon, I tell you I've had to pay blood for that money,&rdquo;
      cried my friend, with almost savage energy and gloom. &ldquo;It's all on
      ninety days, too; I couldn't get another day&mdash;not another day. If we
      go ahead with this affair, Loudon, you'll have to go yourself and make the
      fur fly. I'll stay of course&mdash;I've got to stay and face the trouble
      in this city; though, I tell you, I just long to go. I would show these
      fat brutes of sailors what work was; I would be all through that wreck and
      out at the other end, before they had boosted themselves upon the deck!
      But you'll do your level best, Loudon; I depend on you for that. You must
      be all fire and grit and dash from the word 'go.' That schooner and the
      boodle on board of her are bound to be here before three months, or it's
      B. U. S. T.&mdash;bust.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll swear I'll do my best, Jim; I'll work double tides,&rdquo;
      said I. &ldquo;It is my fault that you are in this thing, and I'll get you
      out again or kill myself. But what is that you say? 'If we go ahead?' Have
      we any choice, then?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm coming to that,&rdquo; said Jim. &ldquo;It isn't that I doubt
      the investment. Don't blame yourself for that; you showed a fine, sound
      business instinct: I always knew it was in you, but then it ripped right
      out. I guess that little beast of an attorney knew what he was doing; and
      he wanted nothing better than to go beyond. No, there's profit in the
      deal; it's not that; it's these ninety-day bills, and the strain I've
      given the credit, for I've been up and down, borrowing, and begging and
      bribing to borrow. I don't believe there's another man but me in 'Frisco,&rdquo;
      he cried, with a sudden fervor of self admiration, &ldquo;who could have
      raised that last ten thousand!&mdash;Then there's another thing. I had
      hoped you might have peddled that opium through the islands, which is
      safer and more profitable. But with this three-month limit, you must make
      tracks for Honolulu straight, and communicate by steamer. I'll try to put
      up something for you there; I'll have a man spoken to who's posted on that
      line of biz. Keep a bright lookout for him as soon's you make the islands;
      for it's on the cards he might pick you up at sea in a whaleboat or a
      steam-launch, and bring the dollars right on board.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      It shows how much I had suffered morally during my sojourn in San
      Francisco, that even now when our fortunes trembled in the balance, I
      should have consented to become a smuggler and (of all things) a smuggler
      of opium. Yet I did, and that in silence; without a protest, not without a
      twinge.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And suppose,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;suppose the opium is so securely
      hidden that I can't get hands on it?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then you will stay there till that brig is kindling-wood, and stay
      and split that kindling-wood with your penknife,&rdquo; cried Pinkerton.
      &ldquo;The stuff is there; we know that; and it must be found. But all
      this is only the one string to our bow&mdash;though I tell you I've gone
      into it head-first, as if it was our bottom dollar. Why, the first thing I
      did before I'd raised a cent, and with this other notion in my head
      already&mdash;the first thing I did was to secure the schooner. The Nora
      Creina, she is, sixty-four tons, quite big enough for our purpose since
      the rice is spoiled, and the fastest thing of her tonnage out of San
      Francisco. For a bonus of two hundred, and a monthly charter of three, I
      have her for my own time; wages and provisions, say four hundred more: a
      drop in the bucket. They began firing the cargo out of her (she was part
      loaded) near two hours ago; and about the same time John Smith got the
      order for the stores. That's what I call business.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No doubt of that,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;But the other notion?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, here it is,&rdquo; said Jim. &ldquo;You agree with me that
      Bellairs was ready to go higher?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      I saw where he was coming. &ldquo;Yes&mdash;and why shouldn't he?&rdquo;
      said I. &ldquo;Is that the line?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's the line, Loudon Dodd,&rdquo; assented Jim. &ldquo;If
      Bellairs and his principal have any desire to go me better, I'm their man.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      A sudden thought, a sudden fear, shot into my mind. What if I had been
      right? What if my childish pleasantry had frightened the principal away,
      and thus destroyed our chance? Shame closed my mouth; I began
      instinctively a long course of reticence; and it was without a word of my
      meeting with Bellairs, or my discovery of the address in Mission Street,
      that I continued the discussion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Doubtless fifty thousand was originally mentioned as a round sum,&rdquo;
      said I, &ldquo;or at least, so Bellairs supposed. But at the same time it
      may be an outside sum; and to cover the expenses we have already incurred
      for the money and the schooner&mdash;I am far from blaming you; I see how
      needful it was to be ready for either event&mdash;but to cover them we
      shall want a rather large advance.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bellairs will go to sixty thousand; it's my belief, if he were
      properly handled, he would take the hundred,&rdquo; replied Pinkerton.
      &ldquo;Look back on the way the sale ran at the end.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is my own impression as regards Bellairs,&rdquo; I admitted.
      &ldquo;The point I am trying to make is that Bellairs himself may be
      mistaken; that what he supposed to be a round sum was really an outside
      figure.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Loudon, if that is so,&rdquo; said Jim, with extraordinary
      gravity of face and voice, &ldquo;if that is so, let him take the Flying
      Scud at fifty thousand, and joy go with her! I prefer the loss.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is that so, Jim? Are we dipped as bad as that?&rdquo; I cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We've put our hand farther out than we can pull it in again,
      Loudon,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;Why, man, that fifty thousand dollars,
      before we get clear again, will cost us nearer seventy. Yes, it figures up
      overhead to more than ten per cent a month; and I could do no better, and
      there isn't the man breathing could have done as well. It was a miracle,
      Loudon. I couldn't but admire myself. O, if we had just the four months!
      And you know, Loudon, it may still be done. With your energy and charm, if
      the worst comes to the worst, you can run that schooner as you ran one of
      your picnics; and we may have luck. And, O, man! if we do pull it through,
      what a dashing operation it will be! What an advertisement! what a thing
      to talk of, and remember all our lives! However,&rdquo; he broke off
      suddenly, &ldquo;we must try the safe thing first. Here's for the shyster!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      There was another struggle in my mind, whether I should even now admit my
      knowledge of the Mission Street address. But I had let the favourable
      moment slip. I had now, which made it the more awkward, not merely the
      original discovery, but my late suppression to confess. I could not help
      reasoning, besides, that the more natural course was to approach the
      principal by the road of his agent's office; and there weighed upon my
      spirits a conviction that we were already too late, and that the man was
      gone two hours ago. Once more, then, I held my peace; and after an
      exchange of words at the telephone to assure ourselves he was at home, we
      set out for the attorney's office.
    </p>
    <p>
      The endless streets of any American city pass, from one end to another,
      through strange degrees and vicissitudes of splendour and distress,
      running under the same name between monumental warehouses, the dens and
      taverns of thieves, and the sward and shrubbery of villas. In San
      Francisco, the sharp inequalities of the ground, and the sea bordering on
      so many sides, greatly exaggerate these contrasts. The street for which we
      were now bound took its rise among blowing sands, somewhere in view of the
      Lone Mountain Cemetery; ran for a term across that rather windy Olympus of
      Nob Hill, or perhaps just skirted its frontier; passed almost immediately
      after through a stage of little houses, rather impudently painted, and
      offering to the eye of the observer this diagnostic peculiarity, that the
      huge brass plates upon the small and highly coloured doors bore only the
      first names of ladies&mdash;Norah or Lily or Florence; traversed China
      Town, where it was doubtless undermined with opium cellars, and its blocks
      pierced, after the similitude of rabbit-warrens, with a hundred doors and
      passages and galleries; enjoyed a glimpse of high publicity at the corner
      of Kearney; and proceeded, among dives and warehouses, towards the City
      Front and the region of the water-rats. In this last stage of its career,
      where it was both grimy and solitary, and alternately quiet and roaring to
      the wheels of drays, we found a certain house of some pretension to
      neatness, and furnished with a rustic outside stair. On the pillar of the
      stair a black plate bore in gilded lettering this device: &ldquo;Harry D.
      Bellairs, Attorney-at-law. Consultations, 9 to 6.&rdquo; On ascending the
      stairs, a door was found to stand open on the balcony, with this further
      inscription, &ldquo;Mr. Bellairs In.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wonder what we do next,&rdquo; said I.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Guess we sail right in,&rdquo; returned Jim, and suited the action
      to the word.
    </p>
    <p>
      The room in which we found ourselves was clean, but extremely bare. A
      rather old-fashioned secretaire stood by the wall, with a chair drawn to
      the desk; in one corner was a shelf with half-a-dozen law books; and I can
      remember literally not another stick of furniture. One inference imposed
      itself: Mr. Bellairs was in the habit of sitting down himself and
      suffering his clients to stand. At the far end, and veiled by a curtain of
      red baize, a second door communicated with the interior of the house.
      Hence, after some coughing and stamping, we elicited the shyster, who came
      timorously forth, for all the world like a man in fear of bodily assault,
      and then, recognising his guests, suffered from what I can only call a
      nervous paroxysm of courtesy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Pinkerton and partner!&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;I will go and
      fetch you seats.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not the least,&rdquo; said Jim. &ldquo;No time. Much rather stand.
      This is business, Mr. Bellairs. This morning, as you know, I bought the
      wreck, Flying Scud.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The lawyer nodded.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And bought her,&rdquo; pursued my friend, &ldquo;at a figure out of
      all proportion to the cargo and the circumstances, as they appeared?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And now you think better of it, and would like to be off with your
      bargain? I have been figuring upon this,&rdquo; returned the lawyer.
      &ldquo;My client, I will not hide from you, was displeased with me for
      putting her so high. I think we were both too heated, Mr. Pinkerton:
      rivalry&mdash;the spirit of competition. But I will be quite frank&mdash;I
      know when I am dealing with gentlemen&mdash;and I am almost certain, if
      you leave the matter in my hands, my client would relieve you of the
      bargain, so as you would lose&rdquo;&mdash;he consulted our faces with
      gimlet-eyed calculation&mdash;&ldquo;nothing,&rdquo; he added shrilly.
    </p>
    <p>
      And here Pinkerton amazed me.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's a little too thin,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;I have the wreck.
      I know there's boodle in her, and I mean to keep her. What I want is some
      points which may save me needless expense, and which I'm prepared to pay
      for, money down. The thing for you to consider is just this: am I to deal
      with you or direct with your principal? If you are prepared to give me the
      facts right off, why, name your figure. Only one thing!&rdquo; added Jim,
      holding a finger up, &ldquo;when I say 'money down,' I mean bills payable
      when the ship returns, and if the information proves reliable. I don't buy
      pigs in pokes.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      I had seen the lawyer's face light up for a moment, and then, at the sound
      of Jim's proviso, miserably fade. &ldquo;I guess you know more about this
      wreck than I do, Mr. Pinkerton,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;I only know that I
      was told to buy the thing, and tried, and couldn't.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What I like about you, Mr. Bellairs, is that you waste no time,&rdquo;
      said Jim. &ldquo;Now then, your client's name and address.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;On consideration,&rdquo; replied the lawyer, with indescribable
      furtivity, &ldquo;I cannot see that I am entitled to communicate my
      client's name. I will sound him for you with pleasure, if you care to
      instruct me; but I cannot see that I can give you his address.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well,&rdquo; said Jim, and put his hat on. &ldquo;Rather a
      strong step, isn't it?&rdquo; (Between every sentence was a clear pause.)
      &ldquo;Not think better of it? Well, come&mdash;call it a dollar?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Pinkerton, sir!&rdquo; exclaimed the offended attorney; and,
      indeed, I myself was almost afraid that Jim had mistaken his man and gone
      too far.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No present use for a dollar?&rdquo; says Jim. &ldquo;Well, look
      here, Mr. Bellairs: we're both busy men, and I'll go to my outside figure
      with you right away&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stop this, Pinkerton,&rdquo; I broke in. &ldquo;I know the address:
      924 Mission Street.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      I do not know whether Pinkerton or Bellairs was the more taken aback.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why in snakes didn't you say so, Loudon?&rdquo; cried my friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You didn't ask for it before,&rdquo; said I, colouring to my
      temples under his troubled eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was Bellairs who broke silence, kindly supplying me with all that I had
      yet to learn. &ldquo;Since you know Mr. Dickson's address,&rdquo; said he,
      plainly burning to be rid of us, &ldquo;I suppose I need detain you no
      longer.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      I do not know how Pinkerton felt, but I had death in my soul as we came
      down the outside stair, from the den of this blotched spider. My whole
      being was strung, waiting for Jim's first question, and prepared to blurt
      out, I believe, almost with tears, a full avowal. But my friend asked
      nothing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We must hack it,&rdquo; said he, tearing off in the direction of
      the nearest stand. &ldquo;No time to be lost. You saw how I changed
      ground. No use in paying the shyster's commission.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Again I expected a reference to my suppression; again I was disappointed.
      It was plain Jim feared the subject, and I felt I almost hated him for
      that fear. At last, when we were already in the hack and driving towards
      Mission Street, I could bear my suspense no longer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You do not ask me about that address,&rdquo; said I.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said he, quickly and timidly. &ldquo;What was it? I
      would like to know.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The note of timidity offended me like a buffet; my temper rose as hot as
      mustard. &ldquo;I must request you do not ask me,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;It
      is a matter I cannot explain.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The moment the foolish words were said, that moment I would have given
      worlds to recall them: how much more, when Pinkerton, patting my hand,
      replied: &ldquo;All right, dear boy; not another word; that's all done.
      I'm convinced it's perfectly right.&rdquo; To return upon the subject was
      beyond my courage; but I vowed inwardly that I should do my utmost in the
      future for this mad speculation, and that I would cut myself in pieces
      before Jim should lose one dollar.
    </p>
    <p>
      We had no sooner arrived at the address than I had other things to think
      of.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Dickson? He's gone,&rdquo; said the landlady.
    </p>
    <p>
      Where had he gone?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm sure I can't tell you,&rdquo; she answered. &ldquo;He was quite
      a stranger to me.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did he express his baggage, ma'am?&rdquo; asked Pinkerton.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hadn't any,&rdquo; was the reply. &ldquo;He came last night and
      left again to-day with a satchel.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When did he leave?&rdquo; I inquired.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was about noon,&rdquo; replied the landlady. &ldquo;Some one
      rang up the telephone, and asked for him; and I reckon he got some news,
      for he left right away, although his rooms were taken by the week. He
      seemed considerable put out: I reckon it was a death.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      My heart sank; perhaps my idiotic jest had indeed driven him away; and
      again I asked myself, Why? and whirled for a moment in a vortex of
      untenable hypotheses.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What was he like, ma'am?&rdquo; Pinkerton was asking, when I
      returned to consciousness of my surroundings.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A clean shaved man,&rdquo; said the woman, and could be led or
      driven into no more significant description.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pull up at the nearest drug-store,&rdquo; said Pinkerton to the
      driver; and when there, the telephone was put in operation, and the
      message sped to the Pacific Mail Steamship Company's office&mdash;this was
      in the days before Spreckels had arisen&mdash;&ldquo;When does the next
      China steamer touch at Honolulu?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The City of Pekin; she cast off the dock to-day, at half-past one,&rdquo;
      came the reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's a clear case of bolt,&rdquo; said Jim. &ldquo;He's skipped, or
      my name's not Pinkerton. He's gone to head us off at Midway Island.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Somehow I was not so sure; there were elements in the case, not known to
      Pinkerton&mdash;the fears of the captain, for example&mdash;that inclined
      me otherwise; and the idea that I had terrified Mr. Dickson into flight,
      though resting on so slender a foundation, clung obstinately in my mind.
      &ldquo;Shouldn't we see the list of passengers?&rdquo; I asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dickson is such a blamed common name,&rdquo; returned Jim; &ldquo;and
      then, as like as not, he would change it.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      At this I had another intuition. A negative of a street scene, taken
      unconsciously when I was absorbed in other thought, rose in my memory with
      not a feature blurred: a view, from Bellairs's door as we were coming
      down, of muddy roadway, passing drays, matted telegraph wires, a Chinaboy
      with a basket on his head, and (almost opposite) a corner grocery with the
      name of Dickson in great gilt letters.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;you are right; he would change it. And
      anyway, I don't believe it was his name at all; I believe he took it from
      a corner grocery beside Bellairs's.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As like as not,&rdquo; said Jim, still standing on the sidewalk
      with contracted brows.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, what shall we do next?&rdquo; I asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The natural thing would be to rush the schooner,&rdquo; he replied.
      &ldquo;But I don't know. I telephoned the captain to go at it head down
      and heels in air; he answered like a little man; and I guess he's getting
      around. I believe, Loudon, we'll give Trent a chance. Trent was in it; he
      was in it up to the neck; even if he couldn't buy, he could give us the
      straight tip.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think so, too,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;Where shall we find him?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;British consulate, of course,&rdquo; said Jim. &ldquo;And that's
      another reason for taking him first. We can hustle that schooner up all
      evening; but when the consulate's shut, it's shut.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      At the consulate, we learned that Captain Trent had alighted (such is I
      believe the classic phrase) at the What Cheer House. To that large and
      unaristocratic hostelry we drove, and addressed ourselves to a large
      clerk, who was chewing a toothpick and looking straight before him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Captain Jacob Trent?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gone,&rdquo; said the clerk.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where has he gone?&rdquo; asked Pinkerton.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Cain't say,&rdquo; said the clerk.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When did he go?&rdquo; I asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't know,&rdquo; said the clerk, and with the simplicity of a
      monarch offered us the spectacle of his broad back.
    </p>
    <p>
      What might have happened next I dread to picture, for Pinkerton's
      excitement had been growing steadily, and now burned dangerously high; but
      we were spared extremities by the intervention of a second clerk.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why! Mr. Dodd!&rdquo; he exclaimed, running forward to the counter.
      &ldquo;Glad to see you, sir! Can I do anything in your way?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      How virtuous actions blossom! Here was a young man to whose pleased ears I
      had rehearsed <i>Just before the battle, mother,</i> at some weekly
      picnic; and now, in that tense moment of my life, he came (from the
      machine) to be my helper.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Captain Trent, of the wreck? O yes, Mr. Dodd; he left about twelve;
      he and another of the men. The Kanaka went earlier by the City of Pekin; I
      know that; I remember expressing his chest. Captain Trent? I'll inquire,
      Mr. Dodd. Yes, they were all here. Here are the names on the register;
      perhaps you would care to look at them while I go and see about the
      baggage?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      I drew the book toward me, and stood looking at the four names all written
      in the same hand, rather a big and rather a bad one: Trent, Brown, Hardy,
      and (instead of Ah Sing) Jos. Amalu.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pinkerton,&rdquo; said I, suddenly, &ldquo;have you that <i>Occidental</i>
      in your pocket?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never left me,&rdquo; said Pinkerton, producing the paper.
    </p>
    <p>
      I turned to the account of the wreck. &ldquo;Here,&rdquo; said I; &ldquo;here's
      the name. 'Elias Goddedaal, mate.' Why do we never come across Elias
      Goddedaal?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's so,&rdquo; said Jim. &ldquo;Was he with the rest in that
      saloon when you saw them?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't believe it,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;They were only four, and
      there was none that behaved like a mate.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      At this moment the clerk returned with his report.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The captain,&rdquo; it appeared, &ldquo;came with some kind of an
      express waggon, and he and the man took off three chests and a big
      satchel. Our porter helped to put them on, but they drove the cart
      themselves. The porter thinks they went down town. It was about one.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Still in time for the City of Pekin,&rdquo; observed Jim.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How many of them were here?&rdquo; I inquired.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Three, sir, and the Kanaka,&rdquo; replied the clerk. &ldquo;I
      can't somehow fin out about the third, but he's gone too.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Goddedaal, the mate, wasn't here then?&rdquo; I asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Mr. Dodd, none but what you see,&rdquo; says the clerk.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nor you never heard where he was?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. Any particular reason for finding these men, Mr. Dodd?&rdquo;
      inquired the clerk.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This gentleman and I have bought the wreck,&rdquo; I explained;
      &ldquo;we wished to get some information, and it is very annoying to find
      the men all gone.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      A certain group had gradually formed about us, for the wreck was still a
      matter of interest; and at this, one of the bystanders, a rough seafaring
      man, spoke suddenly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I guess the mate won't be gone,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;He's main
      sick; never left the sick-bay aboard the Tempest; so they tell ME.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Jim took me by the sleeve. &ldquo;Back to the consulate,&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      But even at the consulate nothing was known of Mr. Goddedaal. The doctor
      of the Tempest had certified him very sick; he had sent his papers in, but
      never appeared in person before the authorities.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you a telephone laid on to the Tempest?&rdquo; asked
      Pinkerton.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Laid on yesterday,&rdquo; said the clerk.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you mind asking, or letting me ask? We are very anxious to get
      hold of Mr. Goddedaal.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All right,&rdquo; said the clerk, and turned to the telephone.
      &ldquo;I'm sorry,&rdquo; he said presently, &ldquo;Mr. Goddedaal has left
      the ship, and no one knows where he is.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you pay the men's passage home?&rdquo; I inquired, a sudden
      thought striking me.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If they want it,&rdquo; said the clerk; &ldquo;sometimes they
      don't. But we paid the Kanaka's passage to Honolulu this morning; and by
      what Captain Trent was saying, I understand the rest are going home
      together.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then you haven't paid them?&rdquo; said I.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not yet,&rdquo; said the clerk.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you would be a good deal surprised, if I were to tell you they
      were gone already?&rdquo; I asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, I should think you were mistaken,&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Such is the fact, however,&rdquo; said I.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am sure you must be mistaken,&rdquo; he repeated.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;May I use your telephone one moment?&rdquo; asked Pinkerton; and as
      soon as permission had been granted, I heard him ring up the
      printing-office where our advertisements were usually handled. More I did
      not hear; for suddenly recalling the big, bad hand in the register of the
      What Cheer House, I asked the consulate clerk if he had a specimen of
      Captain Trent's writing. Whereupon I learned that the captain could not
      write, having cut his hand open a little before the loss of the brig; that
      the latter part of the log even had been written up by Mr. Goddedaal; and
      that Trent had always signed with his left hand. By the time I had gleaned
      this information, Pinkerton was ready.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's all that we can do. Now for the schooner,&rdquo; said he;
      &ldquo;and by to-morrow evening I lay hands on Goddedaal, or my name's not
      Pinkerton.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How have you managed?&rdquo; I inquired.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You'll see before you get to bed,&rdquo; said Pinkerton. &ldquo;And
      now, after all this backwarding and forwarding, and that hotel clerk, and
      that bug Bellairs, it'll be a change and a kind of consolation to see the
      schooner. I guess things are humming there.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      But on the wharf, when we reached it, there was no sign of bustle, and,
      but for the galley smoke, no mark of life on the Norah Creina. Pinkerton's
      face grew pale, and his mouth straightened, as he leaped on board.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where's the captain of this&mdash;&mdash;?&rdquo; and he left the
      phrase unfinished, finding no epithet sufficiently energetic for his
      thoughts.
    </p>
    <p>
      It did not appear whom or what he was addressing; but a head, presumably
      the cook's, appeared in answer at the galley door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In the cabin, at dinner,&rdquo; said the cook deliberately, chewing
      as he spoke.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is that cargo out?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, sir.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;None of it?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, there's some of it out. We'll get at the rest of it livelier
      to-morrow, I guess.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I guess there'll be something broken first,&rdquo; said Pinkerton,
      and strode to the cabin.
    </p>
    <p>
      Here we found a man, fat, dark, and quiet, seated gravely at what seemed a
      liberal meal. He looked up upon our entrance; and seeing Pinkerton
      continue to stand facing him in silence, hat on head, arms folded, and
      lips compressed, an expression of mingled wonder and annoyance began to
      dawn upon his placid face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well!&rdquo; said Jim; &ldquo;and so this is what you call rushing
      around?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who are you?&rdquo; cries the captain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Me! I'm Pinkerton!&rdquo; retorted Jim, as though the name had been
      a talisman.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You're not very civil, whoever you are,&rdquo; was the reply. But
      still a certain effect had been produced, for he scrambled to his feet,
      and added hastily, &ldquo;A man must have a bit of dinner, you know, Mr.
      Pinkerton.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where's your mate?&rdquo; snapped Jim.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He's up town,&rdquo; returned the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Up town!&rdquo; sneered Pinkerton. &ldquo;Now, I'll tell you what
      you are: you're a Fraud; and if I wasn't afraid of dirtying my boot, I
      would kick you and your dinner into that dock.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll tell you something, too,&rdquo; retorted the captain, duskily
      flushing. &ldquo;I wouldn't sail this ship for the man you are, if you
      went upon your knees. I've dealt with gentlemen up to now.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can tell you the names of a number of gentlemen you'll never deal
      with any more, and that's the whole of Longhurst's gang,&rdquo; said Jim.
      &ldquo;I'll put your pipe out in that quarter, my friend. Here, rout out
      your traps as quick as look at it, and take your vermin along with you.
      I'll have a captain in, this very night, that's a sailor, and some sailors
      to work for him.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll go when I please, and that's to-morrow morning,&rdquo; cried
      the captain after us, as we departed for the shore.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There's something gone wrong with the world to-day; it must have
      come bottom up!&rdquo; wailed Pinkerton. &ldquo;Bellairs, and then the
      hotel clerk, and now This Fraud! And what am I to do for a captain,
      Loudon, with Longhurst gone home an hour ago, and the boys all scattered?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;Jump in!&rdquo; And then to the
      driver: &ldquo;Do you know Black Tom's?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Thither then we rattled; passed through the bar, and found (as I had
      hoped) Johnson in the enjoyment of club life. The table had been thrust
      upon one side; a South Sea merchant was discoursing music from a
      mouth-organ in one corner; and in the middle of the floor Johnson and a
      fellow-seaman, their arms clasped about each other's bodies, somewhat
      heavily danced. The room was both cold and close; a jet of gas, which
      continually menaced the heads of the performers, shed a coarse
      illumination; the mouth-organ sounded shrill and dismal; and the faces of
      all concerned were church-like in their gravity. It were, of course,
      indelicate to interrupt these solemn frolics; so we edged ourselves to
      chairs, for all the world like belated comers in a concert-room, and
      patiently waited for the end. At length the organist, having exhausted his
      supply of breath, ceased abruptly in the middle of a bar. With the
      cessation of the strain, the dancers likewise came to a full stop, swayed
      a moment, still embracing, and then separated and looked about the circle
      for applause.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well danced!&rdquo; said one; but it appears the compliment
      was not strong enough for the performers, who (forgetful of the proverb)
      took up the tale in person.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said Johnson. &ldquo;I mayn't be no sailor, but I can
      dance!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And his late partner, with an almost pathetic conviction, added, &ldquo;My
      foot is as light as a feather.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Seeing how the wind set, you may be sure I added a few words of praise
      before I carried Johnson alone into the passage: to whom, thus mollified,
      I told so much as I judged needful of our situation, and begged him, if he
      would not take the job himself, to find me a smart man.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Me!&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;I couldn't no more do it than I could
      try to go to hell!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thought you were a mate?&rdquo; said I.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So I am a mate,&rdquo; giggled Johnson, &ldquo;and you don't catch
      me shipping noways else. But I'll tell you what, I believe I can get you
      Arty Nares: you seen Arty; first-rate navigator and a son of a gun for
      style.&rdquo; And he proceeded to explain to me that Mr. Nares, who had
      the promise of a fine barque in six months, after things had quieted down,
      was in the meantime living very private, and would be pleased to have a
      change of air.
    </p>
    <p>
      I called out Pinkerton and told him. &ldquo;Nares!&rdquo; he cried, as
      soon as I had come to the name. &ldquo;I would jump at the chance of a man
      that had had Nares's trousers on! Why, Loudon, he's the smartest
      deep-water mate out of San Francisco, and draws his dividends regular in
      service and out.&rdquo; This hearty indorsation clinched the proposal;
      Johnson agreed to produce Nares before six the following morning; and
      Black Tom, being called into the consultation, promised us four smart
      hands for the same hour, and even (what appeared to all of us excessive)
      promised them sober.
    </p>
    <p>
      The streets were fully lighted when we left Black Tom's: street after
      street sparkling with gas or electricity, line after line of distant
      luminaries climbing the steep sides of hills towards the overvaulting
      darkness; and on the other hand, where the waters of the bay invisibly
      trembled, a hundred riding lanterns marked the position of a hundred
      ships. The sea-fog flew high in heaven; and at the level of man's life and
      business it was clear and chill. By silent consent, we paid the hack off,
      and proceeded arm in arm towards the Poodle Dog for dinner.
    </p>
    <p>
      At one of the first hoardings, I was aware of a bill-sticker at work: it
      was a late hour for this employment, and I checked Pinkerton until the
      sheet should be unfolded. This is what I read:&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     TWO HUNDRED DOLLARS REWARD.

     OFFICERS AND MEN OF THE

     WRECKED BRIG FLYING SCUD

     APPLYING,

     PERSONALLY OR BY LETTER,

     AT THE OFFICE OF JAMES PINKERTON, MONTANA
     BLOCK,

     BEFORE NOON TO-MORROW, TUESDAY, 12TH,

     WILL RECEIVE

     TWO HUNDRED DOLLARS REWARD.
</pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is your idea, Pinkerton!&rdquo; I cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. They've lost no time; I'll say that for them&mdash;not like
      the Fraud,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;But mind you, Loudon, that's not half of
      it. The cream of the idea's here: we know our man's sick; well, a copy of
      that has been mailed to every hospital, every doctor, and every drug-store
      in San Francisco.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Of course, from the nature of our business, Pinkerton could do a thing of
      the kind at a figure extremely reduced; for all that, I was appalled at
      the extravagance, and said so.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What matter a few dollars now?&rdquo; he replied sadly. &ldquo;It's
      in three months that the pull comes, Loudon.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      We walked on again in silence, not without a shiver. Even at the Poodle
      Dog, we took our food with small appetite and less speech; and it was not
      until he was warmed with a third glass of champagne that Pinkerton cleared
      his throat and looked upon me with a deprecating eye.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Loudon,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;there was a subject you didn't wish
      to be referred to. I only want to do so indirectly. It wasn't&rdquo;&mdash;he
      faltered&mdash;&ldquo;it wasn't because you were dissatisfied with me?&rdquo;
      he concluded, with a quaver.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pinkerton!&rdquo; cried I.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no, not a word just now,&rdquo; he hastened to proceed. &ldquo;Let
      me speak first. I appreciate, though I can't imitate, the delicacy of your
      nature; and I can well understand you would rather die than speak of it,
      and yet might feel disappointed. I did think I could have done better
      myself. But when I found how tight money was in this city, and a man like
      Douglas B. Longhurst&mdash;a forty-niner, the man that stood at bay in a
      corn patch for five hours against the San Diablo squatters&mdash;weakening
      on the operation, I tell you, Loudon, I began to despair; and&mdash;I may
      have made mistakes, no doubt there are thousands who could have done
      better&mdash;but I give you a loyal hand on it, I did my best.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My poor Jim,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;as if I ever doubted you! as if
      I didn't know you had done wonders! All day I've been admiring your energy
      and resource. And as for that affair&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Loudon, no more, not a word more! I don't want to hear,&rdquo;
      cried Jim.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, to tell you the truth, I don't want to tell you,&rdquo; said
      I; &ldquo;for it's a thing I'm ashamed of.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ashamed, Loudon? O, don't say that; don't use such an expression
      even in jest!&rdquo; protested Pinkerton.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you never do anything you're ashamed of?&rdquo; I inquired.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; says he, rolling his eyes. &ldquo;Why? I'm sometimes
      sorry afterwards, when it pans out different from what I figured. But I
      can't see what I would want to be ashamed for.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      I sat a while considering with admiration the simplicity of my friend's
      character. Then I sighed. &ldquo;Do you know, Jim, what I'm sorriest for?&rdquo;
      said I. &ldquo;At this rate, I can't be best man at your marriage.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My marriage!&rdquo; he repeated, echoing the sigh. &ldquo;No
      marriage for me now. I'm going right down to-night to break it to her. I
      think that's what's shaken me all day. I feel as if I had had no right
      (after I was engaged) to operate so widely.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, you know, Jim, it was my doing, and you must lay the blame on
      me,&rdquo; said I.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not a cent of it!&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;I was as eager as
      yourself, only not so bright at the beginning. No; I've myself to thank
      for it; but it's a wrench.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      While Jim departed on his dolorous mission, I returned alone to the
      office, lit the gas, and sat down to reflect on the events of that
      momentous day: on the strange features of the tale that had been so far
      unfolded, the disappearances, the terrors, the great sums of money; and on
      the dangerous and ungrateful task that awaited me in the immediate future.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is difficult, in the retrospect of such affairs, to avoid attributing
      to ourselves in the past a measure of the knowledge we possess to-day. But
      I may say, and yet be well within the mark, that I was consumed that night
      with a fever of suspicion and curiosity; exhausted my fancy in solutions,
      which I still dismissed as incommensurable with the facts; and in the
      mystery by which I saw myself surrounded, found a precious stimulus for my
      courage and a convenient soothing draught for conscience. Even had all
      been plain sailing, I do not hint that I should have drawn back. Smuggling
      is one of the meanest of crimes, for by that we rob a whole country pro
      rata, and are therefore certain to impoverish the poor: to smuggle opium
      is an offence particularly dark, since it stands related not so much to
      murder, as to massacre. Upon all these points I was quite clear; my
      sympathy was all in arms against my interest; and had not Jim been
      involved, I could have dwelt almost with satisfaction on the idea of my
      failure. But Jim, his whole fortune, and his marriage, depended upon my
      success; and I preferred the interests of my friend before those of all
      the islanders in the South Seas. This is a poor, private morality, if you
      like; but it is mine, and the best I have; and I am not half so much
      ashamed of having embarked at all on this adventure, as I am proud that
      (while I was in it, and for the sake of my friend) I was up early and down
      late, set my own hand to everything, took dangers as they came, and for
      once in my life played the man throughout. At the same time, I could have
      desired another field of energy; and I was the more grateful for the
      redeeming element of mystery. Without that, though I might have gone ahead
      and done as well, it would scarce have been with ardour; and what inspired
      me that night with an impatient greed of the sea, the island, and the
      wreck, was the hope that I might stumble there upon the answer to a
      hundred questions, and learn why Captain Trent fanned his red face in the
      exchange, and why Mr. Dickson fled from the telephone in the Mission
      Street lodging-house.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011">
       <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XI. IN WHICH JIM AND I TAKE DIFFERENT WAYS.
    </h2>
    <p>
      I was unhappy when I closed my eyes; and it was to unhappiness that I
      opened them again next morning, to a confused sense of some calamity still
      inarticulate, and to the consciousness of jaded limbs and of a swimming
      head. I must have lain for some time inert and stupidly miserable, before
      I became aware of a reiterated knocking at the door; with which discovery
      all my wits flowed back in their accustomed channels, and I remembered the
      sale, and the wreck, and Goddedaal, and Nares, and Johnson, and Black Tom,
      and the troubles of yesterday, and the manifold engagements of the day
      that was to come. The thought thrilled me like a trumpet in the hour of
      battle. In a moment, I had leaped from bed, crossed the office where
      Pinkerton lay in a deep trance of sleep on the convertible sofa, and stood
      in the doorway, in my night gear, to receive our visitors.
    </p>
    <p>
      Johnson was first, by way of usher, smiling. From a little behind, with
      his Sunday hat tilted forward over his brow, and a cigar glowing between
      his lips, Captain Nares acknowledged our previous acquaintance with a
      succinct nod. Behind him again, in the top of the stairway, a knot of
      sailors, the new crew of the Norah Creina, stood polishing the wall with
      back and elbow. These I left without to their reflections. But our two
      officers I carried at once into the office, where (taking Jim by the
      shoulder) I shook him slowly into consciousness. He sat up, all abroad for
      the moment, and stared on the new captain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jim,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;this is Captain Nares. Captain, Mr.
      Pinkerton.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Nares repeated his curt nod, still without speech; and I thought he held
      us both under a watchful scrutiny.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O!&rdquo; says Jim, &ldquo;this is Captain Nares, is it? Good
      morning, Captain Nares. Happy to have the pleasure of your acquaintance,
      sir. I know you well by reputation.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Perhaps, under the circumstances of the moment, this was scarce a welcome
      speech. At least, Nares received it with a grunt.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Captain,&rdquo; Jim continued, &ldquo;you know about the size
      of the business? You're to take the Nora Creina to Midway Island, break up
      a wreck, call at Honolulu, and back to this port? I suppose that's
      understood?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; returned Nares, with the same unamiable reserve,
      &ldquo;for a reason, which I guess you know, the cruise may suit me; but
      there's a point or two to settle. We shall have to talk, Mr. Pinkerton.
      But whether I go or not, somebody will; there's no sense in losing time;
      and you might give Mr. Johnson a note, let him take the hands right down,
      and set to to overhaul the rigging. The beasts look sober,&rdquo; he
      added, with an air of great disgust, &ldquo;and need putting to work to
      keep them so.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      This being agreed upon, Nares watched his subordinate depart and drew a
      visible breath.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And now we're alone and can talk,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;What's
      this thing about? It's been advertised like Barnum's museum; that poster
      of yours has set the Front talking; that's an objection in itself, for I'm
      laying a little dark just now; and anyway, before I take the ship, I
      require to know what I'm going after.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Thereupon Pinkerton gave him the whole tale, beginning with a businesslike
      precision, and working himself up, as he went on, to the boiling-point of
      narrative enthusiasm. Nares sat and smoked, hat still on head, and
      acknowledged each fresh feature of the story with a frowning nod. But his
      pale blue eyes betrayed him, and lighted visibly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now you see for yourself,&rdquo; Pinkerton concluded: &ldquo;there's
      every last chance that Trent has skipped to Honolulu, and it won't take
      much of that fifty thousand dollars to charter a smart schooner down to
      Midway. Here's where I want a man!&rdquo; cried Jim, with contagious
      energy. &ldquo;That wreck's mine; I've paid for it, money down; and if
      it's got to be fought for, I want to see it fought for lively. If you're
      not back in ninety days, I tell you plainly, I'll make one of the biggest
      busts ever seen upon this coast; it's life or death for Mr. Dodd and me.
      As like as not, it'll come to grapples on the island; and when I heard
      your name last night&mdash;and a blame' sight more this morning when I saw
      the eye you've got in your head&mdash;I said, 'Nares is good enough for
      me!'&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I guess,&rdquo; observed Nares, studying the ash of his cigar,
      &ldquo;the sooner I get that schooner outside the Farallones, the better
      you'll be pleased.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You're the man I dreamed of!&rdquo; cried Jim, bouncing on the bed.
      &ldquo;There's not five per cent of fraud in all your carcase.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just hold on,&rdquo; said Nares. &ldquo;There's another point. I
      heard some talk about a supercargo.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's Mr. Dodd, here, my partner,&rdquo; said Jim.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't see it,&rdquo; returned the captain drily. &ldquo;One
      captain's enough for any ship that ever I was aboard.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now don't you start disappointing me,&rdquo; said Pinkerton;
      &ldquo;for you're talking without thought. I'm not going to give you the
      run of the books of this firm, am I? I guess not. Well, this is not only a
      cruise; it's a business operation; and that's in the hands of my partner.
      You sail that ship, you see to breaking up that wreck and keeping the men
      upon the jump, and you'll find your hands about full. Only, no mistake
      about one thing: it has to be done to Mr. Dodd's satisfaction; for it's
      Mr. Dodd that's paying.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm accustomed to give satisfaction,&rdquo; said Mr. Nares, with a
      dark flush.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And so you will here!&rdquo; cried Pinkerton. &ldquo;I understand
      you. You're prickly to handle, but you're straight all through.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The position's got to be understood, though,&rdquo; returned Nares,
      perhaps a trifle mollified. &ldquo;My position, I mean. I'm not going to
      ship sailing-master; it's enough out of my way already, to set a foot on
      this mosquito schooner.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I'll tell you,&rdquo; retorted Jim, with an indescribable
      twinkle: &ldquo;you just meet me on the ballast, and we'll make it a
      barquentine.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Nares laughed a little; tactless Pinkerton had once more gained a victory
      in tact. &ldquo;Then there's another point,&rdquo; resumed the captain,
      tacitly relinquishing the last. &ldquo;How about the owners?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, you leave that to me; I'm one of Longhurst's crowd, you know,&rdquo;
      said Jim, with sudden bristling vanity. &ldquo;Any man that's good enough
      for me, is good enough for them.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who are they?&rdquo; asked Nares.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;M'Intyre and Spittal,&rdquo; said Jim.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, well, give me a card of yours,&rdquo; said the captain: &ldquo;you
      needn't bother to write; I keep M'Intyre and Spittal in my vest-pocket.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Boast for boast; it was always thus with Nares and Pinkerton&mdash;the two
      vainest men of my acquaintance. And having thus reinstated himself in his
      own opinion, the captain rose, and, with a couple of his stiff nods,
      departed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jim,&rdquo; I cried, as the door closed behind him, &ldquo;I don't
      like that man.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You've just got to, Loudon,&rdquo; returned Jim. &ldquo;He's a
      typical American seaman&mdash;brave as a lion, full of resource, and
      stands high with his owners. He's a man with a record.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For brutality at sea,&rdquo; said I.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Say what you like,&rdquo; exclaimed Pinkerton, &ldquo;it was a good
      hour we got him in: I'd trust Mamie's life to him to-morrow.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, and talking of Mamie?&rdquo; says I.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jim paused with his trousers half on. &ldquo;She's the gallantest little
      soul God ever made!&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;Loudon, I'd meant to knock you
      up last night, and I hope you won't take it unfriendly that I didn't. I
      went in and looked at you asleep; and I saw you were all broken up, and
      let you be. The news would keep, anyway; and even you, Loudon, couldn't
      feel it the same way as I did.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What news?&rdquo; I asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's this way,&rdquo; says Jim. &ldquo;I told her how we stood, and
      that I backed down from marrying. 'Are you tired of me?' says she: God
      bless her! Well, I explained the whole thing over again, the chance of
      smash, your absence unavoidable, the point I made of having you for the
      best man, and that. 'If you're not tired of me, I think I see one way to
      manage,' says she. 'Let's get married to-morrow, and Mr. Loudon can be
      best man before he goes to sea.' That's how she said it, crisp and bright,
      like one of Dickens's characters. It was no good for me to talk about the
      smash. 'You'll want me all the more,' she said. Loudon, I only pray I can
      make it up to her; I prayed for it last night beside your bed, while you
      lay sleeping&mdash;for you, and Mamie and myself; and&mdash;I don't know
      if you quite believe in prayer, I'm a bit Ingersollian myself&mdash;but a
      kind of sweetness came over me, and I couldn't help but think it was an
      answer. Never was a man so lucky! You and me and Mamie; it's a triple
      cord, Loudon. If either of you were to die! And she likes you so much, and
      thinks you so accomplished and distingue-looking, and was just as set as I
      was to have you for best man. 'Mr. Loudon,' she calls you; seems to me so
      friendly! And she sat up till three in the morning fixing up a costume for
      the marriage; it did me good to see her, Loudon, and to see that needle
      going, going, and to say 'All this hurry, Jim, is just to marry you!' I
      couldn't believe it; it was so like some blame' fairy story. To think of
      those old tin-type times about turned my head; I was so unrefined then,
      and so illiterate, and so lonesome; and here I am in clover, and I'm
      blamed if I can see what I've done to deserve it.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      So he poured forth with innocent volubility the fulness of his heart; and
      I, from these irregular communications, must pick out, here a little and
      there a little, the particulars of his new plan. They were to be married,
      sure enough, that day; the wedding breakfast was to be at Frank's; the
      evening to be passed in a visit of God-speed aboard the Norah Creina; and
      then we were to part, Jim and I, he to his married life, I on my
      sea-enterprise. If ever I cherished an ill-feeling for Miss Mamie, I
      forgave her now; so brave and kind, so pretty and venturesome, was her
      decision. The weather frowned overhead with a leaden sky, and San
      Francisco had never (in all my experience) looked so bleak and gaunt, and
      shoddy, and crazy, like a city prematurely old; but through all my
      wanderings and errands to and fro, by the dock side or in the jostling
      street, among rude sounds and ugly sights, there ran in my mind, like a
      tiny strain of music, the thought of my friend's happiness.
    </p>
    <p>
      For that was indeed a day of many and incongruous occupations. Breakfast
      was scarce swallowed before Jim must run to the City Hall and Frank's
      about the cares of marriage, and I hurry to John Smith's upon the account
      of stores, and thence, on a visit of certification, to the Norah Creina.
      Methought she looked smaller than ever, sundry great ships overspiring her
      from close without. She was already a nightmare of disorder; and the wharf
      alongside was piled with a world of casks, and cases, and tins, and tools,
      and coils of rope, and miniature barrels of giant powder, such as it
      seemed no human ingenuity could stuff on board of her. Johnson was in the
      waist, in a red shirt and dungaree trousers, his eye kindled with
      activity. With him I exchanged a word or two; thence stepped aft along the
      narrow alleyway between the house and the rail, and down the companion to
      the main cabin, where the captain sat with the commissioner at wine.
    </p>
    <p>
      I gazed with disaffection at the little box which for many a day I was to
      call home. On the starboard was a stateroom for the captain; on the port,
      a pair of frowsy berths, one over the other, and abutting astern upon the
      side of an unsavoury cupboard. The walls were yellow and damp, the floor
      black and greasy; there was a prodigious litter of straw, old newspapers,
      and broken packing-cases; and by way of ornament, only a glass-rack, a
      thermometer presented &ldquo;with compliments&rdquo; of some advertising
      whiskey-dealer, and a swinging lamp. It was hard to foresee that, before a
      week was up, I should regard that cabin as cheerful, lightsome, airy, and
      even spacious.
    </p>
    <p>
      I was presented to the commissioner, and to a young friend of his whom he
      had brought with him for the purpose (apparently) of smoking cigars; and
      after we had pledged one another in a glass of California port, a trifle
      sweet and sticky for a morning beverage, the functionary spread his papers
      on the table, and the hands were summoned. Down they trooped, accordingly,
      into the cabin; and stood eyeing the ceiling or the floor, the picture of
      sheepish embarrassment, and with a common air of wanting to expectorate
      and not quite daring. In admirable contrast, stood the Chinese cook, easy,
      dignified, set apart by spotless raiment, the hidalgo of the seas.
    </p>
    <p>
      I daresay you never had occasion to assist at the farce which followed.
      Our shipping laws in the United States (thanks to the inimitable Dana) are
      conceived in a spirit of paternal stringency, and proceed throughout on
      the hypothesis that poor Jack is an imbecile, and the other parties to the
      contract, rogues and ruffians. A long and wordy paper of precautions, a
      fo'c's'le bill of rights, must be read separately to each man. I had now
      the benefit of hearing it five times in brisk succession; and you would
      suppose I was acquainted with its contents. But the commissioner (worthy
      man) spends his days in doing little else; and when we bear in mind the
      parallel case of the irreverent curate, we need not be surprised that he
      took the passage tempo prestissimo, in one roulade of gabble&mdash;that I,
      with the trained attention of an educated man, could gather but a fraction
      of its import&mdash;and the sailors nothing. No profanity in giving
      orders, no sheath-knives, Midway Island and any other port the master may
      direct, not to exceed six calendar months, and to this port to be paid
      off: so it seemed to run, with surprising verbiage; so ended. And with the
      end, the commissioner, in each case, fetched a deep breath, resumed his
      natural voice, and proceeded to business. &ldquo;Now, my man,&rdquo; he
      would say, &ldquo;you ship A. B. at so many dollars, American gold coin.
      Sign your name here, if you have one, and can write.&rdquo; Whereupon, and
      the name (with infinite hard breathing) being signed, the commissioner
      would proceed to fill in the man's appearance, height, etc., on the
      official form. In this task of literary portraiture he seemed to rely
      wholly upon temperament; for I could not perceive him to cast one glance
      on any of his models. He was assisted, however, by a running commentary
      from the captain: &ldquo;Hair blue and eyes red, nose five foot seven, and
      stature broken&rdquo;&mdash;jests as old, presumably, as the American
      marine; and, like the similar pleasantries of the billiard board,
      perennially relished. The highest note of humour was reached in the case
      of the Chinese cook, who was shipped under the name of &ldquo;One Lung,&rdquo;
      to the sound of his own protests and the self-approving chuckles of the
      functionary.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, captain,&rdquo; said the latter, when the men were gone, and
      he had bundled up his papers, &ldquo;the law requires you to carry a
      slop-chest and a chest of medicines.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I guess I know that,&rdquo; said Nares.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I guess you do,&rdquo; returned the commissioner, and helped
      himself to port.
    </p>
    <p>
      But when he was gone, I appealed to Nares on the same subject, for I was
      well aware we carried none of these provisions.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; drawled Nares, &ldquo;there's sixty pounds of
      niggerhead on the quay, isn't there? and twenty pounds of salts; and I
      never travel without some painkiller in my gripsack.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      As a matter of fact, we were richer. The captain had the usual sailor's
      provision of quack medicines, with which, in the usual sailor fashion, he
      would daily drug himself, displaying an extreme inconstancy, and flitting
      from Kennedy's Red Discovery to Kennedy's White, and from Hood's
      Sarsaparilla to Mother Seigel's Syrup. And there were, besides, some
      mildewed and half-empty bottles, the labels obliterated, over which Nares
      would sometimes sniff and speculate. &ldquo;Seems to smell like diarrhoea
      stuff,&rdquo; he would remark. &ldquo;I wish't I knew, and I would try it.&rdquo;
      But the slop-chest was indeed represented by the plugs of niggerhead, and
      nothing else. Thus paternal laws are made, thus they are evaded; and the
      schooner put to sea, like plenty of her neighbours, liable to a fine of
      six hundred dollars.
    </p>
    <p>
      This characteristic scene, which has delayed me overlong, was but a moment
      in that day of exercise and agitation. To fit out a schooner for sea, and
      improvise a marriage between dawn and dusk, involves heroic effort. All
      day Jim and I ran, and tramped, and laughed, and came near crying, and
      fell in sudden anxious consultations, and were sped (with a prepared
      sarcasm on our lips) to some fallacious milliner, and made dashes to the
      schooner and John Smith's, and at every second corner were reminded (by
      our own huge posters) of our desperate estate. Between whiles, I had found
      the time to hover at some half-a-dozen jewellers' windows; and my present,
      thus intemperately chosen, was graciously accepted. I believe, indeed,
      that was the last (though not the least) of my concerns, before the old
      minister, shabby and benign, was routed from his house and led to the
      office like a performing poodle; and there, in the growing dusk, under the
      cold glitter of Thirteen Star, two hundred strong, and beside the garish
      glories of the agricultural engine, Mamie and Jim were made one. The scene
      was incongruous, but the business pretty, whimsical, and affecting: the
      typewriters with such kindly faces and fine posies, Mamie so demure, and
      Jim&mdash;how shall I describe that poor, transfigured Jim? He began by
      taking the minister aside to the far end of the office. I knew not what he
      said, but I have reason to believe he was protesting his unfitness; for he
      wept as he said it: and the old minister, himself genuinely moved, was
      heard to console and encourage him, and at one time to use this
      expression: &ldquo;I assure you, Mr. Pinkerton, there are not many who can
      say so much&rdquo;&mdash;from which I gathered that my friend had tempered
      his self-accusations with at least one legitimate boast. From this ghostly
      counselling, Jim turned to me; and though he never got beyond the
      explosive utterance of my name and one fierce handgrip, communicated some
      of his own emotion, like a charge of electricity, to his best man. We
      stood up to the ceremony at last, in a general and kindly discomposure.
      Jim was all abroad; and the divine himself betrayed his sympathy in voice
      and demeanour, and concluded with a fatherly allocution, in which he
      congratulated Mamie (calling her &ldquo;my dear&rdquo;) upon the fortune
      of an excellent husband, and protested he had rarely married a more
      interesting couple. At this stage, like a glory descending, there was
      handed in, ex machina, the card of Douglas B. Longhurst, with
      congratulations and four dozen Perrier-Jouet. A bottle was opened; and the
      minister pledged the bride, and the bridesmaids simpered and tasted, and I
      made a speech with airy bacchanalianism, glass in hand. But poor Jim must
      leave the wine untasted. &ldquo;Don't touch it,&rdquo; I had found the
      opportunity to whisper; &ldquo;in your state it will make you as drunk as
      a fiddler.&rdquo; And Jim had wrung my hand with a &ldquo;God bless you,
      Loudon!&mdash;saved me again!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Hard following upon this, the supper passed off at Frank's with somewhat
      tremulous gaiety. And thence, with one half of the Perrier-Jouet&mdash;I
      would accept no more&mdash;we voyaged in a hack to the Norah Creina.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What a dear little ship!&rdquo; cried Mamie, as our miniature craft
      was pointed out to her. And then, on second thought, she turned to the
      best man. &ldquo;And how brave you must be, Mr. Dodd,&rdquo; she cried,
      &ldquo;to go in that tiny thing so far upon the ocean!&rdquo; And I
      perceived I had risen in the lady's estimation.
    </p>
    <p>
      The dear little ship presented a horrid picture of confusion, and its
      occupants of weariness and ill-humour. From the cabin the cook was storing
      tins into the lazarette, and the four hands, sweaty and sullen, were
      passing them from one to another from the waist. Johnson was three parts
      asleep over the table; and in his bunk, in his own cabin, the captain
      sourly chewed and puffed at a cigar.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;See here,&rdquo; he said, rising; &ldquo;you'll be sorry you came.
      We can't stop work if we're to get away to-morrow. A ship getting ready
      for sea is no place for people, anyway. You'll only interrupt my men.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      I was on the point of answering something tart; but Jim, who was
      acquainted with the breed, as he was with most things that had a bearing
      on affairs, made haste to pour in oil.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Captain,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;I know we're a nuisance here, and
      that you've had a rough time. But all we want is that you should drink one
      glass of wine with us, Perrier-Jouet, from Longhurst, on the occasion of
      my marriage, and Loudon's&mdash;Mr. Dodd's&mdash;departure.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, it's your lookout,&rdquo; said Nares. &ldquo;I don't mind
      half an hour. Spell, O!&rdquo; he added to the men; &ldquo;go and kick
      your heels for half an hour, and then you can turn to again a trifle
      livelier. Johnson, see if you can't wipe off a chair for the lady.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      His tone was no more gracious than his language; but when Mamie had turned
      upon him the soft fire of her eyes, and informed him that he was the first
      sea-captain she had ever met, &ldquo;except captains of steamers, of
      course&rdquo;&mdash;she so qualified the statement&mdash;and had expressed
      a lively sense of his courage, and perhaps implied (for I suppose the arts
      of ladies are the same as those of men) a modest consciousness of his good
      looks, our bear began insensibly to soften; and it was already part as an
      apology, though still with unaffected heat of temper, that he volunteered
      some sketch of his annoyances.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A pretty mess we've had!&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;Half the stores
      were wrong; I'll wring John Smith's neck for him some of these days. Then
      two newspaper beasts came down, and tried to raise copy out of me, till I
      threatened them with the first thing handy; and then some kind of
      missionary bug, wanting to work his passage to Raiatea or somewhere. I
      told him I would take him off the wharf with the butt end of my boot, and
      he went away cursing. This vessel's been depreciated by the look of him.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      While the captain spoke, with his strange, humorous, arrogant abruptness,
      I observed Jim to be sizing him up, like a thing at once quaint and
      familiar, and with a scrutiny that was both curious and knowing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One word, dear boy,&rdquo; he said, turning suddenly to me. And
      when he had drawn me on deck, &ldquo;That man,&rdquo; says he, &ldquo;will
      carry sail till your hair grows white; but never you let on, never breathe
      a word. I know his line: he'll die before he'll take advice; and if you
      get his back up, he'll run you right under. I don't often jam in my
      advice, Loudon; and when I do, it means I'm thoroughly posted.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The little party in the cabin, so disastrously begun, finished, under the
      mellowing influence of wine and woman, in excellent feeling and with some
      hilarity. Mamie, in a plush Gainsborough hat and a gown of wine-coloured
      silk, sat, an apparent queen, among her rude surroundings and companions.
      The dusky litter of the cabin set off her radiant trimness: tarry Johnson
      was a foil to her fair beauty; she glowed in that poor place, fair as a
      star; until even I, who was not usually of her admirers, caught a spark of
      admiration; and even the captain, who was in no courtly humour, proposed
      that the scene should be commemorated by my pencil. It was the last act of
      the evening. Hurriedly as I went about my task, the half-hour had
      lengthened out to more than three before it was completed: Mamie in full
      value, the rest of the party figuring in outline only, and the artist
      himself introduced in a back view, which was pronounced a likeness. But it
      was to Mamie that I devoted the best of my attention; and it was with her
      I made my chief success.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O!&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;am I really like that? No wonder Jim
      ...&rdquo; She paused. &ldquo;Why it's just as lovely as he's good!&rdquo;
      she cried: an epigram which was appreciated, and repeated as we made our
      salutations, and called out after the retreating couple as they passed
      away under the lamplight on the wharf.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus it was that our farewells were smuggled through under an ambuscade of
      laughter, and the parting over ere I knew it was begun. The figures
      vanished, the steps died away along the silent city front; on board, the
      men had returned to their labours, the captain to his solitary cigar; and
      after that long and complex day of business and emotion, I was at last
      alone and free. It was, perhaps, chiefly fatigue that made my heart so
      heavy. I leaned at least upon the house, and stared at the foggy heaven,
      or over the rail at the wavering reflection of the lamps, like a man that
      was quite done with hope and would have welcomed the asylum of the grave.
      And all at once, as I thus stood, the City of Pekin flashed into my mind,
      racing her thirteen knots for Honolulu, with the hated Trent&mdash;perhaps
      with the mysterious Goddedaal&mdash;on board; and with the thought, the
      blood leaped and careered through all my body. It seemed no chase at all;
      it seemed we had no chance, as we lay there bound to iron pillars, and
      fooling away the precious moments over tins of beans. &ldquo;Let them get
      there first!&rdquo; I thought. &ldquo;Let them! We can't be long behind.&rdquo;
      And from that moment, I date myself a man of a rounded experience: nothing
      had lacked but this, that I should entertain and welcome the grim thought
      of bloodshed.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was long before the toil remitted in the cabin, and it was worth my
      while to get to bed; long after that, before sleep favoured me; and scarce
      a moment later (or so it seemed) when I was recalled to consciousness by
      bawling men and the jar of straining hawsers.
    </p>
    <p>
      The schooner was cast off before I got on deck. In the misty obscurity of
      the first dawn, I saw the tug heading us with glowing fires and blowing
      smoke, and heard her beat the roughened waters of the bay. Beside us, on
      her flock of hills, the lighted city towered up and stood swollen in the
      raw fog. It was strange to see her burn on thus wastefully, with
      half-quenched luminaries, when the dawn was already grown strong enough to
      show me, and to suffer me to recognise, a solitary figure standing by the
      piles.
    </p>
    <p>
      Or was it really the eye, and not rather the heart, that identified that
      shadow in the dusk, among the shoreside lamps? I know not. It was Jim, at
      least; Jim, come for a last look; and we had but time to wave a
      valedictory gesture and exchange a wordless cry. This was our second
      parting, and our capacities were now reversed. It was mine to play the
      Argonaut, to speed affairs, to plan and to accomplish&mdash;if need were,
      at the price of life; it was his to sit at home, to study the calendar,
      and to wait. I knew besides another thing that gave me joy. I knew that my
      friend had succeeded in my education; that the romance of business, if our
      fantastic purchase merited the name, had at last stirred my dilletante
      nature; and, as we swept under cloudy Tamalpais and through the roaring
      narrows of the bay, the Yankee blood sang in my veins with suspense and
      exultation.
    </p>
    <p>
      Outside the heads, as if to meet my desire, we found it blowing fresh from
      the northeast. No time had been lost. The sun was not yet up before the
      tug cast off the hawser, gave us a salute of three whistles, and turned
      homeward toward the coast, which now began to gleam along its margin with
      the earliest rays of day. There was no other ship in view when the Norah
      Creina, lying over under all plain sail, began her long and lonely voyage
      to the wreck.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012">
       <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XII. THE &ldquo;NORAH CREINA.&rdquo;
    </h2>
    <p>
      I love to recall the glad monotony of a Pacific voyage, when the trades
      are not stinted, and the ship, day after day, goes free. The mountain
      scenery of trade-wind clouds, watched (and in my case painted) under every
      vicissitude of light&mdash;blotting stars, withering in the moon's glory,
      barring the scarlet eve, lying across the dawn collapsed into the
      unfeatured morning bank, or at noon raising their snowy summits between
      the blue roof of heaven and the blue floor of sea; the small, busy, and
      deliberate world of the schooner, with its unfamiliar scenes, the spearing
      of dolphin from the bowsprit end, the holy war on sharks, the cook making
      bread on the main hatch; reefing down before a violent squall, with the
      men hanging out on the foot-ropes; the squall itself, the catch at the
      heart, the opened sluices of the sky; and the relief, the renewed
      loveliness of life, when all is over, the sun forth again, and our
      out-fought enemy only a blot upon the leeward sea. I love to recall, and
      would that I could reproduce that life, the unforgettable, the
      unrememberable. The memory, which shows so wise a backwardness in
      registering pain, is besides an imperfect recorder of extended pleasures;
      and a long-continued well-being escapes (as it were, by its mass) our
      petty methods of commemoration. On a part of our life's map there lies a
      roseate, undecipherable haze, and that is all.
    </p>
    <p>
      Of one thing, if I am at all to trust my own annals, I was delightedly
      conscious. Day after day, in the sun-gilded cabin, the whiskey-dealer's
      thermometer stood at 84. Day after day, the air had the same indescribable
      liveliness and sweetness, soft and nimble, and cool as the cheek of
      health. Day after day the sun flamed; night after night the moon beaconed,
      or the stars paraded their lustrous regiment. I was aware of a spiritual
      change, or, perhaps, rather a molecular reconstitution. My bones were
      sweeter to me. I had come home to my own climate, and looked back with
      pity on those damp and wintry zones, miscalled the temperate.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Two years of this, and comfortable quarters to live in, kind of
      shake the grit out of a man,&rdquo; the captain remarked; &ldquo;can't
      make out to be happy anywhere else. A townie of mine was lost down this
      way, in a coalship that took fire at sea. He struck the beach somewhere in
      the Navigators; and he wrote to me that when he left the place, it would
      be feet first. He's well off, too, and his father owns some coasting craft
      Down East; but Billy prefers the beach, and hot rolls off the bread-fruit
      trees.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      A voice told me I was on the same track as Billy. But when was this? Our
      outward track in the Norah Creina lay well to the northward; and perhaps
      it is but the impression of a few pet days which I have unconsciously
      spread longer, or perhaps the feeling grew upon me later, in the run to
      Honolulu. One thing I am sure: it was before I had ever seen an island
      worthy of the name that I must date my loyalty to the South Seas. The
      blank sea itself grew desirable under such skies; and wherever the
      trade-wind blows, I know no better country than a schooner's deck.
    </p>
    <p>
      But for the tugging anxiety as to the journey's end, the journey itself
      must thus have counted for the best of holidays. My physical well-being
      was over-proof; effects of sea and sky kept me for ever busy with my
      pencil; and I had no lack of intellectual exercise of a different order in
      the study of my inconsistent friend, the captain. I call him friend, here
      on the threshold; but that is to look well ahead. At first, I was too much
      horrified by what I considered his barbarities, too much puzzled by his
      shifting humours, and too frequently annoyed by his small vanities, to
      regard him otherwise than as the cross of my existence. It was only by
      degrees, in his rare hours of pleasantness, when he forgot (and made me
      forget) the weaknesses to which he was so prone, that he won me to a kind
      of unconsenting fondness. Lastly, the faults were all embraced in a more
      generous view: I saw them in their place, like discords in a musical
      progression; and accepted them and found them picturesque, as we accept
      and admire, in the habitable face of nature, the smoky head of the volcano
      or the pernicious thicket of the swamp.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was come of good people Down East, and had the beginnings of a thorough
      education. His temper had been ungovernable from the first; and it is
      likely the defect was inherited, and the blame of the rupture not entirely
      his. He ran away at least to sea; suffered horrible maltreatment, which
      seemed to have rather hardened than enlightened him; ran away again to
      shore in a South American port; proved his capacity and made money,
      although still a child; fell among thieves and was robbed; worked back a
      passage to the States, and knocked one morning at the door of an old lady
      whose orchard he had often robbed. The introduction appears insufficient;
      but Nares knew what he was doing. The sight of her old neighbourly
      depredator shivering at the door in tatters, the very oddity of his
      appeal, touched a soft spot in the spinster's heart. &ldquo;I always had a
      fancy for the old lady,&rdquo; Nares said, &ldquo;even when she used to
      stampede me out of the orchard, and shake her thimble and her old curls at
      me out of the window as I was going by; I always thought she was a kind of
      pleasant old girl. Well, when she came to the door that morning, I told
      her so, and that I was stone-broke; and she took me right in, and fetched
      out the pie.&rdquo; She clothed him, taught him, and had him to sea again
      in better shape, welcomed him to her hearth on his return from every
      cruise, and when she died bequeathed him her possessions. &ldquo;She was a
      good old girl,&rdquo; he would say. &ldquo;I tell you, Mr. Dodd, it was a
      queer thing to see me and the old lady talking a pasear in the garden, and
      the old man scowling at us over the pickets. She lived right next door to
      the old man, and I guess that's just what took me there. I wanted him to
      know that I was badly beat, you see, and would rather go to the devil than
      to him. What made the dig harder, he had quarrelled with the old lady
      about me and the orchard: I guess that made him rage. Yes, I was a beast
      when I was young. But I was always pretty good to the old lady.&rdquo;
      Since then he had prospered, not uneventfully, in his profession; the old
      lady's money had fallen in during the voyage of the Gleaner, and he was
      now, as soon as the smoke of that engagement cleared away, secure of his
      ship. I suppose he was about thirty: a powerful, active man, with a blue
      eye, a thick head of hair, about the colour of oakum and growing low over
      the brow; clean-shaved and lean about the jaw; a good singer; a good
      performer on that sea-instrument, the accordion; a quick observer, a close
      reasoner; when he pleased, of a really elegant address; and when he chose,
      the greatest brute upon the seas.
    </p>
    <p>
      His usage of the men, his hazing, his bullying, his perpetual
      fault-finding for no cause, his perpetual and brutal sarcasm, might have
      raised a mutiny in a slave galley. Suppose the steersman's eye to have
      wandered: &ldquo;You &mdash;&mdash;, &mdash;&mdash;, little, mutton-faced
      Dutchman,&rdquo; Nares would bawl; &ldquo;you want a booting to keep you
      on your course! I know a little city-front slush when I see one. Just you
      glue your eye to that compass, or I'll show you round the vessel at the
      butt-end of my boot.&rdquo; Or suppose a hand to linger aft, whither he
      had perhaps been summoned not a minute before. &ldquo;Mr. Daniells, will
      you oblige me by stepping clear of that main-sheet?&rdquo; the captain
      might begin, with truculent courtesy. &ldquo;Thank you. And perhaps you'll
      be so kind as to tell me what the hell you're doing on my quarter-deck? I
      want no dirt of your sort here. Is there nothing for you to do? Where's
      the mate? Don't you set ME to find work for you, or I'll find you some
      that will keep you on your back a fortnight.&rdquo; Such allocutions,
      conceived with a perfect knowledge of his audience, so that every insult
      carried home, were delivered with a mien so menacing, and an eye so
      fiercely cruel, that his unhappy subordinates shrank and quailed. Too
      often violence followed; too often I have heard and seen and boiled at the
      cowardly aggression; and the victim, his hands bound by law, has risen
      again from deck and crawled forward stupefied&mdash;I know not what
      passion of revenge in his wronged heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      It seems strange I should have grown to like this tyrant. It may even seem
      strange that I should have stood by and suffered his excesses to proceed.
      But I was not quite such a chicken as to interfere in public; for I would
      rather have a man or two mishandled than one half of us butchered in a
      mutiny and the rest suffer on the gallows. And in private, I was unceasing
      in my protests.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Captain,&rdquo; I once said to him, appealing to his patriotism,
      which was of a hardy quality, &ldquo;this is no way to treat American
      seamen. You don't call it American to treat men like dogs?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Americans?&rdquo; he said grimly. &ldquo;Do you call these Dutchmen
      and Scattermouches [1] Americans? I've been fourteen years to sea, all but
      one trip under American colours, and I've never laid eye on an American
      foremast hand. There used to be such things in the old days, when
      thirty-five dollars were the wages out of Boston; and then you could see
      ships handled and run the way they want to be. But that's all past and
      gone; and nowadays the only thing that flies in an American ship is a
      belaying-pin. You don't know; you haven't a guess. How would you like to
      go on deck for your middle watch, fourteen months on end, with all your
      duty to do and every one's life depending on you, and expect to get a
      knife ripped into you as you come out of your stateroom, or be sand-bagged
      as you pass the boat, or get tripped into the hold, if the hatches are off
      in fine weather? That kind of shakes the starch out of the brotherly love
      and New Jerusalem business. You go through the mill, and you'll have a
      bigger grudge against every old shellback that dirties his plate in the
      three oceans, than the Bank of California could settle up. No; it has an
      ugly look to it, but the only way to run a ship is to make yourself a
      terror.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;[1] In sea-lingo (Pacific) DUTCHMAN includes
      all Teutons and folk from the basin of the Baltic; SCATTERMOUCH, all
      Latins and Levantines.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, Captain,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;there are degrees in
      everything. You know American ships have a bad name; you know perfectly
      well if it wasn't for the high wage and the good food, there's not a man
      would ship in one if he could help; and even as it is, some prefer a
      British ship, beastly food and all.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, the lime-juicers?&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;There's plenty booting
      in lime-juicers, I guess; though I don't deny but what some of them are
      soft.&rdquo; And with that he smiled like a man recalling something.
      &ldquo;Look here, that brings a yarn in my head,&rdquo; he resumed;
      &ldquo;and for the sake of the joke, I'll give myself away. It was in
      1874, I shipped mate in the British ship Maria, from 'Frisco for
      Melbourne. She was the queerest craft in some ways that ever I was aboard
      of. The food was a caution; there was nothing fit to put your lips to&mdash;but
      the lime-juice, which was from the end bin no doubt: it used to make me
      sick to see the men's dinners, and sorry to see my own. The old man was
      good enough, I guess; Green was his name; a mild, fatherly old galoot. But
      the hands were the lowest gang I ever handled; and whenever I tried to
      knock a little spirit into them, the old man took their part! It was
      Gilbert and Sullivan on the high seas; but you bet I wouldn't let any man
      dictate to me. 'You give me your orders, Captain Green,' I said, 'and
      you'll find I'll carry them out; that's all you've got to say. You'll find
      I do my duty,' I said; 'how I do it is my lookout; and there's no man born
      that's going to give me lessons.' Well, there was plenty dirt on board
      that Maria first and last. Of course, the old man put my back up, and, of
      course, he put up the crew's; and I had to regular fight my way through
      every watch. The men got to hate me, so's I would hear them grit their
      teeth when I came up. At last, one day, I saw a big hulking beast of a
      Dutchman booting the ship's boy. I made one shoot of it off the house and
      laid that Dutchman out. Up he came, and I laid him out again. 'Now,' I
      said, 'if there's a kick left in you, just mention it, and I'll stamp your
      ribs in like a packing-case.' He thought better of it, and never let on;
      lay there as mild as a deacon at a funeral; and they took him below to
      reflect on his native Dutchland. One night we got caught in rather a dirty
      thing about 25 south. I guess we were all asleep; for the first thing I
      knew there was the fore-royal gone. I ran forward, bawling blue hell; and
      just as I came by the foremast, something struck me right through the
      forearm and stuck there. I put my other hand up, and by George! it was the
      grain; the beasts had speared me like a porpoise. 'Cap'n!' I cried.&mdash;'What's
      wrong?' says he.&mdash;'They've grained me,' says I.&mdash;'Grained you?'
      says he. 'Well, I've been looking for that.'&mdash;&mdash;'And by God,' I
      cried, 'I want to have some of these beasts murdered for it!'&mdash;'Now,
      Mr. Nares,' says he, 'you better go below. If I had been one of the men,
      you'd have got more than this. And I want no more of your language on
      deck. You've cost me my fore-royal already,' says he; 'and if you carry
      on, you'll have the three sticks out of her.' That was old man Green's
      idea of supporting officers. But you wait a bit; the cream's coming. We
      made Melbourne right enough, and the old man said: 'Mr. Nares, you and me
      don't draw together. You're a first-rate seaman, no mistake of that; but
      you're the most disagreeable man I ever sailed with; and your language and
      your conduct to the crew I cannot stomach. I guess we'll separate.' I
      didn't care about the berth, you may be sure; but I felt kind of mean; and
      if he made one kind of stink, I thought I could make another. So I said I
      would go ashore and see how things stood; went, found I was all right, and
      came aboard again on the top rail.&mdash;'Are you getting your traps
      together, Mr. Nares?' says the old man.&mdash;'No,' says I, 'I don't know
      as we'll separate much before 'Frisco; at least,' I said, 'it's a point
      for your consideration. I'm very willing to say good-by to the Maria, but
      I don't know whether you'll care to start me out with three months'
      wages.' He got his money-box right away. 'My son,' says he, 'I think it
      cheap at the money.' He had me there.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a singular tale for a man to tell of himself; above all, in the
      midst of our discussion; but it was quite in character for Nares. I never
      made a good hit in our disputes, I never justly resented any act or speech
      of his, but what I found it long after carefully posted in his day-book
      and reckoned (here was the man's oddity) to my credit. It was the same
      with his father, whom he had hated; he would give a sketch of the old
      fellow, frank and credible, and yet so honestly touched that it was
      charming. I have never met a man so strangely constituted: to possess a
      reason of the most equal justice, to have his nerves at the same time
      quivering with petty spite, and to act upon the nerves and not the reason.
    </p>
    <p>
      A kindred wonder in my eyes was the nature of his courage. There was never
      a braver man: he went out to welcome danger; an emergency (came it never
      so sudden) strung him like a tonic. And yet, upon the other hand, I have
      known none so nervous, so oppressed with possibilities, looking upon the
      world at large, and the life of a sailor in particular, with so constant
      and haggard a consideration of the ugly chances. All his courage was in
      blood, not merely cold, but icy with reasoned apprehension. He would lay
      our little craft rail under, and &ldquo;hang on&rdquo; in a squall, until
      I gave myself up for lost, and the men were rushing to their stations of
      their own accord. &ldquo;There,&rdquo; he would say, &ldquo;I guess
      there's not a man on board would have hung on as long as I did that time;
      they'll have to give up thinking me no schooner sailor. I guess I can
      shave just as near capsizing as any other captain of this vessel, drunk or
      sober.&rdquo; And then he would fall to repining and wishing himself well
      out of the enterprise, and dilate on the peril of the seas, the particular
      dangers of the schooner rig, which he abhorred, the various ways in which
      we might go to the bottom, and the prodigious fleet of ships that have
      sailed out in the course of history, dwindled from the eyes of watchers,
      and returned no more. &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; he would wind up, &ldquo;I guess
      it don't much matter. I can't see what any one wants to live for, anyway.
      If I could get into some one else's apple-tree, and be about twelve years
      old, and just stick the way I was, eating stolen apples, I won't say. But
      there's no sense in this grown-up business&mdash;sailorising, politics,
      the piety mill, and all the rest of it. Good clean drowning is good enough
      for me.&rdquo; It is hard to imagine any more depressing talk for a poor
      landsman on a dirty night; it is hard to imagine anything less sailor-like
      (as sailors are supposed to be, and generally are) than this persistent
      harping on the minor.
    </p>
    <p>
      But I was to see more of the man's gloomy constancy ere the cruise was at
      an end.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the morning of the seventeenth day I came on deck, to find the schooner
      under double reefs, and flying rather wild before a heavy run of sea.
      Snoring trades and humming sails had been our portion hitherto. We were
      already nearing the island. My restrained excitement had begun again to
      overmaster me; and for some time my only book had been the patent log that
      trailed over the taffrail, and my chief interest the daily observation and
      our caterpillar progress across the chart. My first glance, which was at
      the compass, and my second, which was at the log, were all that I could
      wish. We lay our course; we had been doing over eight since nine the night
      before; and I drew a heavy breath of satisfaction. And then I know not
      what odd and wintry appearance of the sea and sky knocked suddenly at my
      heart. I observed the schooner to look more than usually small, the men
      silent and studious of the weather. Nares, in one of his rusty humours,
      afforded me no shadow of a morning salutation. He, too, seemed to observe
      the behaviour of the ship with an intent and anxious scrutiny. What I
      liked still less, Johnson himself was at the wheel, which he span busily,
      often with a visible effort; and as the seas ranged up behind us, black
      and imminent, he kept casting behind him eyes of animal swiftness, and
      drawing in his neck between his shoulders, like a man dodging a blow. From
      these signs, I gathered that all was not exactly for the best; and I would
      have given a good handful of dollars for a plain answer to the questions
      which I dared not put. Had I dared, with the present danger signal in the
      captain's face, I should only have been reminded of my position as
      supercargo&mdash;an office never touched upon in kindness&mdash;and
      advised, in a very indigestible manner, to go below. There was nothing for
      it, therefore, but to entertain my vague apprehensions as best I should be
      able, until it pleased the captain to enlighten me of his own accord. This
      he did sooner than I had expected; as soon, indeed, as the Chinaman had
      summoned us to breakfast, and we sat face to face across the narrow board.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;See here, Mr. Dodd,&rdquo; he began, looking at me rather queerly,
      &ldquo;here is a business point arisen. This sea's been running up for the
      last two days, and now it's too high for comfort. The glass is falling,
      the wind is breezing up, and I won't say but what there's dirt in it. If I
      lay her to, we may have to ride out a gale of wind and drift God knows
      where&mdash;on these French Frigate Shoals, for instance. If I keep her as
      she goes, we'll make that island to-morrow afternoon, and have the lee of
      it to lie under, if we can't make out to run in. The point you have to
      figure on, is whether you'll take the big chances of that Captain Trent
      making the place before you, or take the risk of something happening. I'm
      to run this ship to your satisfaction,&rdquo; he added, with an ugly
      sneer. &ldquo;Well, here's a point for the supercargo.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Captain,&rdquo; I returned, with my heart in my mouth, &ldquo;risk
      is better than certain failure.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Life is all risk, Mr. Dodd,&rdquo; he remarked. &ldquo;But there's
      one thing: it's now or never; in half an hour, Archdeacon Gabriel couldn't
      lay her to, if he came down stairs on purpose.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All right,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;Let's run.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Run goes,&rdquo; said he; and with that he fell to breakfast, and
      passed half an hour in stowing away pie and devoutly wishing himself back
      in San Francisco.
    </p>
    <p>
      When we came on deck again, he took the wheel from Johnson&mdash;it
      appears they could trust none among the hands&mdash;and I stood close
      beside him, feeling safe in this proximity, and tasting a fearful joy from
      our surroundings and the consciousness of my decision. The breeze had
      already risen, and as it tore over our heads, it uttered at times a long
      hooting note that sent my heart into my boots. The sea pursued us without
      remission, leaping to the assault of the low rail. The quarter-deck was
      all awash, and we must close the companion doors.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And all this, if you please, for Mr. Pinkerton's dollars!&rdquo;
      the captain suddenly exclaimed. &ldquo;There's many a fine fellow gone
      under, Mr. Dodd, because of drivers like your friend. What do they care
      for a ship or two? Insured, I guess. What do they care for sailors' lives
      alongside of a few thousand dollars? What they want is speed between
      ports, and a damned fool of a captain that'll drive a ship under as I'm
      doing this one. You can put in the morning, asking why I do it.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      I sheered off to another part of the vessel as fast as civility permitted.
      This was not at all the talk that I desired, nor was the train of
      reflection which it started anyway welcome. Here I was, running some
      hazard of my life, and perilling the lives of seven others; exactly for
      what end, I was now at liberty to ask myself. For a very large amount of a
      very deadly poison, was the obvious answer; and I thought if all tales
      were true, and I were soon to be subjected to cross-examination at the bar
      of Eternal Justice, it was one which would not increase my popularity with
      the court. &ldquo;Well, never mind, Jim,&rdquo; thought I. &ldquo;I'm
      doing it for you.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Before eleven, a third reef was taken in the mainsail; and Johnson filled
      the cabin with a storm-sail of No. 1 duck and sat cross-legged on the
      streaming floor, vigorously putting it to rights with a couple of the
      hands. By dinner I had fled the deck, and sat in the bench corner, giddy,
      dumb, and stupefied with terror. The frightened leaps of the poor Norah
      Creina, spanking like a stag for bare existence, bruised me between the
      table and the berths. Overhead, the wild huntsman of the storm passed
      continuously in one blare of mingled noises; screaming wind, straining
      timber, lashing rope's end, pounding block and bursting sea contributed;
      and I could have thought there was at times another, a more piercing, a
      more human note, that dominated all, like the wailing of an angel; I could
      have thought I knew the angel's name, and that his wings were black. It
      seemed incredible that any creature of man's art could long endure the
      barbarous mishandling of the seas, kicked as the schooner was from
      mountain side to mountain side, beaten and blown upon and wrenched in
      every joint and sinew, like a child upon the rack. There was not a plank
      of her that did not cry aloud for mercy; and as she continued to hold
      together, I became conscious of a growing sympathy with her endeavours, a
      growing admiration for her gallant staunchness, that amused and at times
      obliterated my terrors for myself. God bless every man that swung a mallet
      on that tiny and strong hull! It was not for wages only that he laboured,
      but to save men's lives.
    </p>
    <p>
      All the rest of the day, and all the following night, I sat in the corner
      or lay wakeful in my bunk; and it was only with the return of morning that
      a new phase of my alarms drove me once more on deck. A gloomier interval I
      never passed. Johnson and Nares steadily relieved each other at the wheel
      and came below. The first glance of each was at the glass, which he
      repeatedly knuckled and frowned upon; for it was sagging lower all the
      time. Then, if Johnson were the visitor, he would pick a snack out of the
      cupboard, and stand, braced against the table, eating it, and perhaps
      obliging me with a word or two of his hee-haw conversation: how it was
      &ldquo;a son of a gun of a cold night on deck, Mr. Dodd&rdquo; (with a
      grin); how &ldquo;it wasn't no night for panjammers, he could tell me&rdquo;:
      having transacted all which, he would throw himself down in his bunk and
      sleep his two hours with compunction. But the captain neither ate nor
      slept. &ldquo;You there, Mr. Dodd?&rdquo; he would say, after the
      obligatory visit to the glass. &ldquo;Well, my son, we're one hundred and
      four miles&rdquo; (or whatever it was) &ldquo;off the island, and scudding
      for all we're worth. We'll make it to-morrow about four, or not, as the
      case may be. That's the news. And now, Mr. Dodd, I've stretched a point
      for you; you can see I'm dead tired; so just you stretch away back to your
      bunk again.&rdquo; And with this attempt at geniality, his teeth would
      settle hard down on his cigar, and he would pass his spell below staring
      and blinking at the cabin lamp through a cloud of tobacco smoke. He has
      told me since that he was happy, which I should never have divined.
      &ldquo;You see,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;the wind we had was never anything
      out of the way; but the sea was really nasty, the schooner wanted a lot of
      humouring, and it was clear from the glass that we were close to some
      dirt. We might be running out of it, or we might be running right crack
      into it. Well, there's always something sublime about a big deal like
      that; and it kind of raises a man in his own liking. We're a queer kind of
      beasts, Mr. Dodd.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The morning broke with sinister brightness; the air alarmingly
      transparent, the sky pure, the rim of the horizon clear and strong against
      the heavens. The wind and the wild seas, now vastly swollen, indefatigably
      hunted us. I stood on deck, choking with fear; I seemed to lose all power
      upon my limbs; my knees were as paper when she plunged into the murderous
      valleys; my heart collapsed when some black mountain fell in avalanche
      beside her counter, and the water, that was more than spray, swept round
      my ankles like a torrent. I was conscious of but one strong desire, to
      bear myself decently in my terrors, and whatever should happen to my life,
      preserve my character: as the captain said, we are a queer kind of beasts.
      Breakfast time came, and I made shift to swallow some hot tea. Then I must
      stagger below to take the time, reading the chronometer with dizzy eyes,
      and marvelling the while what value there could be in observations taken
      in a ship launched (as ours then was) like a missile among flying seas.
      The forenoon dragged on in a grinding monotony of peril; every spoke of
      the wheel a rash, but an obliged experiment&mdash;rash as a forlorn hope,
      needful as the leap that lands a fireman from a burning staircase. Noon
      was made; the captain dined on his day's work, and I on watching him; and
      our place was entered on the chart with a meticulous precision which
      seemed to me half pitiful and half absurd, since the next eye to behold
      that sheet of paper might be the eye of an exploring fish. One o'clock
      came, then two; the captain gloomed and chafed, as he held to the coaming
      of the house, and if ever I saw dormant murder in man's eye, it was in
      his. God help the hand that should have disobeyed him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Of a sudden, he turned towards the mate, who was doing his trick at the
      wheel.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Two points on the port bow,&rdquo; I heard him say. And he took the
      wheel himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      Johnson nodded, wiped his eyes with the back of his wet hand, watched a
      chance as the vessel lunged up hill, and got to the main rigging, where he
      swarmed aloft. Up and up, I watched him go, hanging on at every ugly
      plunge, gaining with every lull of the schooner's movement, until,
      clambering into the cross-trees and clinging with one arm around the
      masts, I could see him take one comprehensive sweep of the southwesterly
      horizon. The next moment, he had slid down the backstay and stood on deck,
      with a grin, a nod, and a gesture of the finger that said &ldquo;yes&rdquo;;
      the next again, and he was back sweating and squirming at the wheel, his
      tired face streaming and smiling, and his hair and the rags and corners of
      his clothes lashing round him in the wind.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nares went below, fetched up his binocular, and fell into a silent perusal
      of the sea-line; I also, with my unaided eyesight. Little by little, in
      that white waste of water, I began to make out a quarter where the
      whiteness appeared more condensed: the sky above was whitish likewise, and
      misty like a squall; and little by little there thrilled upon my ears a
      note deeper and more terrible than the yelling of the gale&mdash;the long,
      thundering roll of breakers. Nares wiped his night glass on his sleeve and
      passed it to me, motioning, as he did so, with his hand. An endless
      wilderness of raging billows came and went and danced in the circle of the
      glass; now and then a pale corner of sky, or the strong line of the
      horizon rugged with the heads of waves; and then of a sudden&mdash;come
      and gone ere I could fix it, with a swallow's swiftness&mdash;one glimpse
      of what we had come so far and paid so dear to see: the masts and rigging
      of a brig pencilled on heaven, with an ensign streaming at the main, and
      the ragged ribbons of a topsail thrashing from the yard. Again and again,
      with toilful searching, I recalled that apparition. There was no sign of
      any land; the wreck stood between sea and sky, a thing the most isolated I
      had ever viewed; but as we drew nearer, I perceived her to be defended by
      a line of breakers which drew off on either hand, and marked, indeed, the
      nearest segment of the reef. Heavy spray hung over them like a smoke, some
      hundred feet into the air; and the sound of their consecutive explosions
      rolled like a cannonade.
    </p>
    <p>
      In half an hour we were close in; for perhaps as long again, we skirted
      that formidable barrier toward its farther side; and presently the sea
      began insensibly to moderate and the ship to go more sweetly. We had
      gained the lee of the island as (for form's sake) I may call that ring of
      foam and haze and thunder; and shaking out a reef, wore ship and headed
      for the passage.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013">
       <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XIII. THE ISLAND AND THE WRECK.
    </h2>
    <p>
      All hands were filled with joy. It was betrayed in their alacrity and easy
      faces: Johnson smiling broadly at the wheel, Nares studying the sketch
      chart of the island with an eye at peace, and the hands clustered forward,
      eagerly talking and pointing: so manifest was our escape, so wonderful the
      attraction of a single foot of earth after so many suns had set and risen
      on an empty sea. To add to the relief, besides, by one of those malicious
      coincidences which suggest for fate the image of an underbred and grinning
      schoolboy, we had no sooner worn ship than the wind began to abate.
    </p>
    <p>
      For myself, however, I did but exchange anxieties. I was no sooner out of
      one fear than I fell upon another; no sooner secure that I should myself
      make the intended haven, than I began to be convinced that Trent was there
      before me. I climbed into the rigging, stood on the board, and eagerly
      scanned that ring of coral reef and bursting breaker, and the blue lagoon
      which they enclosed. The two islets within began to show plainly&mdash;Middle
      Brooks and Lower Brooks Island, the Directory named them: two low,
      bush-covered, rolling strips of sand, each with glittering beaches, each
      perhaps a mile or a mile and a half in length, running east and west, and
      divided by a narrow channel. Over these, innumerable as maggots, there
      hovered, chattered, screamed and clanged, millions of twinkling sea-birds:
      white and black; the black by far the largest. With singular
      scintillations, this vortex of winged life swayed to and fro in the strong
      sunshine, whirled continually through itself, and would now and again
      burst asunder and scatter as wide as the lagoon: so that I was
      irresistibly reminded of what I had read of nebular convulsions. A thin
      cloud overspread the area of the reef and the adjacent sea&mdash;the dust,
      as I could not but fancy, of earlier explosions. And a little apart, there
      was yet another focus of centrifugal and centripetal flight, where, hard
      by the deafening line of breakers, her sails (all but the tattered
      topsail) snugly furled down, and the red rag that marks Old England on the
      seas beating, union down, at the main&mdash;the Flying Scud, the fruit of
      so many toilers, a recollection in so many lives of men, whose tall spars
      had been mirrored in the remotest corners of the sea&mdash;lay stationary
      at last and forever, in the first stage of naval dissolution. Towards her,
      the taut Norah Creina, vulture-wise, wriggled to windward: come from so
      far to pick her bones. And, look as I pleased, there was no other presence
      of man or of man's handiwork; no Honolulu schooner lay there crowded with
      armed rivals, no smoke rose from the fire at which I fancied Trent cooking
      a meal of sea-birds. It seemed, after all, we were in time, and I drew a
      mighty breath.
    </p>
    <p>
      I had not arrived at this reviving certainty before the breakers were
      already close aboard, the leadsman at his station, and the captain posted
      in the fore cross-trees to con us through the coral lumps of the lagoon.
      All circumstances were in our favour, the light behind, the sun low, the
      wind still fresh and steady, and the tide about the turn. A moment later
      we shot at racing speed betwixt two pier heads of broken water; the lead
      began to be cast, the captain to bawl down his anxious directions, the
      schooner to tack and dodge among the scattered dangers of the lagoon; and
      at one bell in the first dog watch, we had come to our anchor off the
      north-east end of Middle Brooks Island, in five fathoms water. The sails
      were gasketted and covered, the boats emptied of the miscellaneous stores
      and odds and ends of sea-furniture, that accumulate in the course of a
      voyage, the kedge sent ashore, and the decks tidied down: a good
      three-quarters of an hour's work, during which I raged about the deck like
      a man with a strong toothache. The transition from the wild sea to the
      comparative immobility of the lagoon had wrought strange distress among my
      nerves: I could not hold still whether in hand or foot; the slowness of
      the men, tired as dogs after our rough experience outside, irritated me
      like something personal; and the irrational screaming of the sea-birds
      saddened me like a dirge. It was a relief when, with Nares, and a couple
      of hands, I might drop into the boat and move off at last for the Flying
      Scud.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She looks kind of pitiful, don't she?&rdquo; observed the captain,
      nodding towards the wreck, from which we were separated by some half a
      mile. &ldquo;Looks as if she didn't like her berth, and Captain Trent had
      used her badly. Give her ginger, boys!&rdquo; he added to the hands,
      &ldquo;and you can all have shore liberty to-night to see the birds and
      paint the town red.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      We all laughed at the pleasantry, and the boat skimmed the faster over the
      rippling face of the lagoon. The Flying Scud would have seemed small
      enough beside the wharves of San Francisco, but she was some thrice the
      size of the Norah Creina, which had been so long our continent; and as we
      craned up at her wall-sides, she impressed us with a mountain magnitude.
      She lay head to the reef, where the huge blue wall of the rollers was for
      ever ranging up and crumbling down; and to gain her starboard side, we
      must pass below the stern. The rudder was hard aport, and we could read
      the legend:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     FLYING SCUD

     HULL
</pre>
    <p>
      On the other side, about the break of the poop, some half a fathom of rope
      ladder trailed over the rail, and by this we made our entrance.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was a roomy ship inside, with a raised poop standing some three feet
      higher than the deck, and a small forward house, for the men's bunks and
      the galley, just abaft the foremast. There was one boat on the house, and
      another and larger one, in beds on deck, on either hand of it. She had
      been painted white, with tropical economy, outside and in; and we found,
      later on, that the stanchions of the rail, hoops of the scuttle but, etc.,
      were picked out with green. At that time, however, when we first stepped
      aboard, all was hidden under the droppings of innumerable sea-birds.
    </p>
    <p>
      The birds themselves gyrated and screamed meanwhile among the rigging; and
      when we looked into the galley, their outrush drove us back.
      Savage-looking fowl they were, savagely beaked, and some of the black ones
      great as eagles. Half-buried in the slush, we were aware of a litter of
      kegs in the waist; and these, on being somewhat cleaned, proved to be
      water beakers and quarter casks of mess beef with some colonial brand,
      doubtless collected there before the Tempest hove in sight, and while
      Trent and his men had no better expectation than to strike for Honolulu in
      the boats. Nothing else was notable on deck, save where the loose topsail
      had played some havoc with the rigging, and there hung, and swayed, and
      sang in the declining wind, a raffle of intorted cordage.
    </p>
    <p>
      With a shyness that was almost awe, Nares and I descended the companion.
      The stair turned upon itself and landed us just forward of a thwart-ship
      bulkhead that cut the poop in two. The fore part formed a kind of
      miscellaneous store-room, with a double-bunked division for the cook (as
      Nares supposed) and second mate. The after part contained, in the midst,
      the main cabin, running in a kind of bow into the curvature of the stern;
      on the port side, a pantry opening forward and a stateroom for the mate;
      and on the starboard, the captain's berth and water-closet. Into these we
      did but glance: the main cabin holding us. It was dark, for the sea-birds
      had obscured the skylight with their droppings; it smelt rank and fusty;
      and it was beset with a loud swarm of flies that beat continually in our
      faces. Supposing them close attendants upon man and his broken meat, I
      marvelled how they had found their way to Midway reef; it was sure at
      least some vessel must have brought them, and that long ago, for they had
      multiplied exceedingly. Part of the floor was strewn with a confusion of
      clothes, books, nautical instruments, odds and ends of finery, and such
      trash as might be expected from the turning out of several seamen's
      chests, upon a sudden emergency and after a long cruise. It was strange in
      that dim cabin, quivering with the near thunder of the breakers and
      pierced with the screaming of the fowls, to turn over so many things that
      other men had coveted, and prized, and worn on their warm bodies&mdash;frayed
      old underclothing, pyjamas of strange design, duck suits in every stage of
      rustiness, oil skins, pilot coats, bottles of scent, embroidered shirts,
      jackets of Ponjee silk&mdash;clothes for the night watch at sea or the day
      ashore in the hotel verandah; and mingled among these, books, cigars,
      fancy pipes, quantities of tobacco, many keys, a rusty pistol, and a
      sprinkling of cheap curiosities&mdash;Benares brass, Chinese jars and
      pictures, and bottles of odd shells in cotton, each designed no doubt for
      somebody at home&mdash;perhaps in Hull, of which Trent had been a native
      and his ship a citizen.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thence we turned our attention to the table, which stood spread, as if for
      a meal, with stout ship's crockery and the remains of food&mdash;a pot of
      marmalade, dregs of coffee in the mugs, unrecognisable remains of foods,
      bread, some toast, and a tin of condensed milk. The table-cloth,
      originally of a red colour, was stained a dark brown at the captain's end,
      apparently with coffee; at the other end, it had been folded back, and a
      pen and ink-pot stood on the bare table. Stools were here and there about
      the table, irregularly placed, as though the meal had been finished and
      the men smoking and chatting; and one of the stools lay on the floor,
      broken.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;See! they were writing up the log,&rdquo; said Nares, pointing to
      the ink-bottle. &ldquo;Caught napping, as usual. I wonder if there ever
      was a captain yet, that lost a ship with his log-book up to date? He
      generally has about a month to fill up on a clean break, like Charles
      Dickens and his serial novels.&mdash;What a regular, lime-juicer spread!&rdquo;
      he added contemptuously. &ldquo;Marmalade&mdash;and toast for the old man!
      Nasty, slovenly pigs!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      There was something in this criticism of the absent that jarred upon my
      feelings. I had no love indeed for Captain Trent or any of his vanished
      gang; but the desertion and decay of this once habitable cabin struck me
      hard: the death of man's handiwork is melancholy like the death of man
      himself; and I was impressed with an involuntary and irrational sense of
      tragedy in my surroundings.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This sickens me,&rdquo; I said. &ldquo;Let's go on deck and
      breathe.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The captain nodded. &ldquo;It IS kind of lonely, isn't it?&rdquo; he said.
      &ldquo;But I can't go up till I get the code signals. I want to run up
      'Got Left' or something, just to brighten up this island home. Captain
      Trent hasn't been here yet, but he'll drop in before long; and it'll cheer
      him up to see a signal on the brig.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Isn't there some official expression we could use?&rdquo; I asked,
      vastly taken by the fancy. &ldquo;'Sold for the benefit of the
      underwriters: for further particulars, apply to J. Pinkerton, Montana
      Block, S.F.'&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; returned Nares, &ldquo;I won't say but what an old
      navy quartermaster might telegraph all that, if you gave him a day to do
      it in and a pound of tobacco for himself. But it's above my register. I
      must try something short and sweet: KB, urgent signal, 'Heave all aback';
      or LM, urgent, 'The berth you're now in is not safe'; or what do you say
      to PQH?&mdash;'Tell my owners the ship answers remarkably well.'&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's premature,&rdquo; I replied; &ldquo;but it seems calculated to
      give pain to Trent. PQH for me.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The flags were found in Trent's cabin, neatly stored behind a lettered
      grating; Nares chose what he required and (I following) returned on deck,
      where the sun had already dipped, and the dusk was coming.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here! don't touch that, you fool!&rdquo; shouted the captain to one
      of the hands, who was drinking from the scuttle but. &ldquo;That water's
      rotten!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Beg pardon, sir,&rdquo; replied the man. &ldquo;Tastes quite sweet.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let me see,&rdquo; returned Nares, and he took the dipper and held
      it to his lips. &ldquo;Yes, it's all right,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Must
      have rotted and come sweet again. Queer, isn't it, Mr. Dodd? Though I've
      known the same on a Cape Horner.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      There was something in his intonation that made me look him in the face;
      he stood a little on tiptoe to look right and left about the ship, like a
      man filled with curiosity, and his whole expression and bearing testified
      to some suppressed excitement.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don't believe what you're saying!&rdquo; I broke out.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, I don't know but what I do!&rdquo; he replied, laying a hand
      upon me soothingly. &ldquo;The thing's very possible. Only, I'm bothered
      about something else.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And with that he called a hand, gave him the code flags, and stepped
      himself to the main signal halliards, which vibrated under the weight of
      the ensign overhead. A minute later, the American colours, which we had
      brought in the boat, replaced the English red, and PQH was fluttering at
      the fore.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, then,&rdquo; said Nares, who had watched the breaking out of
      his signal with the old-maidish particularity of an American sailor,
      &ldquo;out with those handspikes, and let's see what water there is in the
      lagoon.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The bars were shoved home; the barbarous cacophony of the clanking pump
      rose in the waist; and streams of ill-smelling water gushed on deck and
      made valleys in the slab guano. Nares leaned on the rail, watching the
      steady stream of bilge as though he found some interest in it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it that bothers you?&rdquo; I asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I'll tell you one thing shortly,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;But
      here's another. Do you see those boats there, one on the house and two on
      the beds? Well, where is the boat Trent lowered when he lost the hands?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Got it aboard again, I suppose,&rdquo; said I.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, if you'll tell me why!&rdquo; returned the captain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then it must have been another,&rdquo; I suggested.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She might have carried another on the main hatch, I won't deny,&rdquo;
      admitted Nares; &ldquo;but I can't see what she wanted with it, unless it
      was for the old man to go out and play the accordion in, on moonlight
      nights.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It can't much matter, anyway,&rdquo; I reflected.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, I don't suppose it does,&rdquo; said he, glancing over his
      shoulder at the spouting of the scuppers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And how long are we to keep up this racket?&rdquo; I asked. &ldquo;We're
      simply pumping up the lagoon. Captain Trent himself said she had settled
      down and was full forward.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did he?&rdquo; said Nares, with a significant dryness. And almost
      as he spoke the pumps sucked, and sucked again, and the men threw down
      their bars. &ldquo;There, what do you make of that?&rdquo; he asked.
      &ldquo;Now, I'll tell, Mr. Dodd,&rdquo; he went on, lowering his voice,
      but not shifting from his easy attitude against the rail, &ldquo;this ship
      is as sound as the Norah Creina. I had a guess of it before we came
      aboard, and now I know.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's not possible!&rdquo; I cried. &ldquo;What do you make of
      Trent?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't make anything of Trent; I don't know whether he's a liar or
      only an old wife; I simply tell you what's the fact,&rdquo; said Nares.
      &ldquo;And I'll tell you something more,&rdquo; he added: &ldquo;I've
      taken the ground myself in deep-water vessels; I know what I'm saying; and
      I say that, when she first struck and before she bedded down, seven or
      eight hours' work would have got this hooker off, and there's no man that
      ever went two years to sea but must have known it.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      I could only utter an exclamation.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nares raised his finger warningly. &ldquo;Don't let THEM get hold of it,&rdquo;
      said he. &ldquo;Think what you like, but say nothing.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      I glanced round; the dusk was melting into early night; the twinkle of a
      lantern marked the schooner's position in the distance; and our men, free
      from further labour, stood grouped together in the waist, their faces
      illuminated by their glowing pipes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why didn't Trent get her off?&rdquo; inquired the captain. &ldquo;Why
      did he want to buy her back in 'Frisco for these fabulous sums, when he
      might have sailed her into the bay himself?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps he never knew her value until then,&rdquo; I suggested.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wish we knew her value now,&rdquo; exclaimed Nares. &ldquo;However,
      I don't want to depress you; I'm sorry for you, Mr. Dodd; I know how
      bothering it must be to you; and the best I can say's this: I haven't
      taken much time getting down, and now I'm here I mean to work this thing
      in proper style. I just want to put your mind at rest: you shall have no
      trouble with me.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      There was something trusty and friendly in his voice; and I found myself
      gripping hands with him, in that hard, short shake that means so much with
      English-speaking people.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We'll do, old fellow,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;We've shaken down into
      pretty good friends, you and me; and you won't find me working the
      business any the less hard for that. And now let's scoot for supper.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      After supper, with the idle curiosity of the seafarer, we pulled ashore in
      a fine moonlight, and landed on Middle Brook's Island. A flat beach
      surrounded it upon all sides; and the midst was occupied by a thicket of
      bushes, the highest of them scarcely five feet high, in which the sea-fowl
      lived. Through this we tried at first to strike; but it were easier to
      cross Trafalgar Square on a day of demonstration than to invade these
      haunts of sleeping sea-birds. The nests sank, and the eggs burst under
      footing; wings beat in our faces, beaks menaced our eyes, our minds were
      confounded with the screeching, and the coil spread over the island and
      mounted high into the air.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I guess we'll saunter round the beach,&rdquo; said Nares, when we
      had made good our retreat.
    </p>
    <p>
      The hands were all busy after sea-birds' eggs, so there were none to
      follow us. Our way lay on the crisp sand by the margin of the water: on
      one side, the thicket from which we had been dislodged; on the other, the
      face of the lagoon, barred with a broad path of moonlight, and beyond
      that, the line, alternately dark and shining, alternately hove high and
      fallen prone, of the external breakers. The beach was strewn with bits of
      wreck and drift: some redwood and spruce logs, no less than two lower
      masts of junks, and the stern-post of a European ship; all of which we
      looked on with a shade of serious concern, speaking of the dangers of the
      sea and the hard case of castaways. In this sober vein we made the greater
      part of the circuit of the island; had a near view of its neighbour from
      the southern end; walked the whole length of the westerly side in the
      shadow of the thicket; and came forth again into the moonlight at the
      opposite extremity.
    </p>
    <p>
      On our right, at the distance of about half a mile, the schooner lay
      faintly heaving at her anchors. About half a mile down the beach, at a
      spot still hidden from us by the thicket, an upboiling of the birds showed
      where the men were still (with sailor-like insatiability) collecting eggs.
      And right before us, in a small indentation of the sand, we were aware of
      a boat lying high and dry, and right side up.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nares crouched back into the shadow of the bushes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What the devil's this?&rdquo; he whispered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Trent,&rdquo; I suggested, with a beating heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We were damned fools to come ashore unarmed,&rdquo; said he.
      &ldquo;But I've got to know where I stand.&rdquo; In the shadow, his face
      looked conspicuously white, and his voice betrayed a strong excitement. He
      took his boat's whistle from his pocket. &ldquo;In case I might want to
      play a tune,&rdquo; said he, grimly, and thrusting it between his teeth,
      advanced into the moonlit open; which we crossed with rapid steps, looking
      guiltily about us as we went. Not a leaf stirred; and the boat, when we
      came up to it, offered convincing proof of long desertion. She was an
      eighteen-foot whaleboat of the ordinary type, equipped with oars and
      thole-pins. Two or three quarter-casks lay on the bilge amidships, one of
      which must have been broached, and now stank horribly; and these, upon
      examination, proved to bear the same New Zealand brand as the beef on
      board the wreck.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, here's the boat,&rdquo; said I; &ldquo;here's one of your
      difficulties cleared away.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;H'm,&rdquo; said he. There was a little water in the bilge, and
      here he stooped and tasted it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fresh,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Only rain-water.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don't object to that?&rdquo; I asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, what ails you?&rdquo; I cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In plain United States, Mr. Dodd,&rdquo; he returned, &ldquo;a
      whaleboat, five ash sweeps, and a barrel of stinking pork.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Or, in other words, the whole thing?&rdquo; I commented.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, it's this way,&rdquo; he condescended to explain. &ldquo;I've
      no use for a fourth boat at all; but a boat of this model tops the
      business. I don't say the type's not common in these waters; it's as
      common as dirt; the traders carry them for surf-boats. But the Flying
      Scud? a deep-water tramp, who was lime-juicing around between big ports,
      Calcutta and Rangoon and 'Frisco and the Canton River? No, I don't see it.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      We were leaning over the gunwale of the boat as we spoke. The captain
      stood nearest the bow, and he was idly playing with the trailing painter,
      when a thought arrested him. He hauled the line in hand over hand, and
      stared, and remained staring, at the end.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Anything wrong with it?&rdquo; I asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you know, Mr. Dodd,&rdquo; said he, in a queer voice, &ldquo;this
      painter's been cut? A sailor always seizes a rope's end, but this is
      sliced short off with the cold steel. This won't do at all for the men,&rdquo;
      he added. &ldquo;Just stand by till I fix it up more natural.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Any guess what it all means?&rdquo; I asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, it means one thing,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;It means Trent was
      a liar. I guess the story of the Flying Scud was a sight more picturesque
      than he gave out.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Half an hour later, the whaleboat was lying astern of the Norah Creina;
      and Nares and I sought our bunks, silent and half-bewildered by our late
      discoveries.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014">
       <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XIV. THE CABIN OF THE &ldquo;FLYING SCUD.&rdquo;
    </h2>
    <p>
      The sun of the morrow had not cleared the morning bank: the lake of the
      lagoon, the islets, and the wall of breakers now beginning to subside,
      still lay clearly pictured in the flushed obscurity of early day, when we
      stepped again upon the deck of the Flying Scud: Nares, myself, the mate,
      two of the hands, and one dozen bright, virgin axes, in war against that
      massive structure. I think we all drew pleasurable breath; so profound in
      man is the instinct of destruction, so engaging is the interest of the
      chase. For we were now about to taste, in a supreme degree, the double
      joys of demolishing a toy and playing &ldquo;Hide the handkerchief&rdquo;:
      sports from which we had all perhaps desisted since the days of infancy.
      And the toy we were to burst in pieces was a deep-sea ship; and the hidden
      good for which we were to hunt was a prodigious fortune.
    </p>
    <p>
      The decks were washed down, the main hatch removed, and a gun-tackle
      purchase rigged before the boat arrived with breakfast. I had grown so
      suspicious of the wreck, that it was a positive relief to me to look down
      into the hold, and see it full, or nearly full, of undeniable rice packed
      in the Chinese fashion in boluses of matting. Breakfast over, Johnson and
      the hands turned to upon the cargo; while Nares and I, having smashed open
      the skylight and rigged up a windsail on deck, began the work of rummaging
      the cabins.
    </p>
    <p>
      I must not be expected to describe our first day's work, or (for that
      matter) any of the rest, in order and detail as it occurred. Such
      particularity might have been possible for several officers and a draft of
      men from a ship of war, accompanied by an experienced secretary with a
      knowledge of shorthand. For two plain human beings, unaccustomed to the
      use of the broad-axe and consumed with an impatient greed of the result,
      the whole business melts, in the retrospect, into a nightmare of exertion,
      heat, hurry, and bewilderment; sweat pouring from the face like rain, the
      scurry of rats, the choking exhalations of the bilge, and the throbs and
      splinterings of the toiling axes. I shall content myself with giving the
      cream of our discoveries in a logical rather than a temporal order; though
      the two indeed practically coincided, and we had finished our exploration
      of the cabin, before we could be certain of the nature of the cargo.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nares and I began operations by tossing up pell-mell through the
      companion, and piling in a squalid heap about the wheel, all clothes,
      personal effects, the crockery, the carpet, stale victuals, tins of meat,
      and in a word, all movables from the main cabin. Thence, we transferred
      our attention to the captain's quarters on the starboard side. Using the
      blankets for a basket, we sent up the books, instruments, and clothes to
      swell our growing midden on the deck; and then Nares, going on hands and
      knees, began to forage underneath the bed. Box after box of Manilla cigars
      rewarded his search. I took occasion to smash some of these boxes open,
      and even to guillotine the bundles of cigars; but quite in vain&mdash;no
      secret cache of opium encouraged me to continue.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I guess I've got hold of the dicky now!&rdquo; exclaimed Nares, and
      turning round from my perquisitions, I found he had drawn forth a heavy
      iron box, secured to the bulkhead by chain and padlock. On this he was now
      gazing, not with the triumph that instantly inflamed my own bosom, but
      with a somewhat foolish appearance of surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By George, we have it now!&rdquo; I cried, and would have shaken
      hands with my companion; but he did not see, or would not accept, the
      salutation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let's see what's in it first,&rdquo; he remarked dryly. And he
      adjusted the box upon its side, and with some blows of an axe burst the
      lock open. I threw myself beside him, as he replaced the box on its bottom
      and removed the lid. I cannot tell what I expected; a million's worth of
      diamonds might perhaps have pleased me; my cheeks burned, my heart
      throbbed to bursting; and lo! there was disclosed but a trayful of papers,
      neatly taped, and a cheque-book of the customary pattern. I made a snatch
      at the tray to see what was beneath; but the captain's hand fell on mine,
      heavy and hard.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, boss!&rdquo; he cried, not unkindly, &ldquo;is this to be run
      shipshape? or is it a Dutch grab-racket?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And he proceeded to untie and run over the contents of the papers, with a
      serious face and what seemed an ostentation of delay. Me and my impatience
      it would appear he had forgotten; for when he was quite done, he sat a
      while thinking, whistled a bar or two, refolded the papers, tied them up
      again; and then, and not before, deliberately raised the tray.
    </p>
    <p>
      I saw a cigar-box, tied with a piece of fishing-line, and four fat
      canvas-bags. Nares whipped out his knife, cut the line, and opened the
      box. It was about half full of sovereigns.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And the bags?&rdquo; I whispered.
    </p>
    <p>
      The captain ripped them open one by one, and a flood of mixed silver coin
      burst forth and rattled in the rusty bottom of the box. Without a word, he
      set to work to count the gold.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is this?&rdquo; I asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's the ship's money,&rdquo; he returned, doggedly continuing his
      work.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The ship's money?&rdquo; I repeated. &ldquo;That's the money Trent
      tramped and traded with? And there's his cheque-book to draw upon his
      owners? And he has left it?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I guess he has,&rdquo; said Nares, austerely, jotting down a note
      of the gold; and I was abashed into silence till his task should be
      completed.
    </p>
    <p>
      It came, I think, to three hundred and seventy-eight pounds sterling; some
      nineteen pounds of it in silver: all of which we turned again into the
      chest.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what do you think of that?&rdquo; I asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Dodd,&rdquo; he replied, &ldquo;you see something of the
      rumness of this job, but not the whole. The specie bothers you, but what
      gets me is the papers. Are you aware that the master of a ship has charge
      of all the cash in hand, pays the men advances, receives freight and
      passage money, and runs up bills in every port? All this he does as the
      owner's confidential agent, and his integrity is proved by his receipted
      bills. I tell you, the captain of a ship is more likely to forget his
      pants than these bills which guarantee his character. I've known men drown
      to save them: bad men, too; but this is the shipmaster's honour. And here
      this Captain Trent&mdash;not hurried, not threatened with anything but a
      free passage in a British man-of-war&mdash;has left them all behind! I
      don't want to express myself too strongly, because the facts appear
      against me, but the thing is impossible.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Dinner came to us not long after, and we ate it on deck, in a grim
      silence, each privately racking his brain for some solution of the
      mysteries. I was indeed so swallowed up in these considerations, that the
      wreck, the lagoon, the islets, and the strident sea-fowl, the strong sun
      then beating on my head, and even the gloomy countenance of the captain at
      my elbow, all vanished from the field of consciousness. My mind was a
      blackboard, on which I scrawled and blotted out hypotheses; comparing each
      with the pictorial records in my memory: cyphering with pictures. In the
      course of this tense mental exercise I recalled and studied the faces of
      one memorial masterpiece, the scene of the saloon; and here I found
      myself, on a sudden, looking in the eyes of the Kanaka.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There's one thing I can put beyond doubt, at all events,&rdquo; I
      cried, relinquishing my dinner and getting briskly afoot. &ldquo;There was
      that Kanaka I saw in the bar with Captain Trent, the fellow the newspapers
      and ship's articles made out to be a Chinaman. I mean to rout his quarters
      out and settle that.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All right,&rdquo; said Nares. &ldquo;I'll lazy off a bit longer,
      Mr. Dodd; I feel pretty rocky and mean.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      We had thoroughly cleared out the three after-compartments of the ship:
      all the stuff from the main cabin and the mate's and captain's quarters
      lay piled about the wheel; but in the forward stateroom with the two
      bunks, where Nares had said the mate and cook most likely berthed, we had
      as yet done nothing. Thither I went. It was very bare; a few photographs
      were tacked on the bulkhead, one of them indecent; a single chest stood
      open, and, like all we had yet found, it had been partly rifled. An armful
      of two-shilling novels proved to me beyond a doubt it was a European's; no
      Chinaman would have possessed any, and the most literate Kanaka
      conceivable in a ship's galley was not likely to have gone beyond one. It
      was plain, then, that the cook had not berthed aft, and I must look
      elsewhere.
    </p>
    <p>
      The men had stamped down the nests and driven the birds from the galley,
      so that I could now enter without contest. One door had been already
      blocked with rice; the place was in part darkness, full of a foul stale
      smell, and a cloud of nasty flies; it had been left, besides, in some
      disorder, or else the birds, during their time of tenancy, had knocked the
      things about; and the floor, like the deck before we washed it, was spread
      with pasty filth. Against the wall, in the far corner, I found a handsome
      chest of camphor-wood bound with brass, such as Chinamen and sailors love,
      and indeed all of mankind that plies in the Pacific. From its outside view
      I could thus make no deduction; and, strange to say, the interior was
      concealed. All the other chests, as I have said already, we had found
      gaping open, and their contents scattered abroad; the same remark we found
      to apply afterwards in the quarters of the seamen; only this camphor-wood
      chest, a singular exception, was both closed and locked.
    </p>
    <p>
      I took an axe to it, readily forced the paltry Chinese fastening, and,
      like a Custom-House officer, plunged my hands among the contents. For some
      while I groped among linen and cotton. Then my teeth were set on edge with
      silk, of which I drew forth several strips covered with mysterious
      characters. And these settled the business, for I recognised them as a
      kind of bed-hanging popular with the commoner class of the Chinese. Nor
      were further evidences wanting, such as night-clothes of an extraordinary
      design, a three-stringed Chinese fiddle, a silk handkerchief full of roots
      and herbs, and a neat apparatus for smoking opium, with a liberal
      provision of the drug. Plainly, then, the cook had been a Chinaman; and,
      if so, who was Jos. Amalu? Or had Jos. stolen the chest before he
      proceeded to ship under a false name and domicile? It was possible, as
      anything was possible in such a welter; but, regarded as a solution, it
      only led and left me deeper in the bog. For why should this chest have
      been deserted and neglected, when the others were rummaged or removed? and
      where had Jos. come by that second chest, with which (according to the
      clerk at the What Cheer) he had started for Honolulu?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And how have YOU fared?&rdquo; inquired the captain, whom I found
      luxuriously reclining in our mound of litter. And the accent on the
      pronoun, the heightened colour of the speaker's face, and the contained
      excitement in his tones, advertised me at once that I had not been alone
      to make discoveries.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have found a Chinaman's chest in the galley,&rdquo; said I,
      &ldquo;and John (if there was any John) was not so much as at the pains to
      take his opium.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Nares seemed to take it mighty quietly. &ldquo;That so?&rdquo; said he.
      &ldquo;Now, cast your eyes on that and own you're beaten!&rdquo; And with
      a formidable clap of his open hand he flattened out before me, on the
      deck, a pair of newspapers.
    </p>
    <p>
      I gazed upon them dully, being in no mood for fresh discoveries.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look at them, Mr. Dodd,&rdquo; cried the captain sharply. &ldquo;Can't
      you look at them?&rdquo; And he ran a dirty thumb along the title. &ldquo;'<i>Sydney
      Morning Herald</i>, November 26th,' can't you make that out?&rdquo; he
      cried, with rising energy. &ldquo;And don't you know, sir, that not
      thirteen days after this paper appeared in New South Pole, this ship we're
      standing in heaved her blessed anchors out of China? How did the <i>Sydney
      Morning Herald</i> get to Hong Kong in thirteen days? Trent made no land,
      he spoke no ship, till he got here. Then he either got it here or in Hong
      Kong. I give you your choice, my son!&rdquo; he cried, and fell back among
      the clothes like a man weary of life.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where did you find them?&rdquo; I asked. &ldquo;In that black bag?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Guess so,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;You needn't fool with it. There's
      nothing else but a lead-pencil and a kind of worked-out knife.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      I looked in the bag, however, and was well rewarded.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Every man to his trade, captain,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;You're a
      sailor, and you've given me plenty of points; but I am an artist, and
      allow me to inform you this is quite as strange as all the rest. The knife
      is a palette-knife; the pencil a Winsor and Newton, and a B B B at that. A
      palette-knife and a B B B on a tramp brig! It's against the laws of
      nature.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It would sicken a dog, wouldn't it?&rdquo; said Nares.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; I continued, &ldquo;it's been used by an artist, too:
      see how it's sharpened&mdash;not for writing&mdash;no man could write with
      that. An artist, and straight from Sydney? How can he come in?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, that's natural enough,&rdquo; sneered Nares. &ldquo;They cabled
      him to come up and illustrate this dime novel.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      We fell a while silent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Captain,&rdquo; I said at last, &ldquo;there is something deuced
      underhand about this brig. You tell me you've been to sea a good part of
      your life. You must have seen shady things done on ships, and heard of
      more. Well, what is this? is it insurance? is it piracy? what is it ABOUT?
      what can it be for?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Dodd,&rdquo; returned Nares, &ldquo;you're right about me
      having been to sea the bigger part of my life. And you're right again when
      you think I know a good many ways in which a dishonest captain mayn't be
      on the square, nor do exactly the right thing by his owners, and
      altogether be just a little too smart by ninety-nine and three-quarters.
      There's a good many ways, but not so many as you'd think; and not one that
      has any mortal thing to do with Trent. Trent and his whole racket has got
      to do with nothing&mdash;that's the bed-rock fact; there's no sense to it,
      and no use in it, and no story to it: it's a beastly dream. And don't you
      run away with that notion that landsmen take about ships. A society
      actress don't go around more publicly than what a ship does, nor is more
      interviewed, nor more humbugged, nor more run after by all sorts of little
      fussinesses in brass buttons. And more than an actress, a ship has a deal
      to lose; she's capital, and the actress only character&mdash;if she's
      that. The ports of the world are thick with people ready to kick a captain
      into the penitentiary if he's not as bright as a dollar and as honest as
      the morning star; and what with Lloyd keeping watch and watch in every
      corner of the three oceans, and the insurance leeches, and the consuls,
      and the customs bugs, and the medicos, you can only get the idea by
      thinking of a landsman watched by a hundred and fifty detectives, or a
      stranger in a village Down East.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, but at sea?&rdquo; I said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You make me tired,&rdquo; retorted the captain. &ldquo;What's the
      use&mdash;at sea? Everything's got to come to bearings at some port,
      hasn't it? You can't stop at sea for ever, can you?&mdash;No; the Flying
      Scud is rubbish; if it meant anything, it would have to mean something so
      almighty intricate that James G. Blaine hasn't got the brains to engineer
      it; and I vote for more axeing, pioneering, and opening up the resources
      of this phenomenal brig, and less general fuss,&rdquo; he added, arising.
      &ldquo;The dime-museum symptoms will drop in of themselves, I guess, to
      keep us cheery.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      But it appeared we were at the end of discoveries for the day; and we left
      the brig about sundown, without being further puzzled or further
      enlightened. The best of the cabin spoils&mdash;books, instruments,
      papers, silks, and curiosities&mdash;we carried along with us in a
      blanket, however, to divert the evening hours; and when supper was over,
      and the table cleared, and Johnson set down to a dreary game of cribbage
      between his right hand and his left, the captain and I turned out our
      blanket on the floor, and sat side by side to examine and appraise the
      spoils.
    </p>
    <p>
      The books were the first to engage our notice. These were rather numerous
      (as Nares contemptuously put it) &ldquo;for a lime-juicer.&rdquo; Scorn of
      the British mercantile marine glows in the breast of every Yankee merchant
      captain; as the scorn is not reciprocated, I can only suppose it justified
      in fact; and certainly the old country mariner appears of a less studious
      disposition. The more credit to the officers of the Flying Scud, who had
      quite a library, both literary and professional. There were Findlay's five
      directories of the world&mdash;all broken-backed, as is usual with
      Findlay, and all marked and scribbled over with corrections and additions&mdash;several
      books of navigation, a signal code, and an Admiralty book of a sort of
      orange hue, called <i>Islands of the Eastern Pacific Ocean, Vol. III.</i>,
      which appeared from its imprint to be the latest authority, and showed
      marks of frequent consultation in the passages about the French Frigate
      Shoals, the Harman, Cure, Pearl, and Hermes reefs, Lisiansky Island, Ocean
      Island, and the place where we then lay&mdash;Brooks or Midway. A volume
      of Macaulay's <i>Essays</i> and a shilling Shakespeare led the van of the
      belles lettres; the rest were novels: several Miss Braddons&mdash;of
      course, <i>Aurora Floyd</i>, which has penetrated to every isle of the
      Pacific, a good many cheap detective books, <i>Rob Roy</i>, Auerbach's <i>Auf
      der Hohe</i> in the German, and a prize temperance story, pillaged (to
      judge by the stamp) from an Anglo-Indian circulating library.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Admiralty man gives a fine picture of our island,&rdquo;
      remarked Nares, who had turned up Midway Island. &ldquo;He draws the
      dreariness rather mild, but you can make out he knows the place.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Captain,&rdquo; I cried, &ldquo;you've struck another point in this
      mad business. See here,&rdquo; I went on eagerly, drawing from my pocket a
      crumpled fragment of the <i>Daily Occidental</i> which I had inherited
      from Jim: &ldquo;'misled by Hoyt's Pacific Directory'? Where's Hoyt?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let's look into that,&rdquo; said Nares. &ldquo;I got that book on
      purpose for this cruise.&rdquo; Therewith he fetched it from the shelf in
      his berth, turned to Midway Island, and read the account aloud. It stated
      with precision that the Pacific Mail Company were about to form a depot
      there, in preference to Honolulu, and that they had already a station on
      the island.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wonder who gives these Directory men their information,&rdquo;
      Nares reflected. &ldquo;Nobody can blame Trent after that. I never got in
      company with squarer lying; it reminds a man of a presidential campaign.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All very well,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;That's your Hoyt, and a fine,
      tall copy. But what I want to know is, where is Trent's Hoyt?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Took it with him,&rdquo; chuckled Nares. &ldquo;He had left
      everything else, bills and money and all the rest; he was bound to take
      something, or it would have aroused attention on the Tempest: 'Happy
      thought,' says he, 'let's take Hoyt.'&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And has it not occurred to you,&rdquo; I went on, &ldquo;that all
      the Hoyts in creation couldn't have misled Trent, since he had in his hand
      that red admiralty book, an official publication, later in date, and
      particularly full on Midway Island?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's a fact!&rdquo; cried Nares; &ldquo;and I bet the first Hoyt
      he ever saw was out of the mercantile library of San Francisco. Looks as
      if he had brought her here on purpose, don't it? But then that's
      inconsistent with the steam-crusher of the sale. That's the trouble with
      this brig racket; any one can make half a dozen theories for sixty or
      seventy per cent of it; but when they're made, there's always a fathom or
      two of slack hanging out of the other end.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      I believe our attention fell next on the papers, of which we had
      altogether a considerable bulk. I had hoped to find among these matter for
      a full-length character of Captain Trent; but here I was doomed, on the
      whole, to disappointment. We could make out he was an orderly man, for all
      his bills were docketed and preserved. That he was convivial, and inclined
      to be frugal even in conviviality, several documents proclaimed. Such
      letters as we found were, with one exception, arid notes from tradesmen.
      The exception, signed Hannah Trent, was a somewhat fervid appeal for a
      loan. &ldquo;You know what misfortunes I have had to bear,&rdquo; wrote
      Hannah, &ldquo;and how much I am disappointed in George. The landlady
      appeared a true friend when I first came here, and I thought her a perfect
      lady. But she has come out since then in her true colours; and if you will
      not be softened by this last appeal, I can't think what is to become of
      your affectionate&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; and then the signature. This
      document was without place or date, and a voice told me that it had gone
      likewise without answer. On the whole, there were few letters anywhere in
      the ship; but we found one before we were finished, in a seaman's chest,
      of which I must transcribe some sentences. It was dated from some place on
      the Clyde. &ldquo;My dearist son,&rdquo; it ran, &ldquo;this is to tell
      you your dearist father passed away, Jan twelft, in the peace of the Lord.
      He had your photo and dear David's lade upon his bed, made me sit by him.
      Let's be a' thegither, he said, and gave you all his blessing. O my dear
      laddie, why were nae you and Davie here? He would have had a happier
      passage. He spok of both of ye all night most beautiful, and how ye used
      to stravaig on the Saturday afternoons, and of auld Kelvinside. Sooth the
      tune to me, he said, though it was the Sabbath, and I had to sooth him
      Kelvin Grove, and he looked at his fiddle, the dear man. I cannae bear the
      sight of it, he'll never play it mair. O my lamb, come home to me, I'm all
      by my lane now.&rdquo; The rest was in a religious vein and quite
      conventional. I have never seen any one more put out than Nares, when I
      handed him this letter; he had read but a few words, before he cast it
      down; it was perhaps a minute ere he picked it up again, and the
      performance was repeated the third time before he reached the end.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's touching, isn't it?&rdquo; said I.
    </p>
    <p>
      For all answer, Nares exploded in a brutal oath; and it was some half an
      hour later that he vouchsafed an explanation. &ldquo;I'll tell you what
      broke me up about that letter,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;My old man played
      the fiddle, played it all out of tune: one of the things he played was <i>Martyrdom,</i>
      I remember&mdash;it was all martyrdom to me. He was a pig of a father, and
      I was a pig of a son; but it sort of came over me I would like to hear
      that fiddle squeak again. Natural,&rdquo; he added; &ldquo;I guess we're
      all beasts.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All sons are, I guess,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;I have the same
      trouble on my conscience: we can shake hands on that.&rdquo; Which (oddly
      enough, perhaps) we did.
    </p>
    <p>
      Amongst the papers we found a considerable sprinkling of photographs; for
      the most part either of very debonair-looking young ladies or old women of
      the lodging-house persuasion. But one among them was the means of our
      crowning discovery.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They're not pretty, are they, Mr. Dodd?&rdquo; said Nares, as he
      passed it over.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who?&rdquo; I asked, mechanically taking the card (it was a
      quarter-plate) in hand, and smothering a yawn; for the hour was late, the
      day had been laborious, and I was wearying for bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Trent and Company,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;That's a historic picture
      of the gang.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      I held it to the light, my curiosity at a low ebb: I had seen Captain
      Trent once, and had no delight in viewing him again. It was a photograph
      of the deck of the brig, taken from forward: all in apple-pie order; the
      hands gathered in the waist, the officers on the poop. At the foot of the
      card was written &ldquo;Brig Flying Scud, Rangoon,&rdquo; and a date; and
      above or below each individual figure the name had been carefully noted.
    </p>
    <p>
      As I continued to gaze, a shock went through me; the dimness of sleep and
      fatigue lifted from my eyes, as fog lifts in the channel; and I beheld
      with startled clearness the photographic presentment of a crowd of
      strangers. &ldquo;J. Trent, Master&rdquo; at the top of the card directed
      me to a smallish, weazened man, with bushy eyebrows and full white beard,
      dressed in a frock coat and white trousers; a flower stuck in his
      button-hole, his bearded chin set forward, his mouth clenched with
      habitual determination. There was not much of the sailor in his looks, but
      plenty of the martinet: a dry, precise man, who might pass for a preacher
      in some rigid sect; and whatever he was, not the Captain Trent of San
      Francisco. The men, too, were all new to me: the cook, an unmistakable
      Chinaman, in his characteristic dress, standing apart on the poop steps.
      But perhaps I turned on the whole with the greatest curiosity to the
      figure labelled &ldquo;E. Goddedaal, 1st off.&rdquo; He whom I had never
      seen, he might be the identical; he might be the clue and spring of all
      this mystery; and I scanned his features with the eye of a detective. He
      was of great stature, seemingly blonde as a viking, his hair clustering
      round his head in frowsy curls, and two enormous whiskers, like the tusks
      of some strange animal, jutting from his cheeks. With these virile
      appendages and the defiant attitude in which he stood, the expression of
      his face only imperfectly harmonised. It was wild, heroic, and womanish
      looking; and I felt I was prepared to hear he was a sentimentalist, and to
      see him weep.
    </p>
    <p>
      For some while I digested my discovery in private, reflecting how best,
      and how with most of drama, I might share it with the captain. Then my
      sketch-book came in my head; and I fished it out from where it lay, with
      other miscellaneous possessions, at the foot of my bunk and turned to my
      sketch of Captain Trent and the survivors of the British brig Flying Scud
      in the San Francisco bar-room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nares,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;I've told you how I first saw Captain
      Trent in that saloon in 'Frisco? how he came with his men, one of them a
      Kanaka with a canary-bird in a cage? and how I saw him afterwards at the
      auction, frightened to death, and as much surprised at how the figures
      skipped up as anybody there? Well,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;there's the man I
      saw&rdquo;&mdash;and I laid the sketch before him&mdash;&ldquo;there's
      Trent of 'Frisco and there are his three hands. Find one of them in the
      photograph, and I'll be obliged.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Nares compared the two in silence. &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; he said at last,
      &ldquo;I call this rather a relief: seems to clear the horizon. We might
      have guessed at something of the kind from the double ration of chests
      that figured.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Does it explain anything?&rdquo; I asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It would explain everything,&rdquo; Nares replied, &ldquo;but for
      the steam-crusher. It'll all tally as neat as a patent puzzle, if you
      leave out the way these people bid the wreck up. And there we come to a
      stone wall. But whatever it is, Mr. Dodd, it's on the crook.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And looks like piracy,&rdquo; I added.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Looks like blind hookey!&rdquo; cried the captain. &ldquo;No, don't
      you deceive yourself; neither your head nor mine is big enough to put a
      name on this business.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015">
       <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XV. THE CARGO OF THE &ldquo;FLYING SCUD.&rdquo;
    </h2>
    <p>
      In my early days I was a man, the most wedded to his idols of my
      generation. I was a dweller under roofs: the gull of that which we call
      civilisation; a superstitious votary of the plastic arts; a cit; and a
      prop of restaurants. I had a comrade in those days, somewhat of an
      outsider, though he moved in the company of artists, and a man famous in
      our small world for gallantry, knee breeches, and dry and pregnant
      sayings. He, looking on the long meals and waxing bellies of the French,
      whom I confess I somewhat imitated, branded me as &ldquo;a cultivator of
      restaurant fat.&rdquo; And I believe he had his finger on the dangerous
      spot; I believe, if things had gone smooth with me, I should be now
      swollen like a prize-ox in body, and fallen in mind to a thing perhaps as
      low as many types of bourgeois&mdash;the implicit or exclusive artist.
      That was a home word of Pinkerton's, deserving to be writ in letters of
      gold on the portico of every school of art: &ldquo;What I can't see is why
      you should want to do nothing else.&rdquo; The dull man is made, not by
      the nature, but by the degree of his immersion in a single business. And
      all the more if that be sedentary, uneventful, and ingloriously safe. More
      than one half of him will then remain unexercised and undeveloped; the
      rest will be distended and deformed by over-nutrition, over-cerebration,
      and the heat of rooms. And I have often marvelled at the impudence of
      gentlemen, who describe and pass judgment on the life of man, in almost
      perfect ignorance of all its necessary elements and natural careers. Those
      who dwell in clubs and studios may paint excellent pictures or write
      enchanting novels. There is one thing that they should not do: they should
      pass no judgment on man's destiny, for it is a thing with which they are
      unacquainted. Their own life is an excrescence of the moment, doomed, in
      the vicissitude of history, to pass and disappear: the eternal life of
      man, spent under sun and rain and in rude physical effort, lies upon one
      side, scarce changed since the beginning.
    </p>
    <p>
      I would I could have carried along with me to Midway Island all the
      writers and the prating artists of my time. Day after day of hope
      deferred, of heat, of unremitting toil; night after night of aching limbs,
      bruised hands, and a mind obscured with the grateful vacancy of physical
      fatigue: the scene, the nature of my employment; the rugged speech and
      faces of my fellow-toilers, the glare of the day on deck, the stinking
      twilight in the bilge, the shrill myriads of the ocean-fowl: above all,
      the sense of our immitigable isolation from the world and from the current
      epoch;&mdash;keeping another time, some eras old; the new day heralded by
      no daily paper, only by the rising sun; and the State, the churches, the
      peopled empires, war, and the rumours of war, and the voices of the arts,
      all gone silent as in the days ere they were yet invented. Such were the
      conditions of my new experience in life, of which (if I had been able) I
      would have had all my confreres and contemporaries to partake: forgetting,
      for that while, the orthodoxies of the moment, and devoted to a single and
      material purpose under the eye of heaven.
    </p>
    <p>
      Of the nature of our task, I must continue to give some summary idea. The
      forecastle was lumbered with ship's chandlery, the hold nigh full of rice,
      the lazarette crowded with the teas and silks. These must all be dug out;
      and that made but a fraction of our task. The hold was ceiled throughout;
      a part, where perhaps some delicate cargo was once stored, had been lined,
      in addition, with inch boards; and between every beam there was a movable
      panel into the bilge. Any of these, the bulkheads of the cabins, the very
      timbers of the hull itself, might be the place of hiding. It was therefore
      necessary to demolish, as we proceeded, a great part of the ship's inner
      skin and fittings, and to auscultate what remained, like a doctor sounding
      for a lung disease. Upon the return, from any beam or bulkhead, of a flat
      or doubtful sound, we must up axe and hew into the timber: a violent and&mdash;from
      the amount of dry rot in the wreck&mdash;a mortifying exercise. Every
      night saw a deeper inroad into the bones of the Flying Scud&mdash;more
      beams tapped and hewn in splinters, more planking peeled away and tossed
      aside&mdash;and every night saw us as far as ever from the end and object
      of our arduous devastation. In this perpetual disappointment, my courage
      did not fail me, but my spirits dwindled; and Nares himself grew silent
      and morose. At night, when supper was done, we passed an hour in the
      cabin, mostly without speech: I, sometimes dozing over a book; Nares,
      sullenly but busily drilling sea-shells with the instrument called a
      Yankee Fiddle. A stranger might have supposed we were estranged; as a
      matter of fact, in this silent comradeship of labour, our intimacy grew.
    </p>
    <p>
      I had been struck, at the first beginning of our enterprise upon the
      wreck, to find the men so ready at the captain's lightest word. I dare not
      say they liked, but I can never deny that they admired him thoroughly. A
      mild word from his mouth was more valued than flattery and half a dollar
      from myself; if he relaxed at all from his habitual attitude of censure,
      smiling alacrity surrounded him; and I was led to think his theory of
      captainship, even if pushed to excess, reposed upon some ground of reason.
      But even terror and admiration of the captain failed us before the end.
      The men wearied of the hopeless, unremunerative quest and the long strain
      of labour. They began to shirk and grumble. Retribution fell on them at
      once, and retribution multiplied the grumblings. With every day it took
      harder driving to keep them to the daily drudge; and we, in our narrow
      boundaries, were kept conscious every moment of the ill-will of our
      assistants.
    </p>
    <p>
      In spite of the best care, the object of our search was perfectly well
      known to all on board; and there had leaked out besides some knowledge of
      those inconsistencies that had so greatly amazed the captain and myself. I
      could overhear the men debate the character of Captain Trent, and set
      forth competing theories of where the opium was stowed; and as they seemed
      to have been eavesdropping on ourselves, I thought little shame to prick
      up my ears when I had the return chance of spying upon them, in this way.
      I could diagnose their temper and judge how far they were informed upon
      the mystery of the Flying Scud. It was after having thus overheard some
      almost mutinous speeches that a fortunate idea crossed my mind. At night,
      I matured it in my bed, and the first thing the next morning, broached it
      to the captain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Suppose I spirit up the hands a bit,&rdquo; I asked, &ldquo;by the
      offer of a reward?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you think you're getting your month's wages out of them the way
      it is, I don't,&rdquo; was his reply. &ldquo;However, they are all the men
      you've got, and you're the supercargo.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      This, from a person of the captain's character, might be regarded as
      complete adhesion; and the crew were accordingly called aft. Never had the
      captain worn a front more menacing. It was supposed by all that some
      misdeed had been discovered, and some surprising punishment was to be
      announced.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;See here, you!&rdquo; he threw at them over his shoulder as he
      walked the deck, &ldquo;Mr. Dodd here is going to offer a reward to the
      first man who strikes the opium in that wreck. There's two ways of making
      a donkey go; both good, I guess: the one's kicks and the other's carrots.
      Mr. Dodd's going to try the carrots. Well, my sons,&rdquo;&mdash;and here
      he faced the men for the first time with his hands behind him&mdash;&ldquo;if
      that opium's not found in five days, you can come to me for the kicks.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      He nodded to the present narrator, who took up the tale. &ldquo;Here is
      what I propose, men,&rdquo; said I: &ldquo;I put up one hundred and fifty
      dollars. If any man can lay hands on the stuff right away, and off his own
      club, he shall have the hundred and fifty down. If any one can put us on
      the scent of where to look, he shall have a hundred and twenty-five, and
      the balance shall be for the lucky one who actually picks it up. We'll
      call it the Pinkerton Stakes, captain,&rdquo; I added, with a smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Call it the Grand Combination Sweep, then,&rdquo; cries he. &ldquo;For
      I go you better.&mdash;Look here, men, I make up this jack-pot to two
      hundred and fifty dollars, American gold coin.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you, Captain Nares,&rdquo; said I; &ldquo;that was handsomely
      done.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was kindly meant,&rdquo; he returned.
    </p>
    <p>
      The offer was not made in vain; the hands had scarce yet realised the
      magnitude of the reward, they had scarce begun to buzz aloud in the
      extremity of hope and wonder, ere the Chinese cook stepped forward with
      gracious gestures and explanatory smiles.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Captain,&rdquo; he began, &ldquo;I serv-um two year Melican navy;
      serv-um six year mail-boat steward. Savvy plenty.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oho!&rdquo; cried Nares, &ldquo;you savvy plenty, do you? (Beggar's
      seen this trick in the mail-boats, I guess.) Well, why you no savvy a
      little sooner, sonny?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think bimeby make-um reward,&rdquo; replied the cook, with
      smiling dignity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, you can't say fairer than that,&rdquo; the captain admitted,
      &ldquo;and now the reward's offered, you'll talk? Speak up, then. Suppose
      you speak true, you get reward. See?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think long time,&rdquo; replied the Chinaman. &ldquo;See plenty
      litty mat lice; too-muchy plenty litty mat lice; sixty ton, litty mat
      lice. I think all-e-time: perhaps plenty opium plenty litty mat lice.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Mr. Dodd, how does that strike you?&rdquo; asked the captain.
      &ldquo;He may be right, he may be wrong. He's likely to be right: for if
      he isn't, where can the stuff be? On the other hand, if he's wrong, we
      destroy a hundred and fifty tons of good rice for nothing. It's a point to
      be considered.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't hesitate,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;Let's get to the bottom of
      the thing. The rice is nothing; the rice will neither make nor break us.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's how I expected you to see it,&rdquo; returned Nares.
    </p>
    <p>
      And we called the boat away and set forth on our new quest.
    </p>
    <p>
      The hold was now almost entirely emptied; the mats (of which there went
      forty to the short ton) had been stacked on deck, and now crowded the
      ship's waist and forecastle. It was our task to disembowel and explore six
      thousand individual mats, and incidentally to destroy a hundred and fifty
      tons of valuable food. Nor were the circumstances of the day's business
      less strange than its essential nature. Each man of us, armed with a great
      knife, attacked the pile from his own quarter, slashed into the nearest
      mat, burrowed in it with his hands, and shed forth the rice upon the deck,
      where it heaped up, overflowed, and was trodden down, poured at last into
      the scuppers, and occasionally spouted from the vents. About the wreck,
      thus transformed into an overflowing granary, the sea-fowl swarmed in
      myriads and with surprising insolence. The sight of so much food
      confounded them; they deafened us with their shrill tongues, swooped in
      our midst, dashed in our faces, and snatched the grain from between our
      fingers. The men&mdash;their hands bleeding from these assaults&mdash;turned
      savagely on the offensive, drove their knives into the birds, drew them
      out crimsoned, and turned again to dig among the rice, unmindful of the
      gawking creatures that struggled and died among their feet. We made a
      singular picture: the hovering and diving birds; the bodies of the dead
      discolouring the rice with blood; the scuppers vomiting breadstuff; the
      men, frenzied by the gold hunt, toiling, slaying, and shouting aloud: over
      all, the lofty intricacy of rigging and the radiant heaven of the Pacific.
      Every man there toiled in the immediate hope of fifty dollars; and I, of
      fifty thousand. Small wonder if we waded callously in blood and food.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was perhaps about ten in the forenoon when the scene was interrupted.
      Nares, who had just ripped open a fresh mat, drew forth, and slung at his
      feet, among the rice, a papered tin box.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How's that?&rdquo; he shouted.
    </p>
    <p>
      A cry broke from all hands: the next moment, forgetting their own
      disappointment, in that contagious sentiment of success, they gave three
      cheers that scared the sea-birds; and the next, they had crowded round the
      captain, and were jostling together and groping with emulous hands in the
      new-opened mat. Box after box rewarded them, six in all; wrapped, as I
      have said, in a paper envelope, and the paper printed on, in Chinese
      characters.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nares turned to me and shook my hand. &ldquo;I began to think we should
      never see this day,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;I congratulate you, Mr. Dodd,
      on having pulled it through.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The captain's tones affected me profoundly; and when Johnson and the men
      pressed round me in turn with congratulations, the tears came in my eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;These are five-tael boxes, more than two pounds,&rdquo; said Nares,
      weighing one in his hand. &ldquo;Say two hundred and fifty dollars to the
      mat. Lay into it, boys! We'll make Mr. Dodd a millionnaire before dark.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      It was strange to see with what a fury we fell to. The men had now nothing
      to expect; the mere idea of great sums inspired them with disinterested
      ardour. Mats were slashed and disembowelled, the rice flowed to our knees
      in the ship's waist, the sweat ran in our eyes and blinded us, our arms
      ached to agony; and yet our fire abated not. Dinner came; we were too
      weary to eat, too hoarse for conversation; and yet dinner was scarce done,
      before we were afoot again and delving in the rice. Before nightfall not a
      mat was unexplored, and we were face to face with the astonishing result.
    </p>
    <p>
      For of all the inexplicable things in the story of the Flying Scud, here
      was the most inexplicable. Out of the six thousand mats, only twenty were
      found to have been sugared; in each we found the same amount, about twelve
      pounds of drug; making a grand total of two hundred and forty pounds. By
      the last San Francisco quotation, opium was selling for a fraction over
      twenty dollars a pound; but it had been known not long before to bring as
      much as forty in Honolulu, where it was contraband.
    </p>
    <p>
      Taking, then, this high Honolulu figure, the value of the opium on board
      the Flying Scud fell considerably short of ten thousand dollars, while at
      the San Francisco rate it lacked a trifle of five thousand. And fifty
      thousand was the price that Jim and I had paid for it. And Bellairs had
      been eager to go higher! There is no language to express the stupor with
      which I contemplated this result.
    </p>
    <p>
      It may be argued we were not yet sure; there might be yet another cache;
      and you may be certain in that hour of my distress the argument was not
      forgotten. There was never a ship more ardently perquested; no stone was
      left unturned, and no expedient untried; day after day of growing despair,
      we punched and dug in the brig's vitals, exciting the men with promises
      and presents; evening after evening Nares and I sat face to face in the
      narrow cabin, racking our minds for some neglected possibility of search.
      I could stake my salvation on the certainty of the result: in all that
      ship there was nothing left of value but the timber and the copper nails.
      So that our case was lamentably plain; we had paid fifty thousand dollars,
      borne the charges of the schooner, and paid fancy interest on money; and
      if things went well with us, we might realise fifteen per cent of the
      first outlay. We were not merely bankrupt, we were comic bankrupts: a fair
      butt for jeering in the streets. I hope I bore the blow with a good
      countenance; indeed, my mind had long been quite made up, and since the
      day we found the opium I had known the result. But the thought of Jim and
      Mamie ached in me like a physical pain, and I shrank from speech and
      companionship.
    </p>
    <p>
      I was in this frame of mind when the captain proposed that we should land
      upon the island. I saw he had something to say, and only feared it might
      be consolation; for I could just bear my grief, not bungling sympathy; and
      yet I had no choice but to accede to his proposal.
    </p>
    <p>
      We walked awhile along the beach in silence. The sun overhead reverberated
      rays of heat; the staring sand, the glaring lagoon, tortured our eyes; and
      the birds and the boom of the far-away breakers made a savage symphony.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't require to tell you the game's up?&rdquo; Nares asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said I.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was thinking of getting to sea to-morrow,&rdquo; he pursued.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The best thing you can do,&rdquo; said I.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shall we say Honolulu?&rdquo; he inquired.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, yes; let's stick to the programme,&rdquo; I cried. &ldquo;Honolulu
      be it!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      There was another silence, and then Nares cleared his throat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We've been pretty good friends, you and me, Mr. Dodd,&rdquo; he
      resumed. &ldquo;We've been going through the kind of thing that tries a
      man. We've had the hardest kind of work, we've been badly backed, and now
      we're badly beaten. And we've fetched through without a word of
      disagreement. I don't say this to praise myself: it's my trade; it's what
      I'm paid for, and trained for, and brought up to. But it was another thing
      for you; it was all new to you; and it did me good to see you stand right
      up to it and swing right into it, day in, day out. And then see how you've
      taken this disappointment, when everybody knows you must have been
      tautened up to shying-point! I wish you'd let me tell you, Mr. Dodd, that
      you've stood out mighty manly and handsomely in all this business, and
      made every one like you and admire you. And I wish you'd let me tell you,
      besides, that I've taken this wreck business as much to heart as you have;
      something kind of rises in my throat when I think we're beaten; and if I
      thought waiting would do it, I would stick on this reef until we starved.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      I tried in vain to thank him for these generous words, but he was
      beforehand with me in a moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I didn't bring you ashore to sound my praises,&rdquo; he
      interrupted. &ldquo;We understand one another now, that's all; and I guess
      you can trust me. What I wished to speak about is more important, and it's
      got to be faced. What are we to do about the Flying Scud and the dime
      novel?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I really have thought nothing about that,&rdquo; I replied. &ldquo;But
      I expect I mean to get at the bottom of it; and if the bogus Captain Trent
      is to be found on the earth's surface, I guess I mean to find him.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All you've got to do is talk,&rdquo; said Nares; &ldquo;you can
      make the biggest kind of boom; it isn't often the reporters have a chance
      at such a yarn as this; and I can tell you how it will go. It will go by
      telegraph, Mr. Dodd; it'll be telegraphed by the column, and head-lined,
      and frothed up, and denied by authority, and it'll hit bogus Captain Trent
      in a Mexican bar-room, and knock over bogus Goddedaal in a slum somewhere
      up the Baltic, and bowl down Hardy and Brown in sailors' music halls round
      Greenock. O, there's no doubt you can have a regular domestic Judgment
      Day. The only point is whether you deliberately want to.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;I deliberately don't want one thing: I
      deliberately don't want to make a public exhibition of myself and
      Pinkerton: so moral&mdash;smuggling opium; such damned fools&mdash;paying
      fifty thousand for a 'dead horse'!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No doubt it might damage you in a business sense,&rdquo; the
      captain agreed. &ldquo;And I'm pleased you take that view; for I've turned
      kind of soft upon the job. There's been some crookedness about, no doubt
      of it; but, Law bless you! if we dropped upon the troupe, all the premier
      artists would slip right out with the boodle in their grip-sacks, and
      you'd only collar a lot of old mutton-headed shell-backs that didn't know
      the back of the business from the front. I don't take much stock in
      Mercantile Jack, you know that; but, poor devil, he's got to go where he's
      told; and if you make trouble, ten to one it'll make you sick to see the
      innocents who have to stand the racket. It would be different if we
      understood the operation; but we don't, you see: there's a lot of queer
      corners in life; and my vote is to let the blame' thing lie.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You speak as if we had that in our power,&rdquo; I objected.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And so we have,&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What about the men?&rdquo; I asked. &ldquo;They know too much by
      half; and you can't keep them from talking.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can't I?&rdquo; returned Nares. &ldquo;I bet a boarding-master can!
      They can be all half-seas-over, when they get ashore, blind drunk by dark,
      and cruising out of the Golden Gate in different deep-sea ships by the
      next morning. Can't keep them from talking, can't I? Well, I can make 'em
      talk separate, leastways. If a whole crew came talking, parties would
      listen; but if it's only one lone old shell-back, it's the usual yarn. And
      at least, they needn't talk before six months, or&mdash;if we have luck,
      and there's a whaler handy&mdash;three years. And by that time, Mr. Dodd,
      it's ancient history.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's what they call Shanghaiing, isn't it?&rdquo; I asked.
      &ldquo;I thought it belonged to the dime novel.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, dime novels are right enough,&rdquo; returned the captain.
      &ldquo;Nothing wrong with the dime novel, only that things happen thicker
      than they do in life, and the practical seamanship is off-colour.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So we can keep the business to ourselves,&rdquo; I mused.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There's one other person that might blab,&rdquo; said the captain.
      &ldquo;Though I don't believe she has anything left to tell.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And who is SHE?&rdquo; I asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The old girl there,&rdquo; he answered, pointing to the wreck.
      &ldquo;I know there's nothing in her; but somehow I'm afraid of some one
      else&mdash;it's the last thing you'd expect, so it's just the first
      that'll happen&mdash;some one dropping into this God-forgotten island
      where nobody drops in, waltzing into that wreck that we've grown old with
      searching, stooping straight down, and picking right up the very thing
      that tells the story. What's that to me? you may ask, and why am I gone
      Soft Tommy on this Museum of Crooks? They've smashed up you and Mr.
      Pinkerton; they've turned my hair grey with conundrums; they've been up to
      larks, no doubt; and that's all I know of them&mdash;you say. Well, and
      that's just where it is. I don't know enough; I don't know what's
      uppermost; it's just such a lot of miscellaneous eventualities as I don't
      care to go stirring up; and I ask you to let me deal with the old girl
      after a patent of my own.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly&mdash;what you please,&rdquo; said I, scarce with
      attention, for a new thought now occupied my brain. &ldquo;Captain,&rdquo;
      I broke out, &ldquo;you are wrong: we cannot hush this up. There is one
      thing you have forgotten.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is that?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A bogus Captain Trent, a bogus Goddedaal, a whole bogus crew, have
      all started home,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;If we are right, not one of them
      will reach his journey's end. And do you mean to say that such a
      circumstance as that can pass without remark?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sailors,&rdquo; said the captain, &ldquo;only sailors! If they were
      all bound for one place, in a body, I don't say so; but they're all going
      separate&mdash;to Hull, to Sweden, to the Clyde, to the Thames. Well, at
      each place, what is it? Nothing new. Only one sailor man missing: got
      drunk, or got drowned, or got left: the proper sailor's end.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Something bitter in the thought and in the speaker's tones struck me hard.
      &ldquo;Here is one that has got left!&rdquo; I cried, getting sharply to
      my feet; for we had been some time seated. &ldquo;I wish it were the
      other. I don't&mdash;don't relish going home to Jim with this!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;See here,&rdquo; said Nares, with ready tact, &ldquo;I must be
      getting aboard. Johnson's in the brig annexing chandlery and canvas, and
      there's some things in the Norah that want fixing against we go to sea.
      Would you like to be left here in the chicken-ranch? I'll send for you to
      supper.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      I embraced the proposal with delight. Solitude, in my frame of mind, was
      not too dearly purchased at the risk of sunstroke or sand-blindness; and
      soon I was alone on the ill-omened islet. I should find it hard to tell of
      what I thought&mdash;of Jim, of Mamie, of our lost fortune, of my lost
      hopes, of the doom before me: to turn to at some mechanical occupation in
      some subaltern rank, and to toil there, unremarked and unamused, until the
      hour of the last deliverance. I was, at least, so sunk in sadness that I
      scarce remarked where I was going; and chance (or some finer sense that
      lives in us, and only guides us when the mind is in abeyance) conducted my
      steps into a quarter of the island where the birds were few. By some
      devious route, which I was unable to retrace for my return, I was thus
      able to mount, without interruption, to the highest point of land. And
      here I was recalled to consciousness by a last discovery.
    </p>
    <p>
      The spot on which I stood was level, and commanded a wide view of the
      lagoon, the bounding reef, the round horizon. Nearer hand I saw the sister
      islet, the wreck, the Norah Creina, and the Norah's boat already moving
      shoreward. For the sun was now low, flaming on the sea's verge; and the
      galley chimney smoked on board the schooner.
    </p>
    <p>
      It thus befell that though my discovery was both affecting and suggestive,
      I had no leisure to examine further. What I saw was the blackened embers
      of fire of wreck. By all the signs, it must have blazed to a good height
      and burned for days; from the scantling of a spar that lay upon the margin
      only half consumed, it must have been the work of more than one; and I
      received at once the image of a forlorn troop of castaways, houseless in
      that lost corner of the earth, and feeding there their fire of signal. The
      next moment a hail reached me from the boat; and bursting through the
      bushes and the rising sea-fowl, I said farewell (I trust for ever) to that
      desert isle.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016">
       <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XVI. IN WHICH I TURN SMUGGLER, AND THE CAPTAIN CASUIST
    </h2>
    <p>
      The last night at Midway, I had little sleep; the next morning, after the
      sun was risen, and the clatter of departure had begun to reign on deck, I
      lay a long while dozing; and when at last I stepped from the companion,
      the schooner was already leaping through the pass into the open sea. Close
      on her board, the huge scroll of a breaker unfurled itself along the reef
      with a prodigious clamour; and behind I saw the wreck vomiting into the
      morning air a coil of smoke. The wreaths already blew out far to leeward,
      flames already glittered in the cabin skylight; and the sea-fowl were
      scattered in surprise as wide as the lagoon. As we drew farther off, the
      conflagration of the Flying Scud flamed higher; and long after we had
      dropped all signs of Midway Island, the smoke still hung in the horizon
      like that of a distant steamer. With the fading out of that last vestige,
      the Norah Creina, passed again into the empty world of cloud and water by
      which she had approached; and the next features that appeared, eleven days
      later, to break the line of sky, were the arid mountains of Oahu.
    </p>
    <p>
      It has often since been a comfortable thought to me that we had thus
      destroyed the tell-tale remnants of the Flying Scud; and often a strange
      one that my last sight and reminiscence of that fatal ship should be a
      pillar of smoke on the horizon. To so many others besides myself the same
      appearance had played a part in the various stages of that business:
      luring some to what they little imagined, filling some with unimaginable
      terrors. But ours was the last smoke raised in the story; and with its
      dying away the secret of the Flying Scud became a private property.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was by the first light of dawn that we saw, close on board, the
      metropolitan island of Hawaii. We held along the coast, as near as we
      could venture, with a fresh breeze and under an unclouded heaven;
      beholding, as we went, the arid mountain sides and scrubby cocoa-palms of
      that somewhat melancholy archipelago. About four of the afternoon we
      turned Waimanolo Point, the westerly headland of the great bight of
      Honolulu; showed ourselves for twenty minutes in full view; and then fell
      again to leeward, and put in the rest of daylight, plying under shortened
      sail under the lee of Waimanolo.
    </p>
    <p>
      A little after dark we beat once more about the point, and crept
      cautiously toward the mouth of the Pearl Lochs, where Jim and I had
      arranged I was to meet the smugglers. The night was happily obscure, the
      water smooth. We showed, according to instructions, no light on deck: only
      a red lantern dropped from either cathead to within a couple of feet of
      the water. A lookout was stationed on the bowsprit end, another in the
      crosstrees; and the whole ship's company crowded forward, scouting for
      enemies or friends. It was now the crucial moment of our enterprise; we
      were now risking liberty and credit; and that for a sum so small to a man
      in my bankrupt situation, that I could have laughed aloud in bitterness.
      But the piece had been arranged, and we must play it to the finish.
    </p>
    <p>
      For some while, we saw nothing but the dark mountain outline of the
      island, the torches of native fishermen glittering here and there along
      the foreshore, and right in the midst that cluster of brave lights with
      which the town of Honolulu advertises itself to the seaward. Presently a
      ruddy star appeared inshore of us, and seemed to draw near unsteadily.
      This was the anticipated signal; and we made haste to show the
      countersign, lowering a white light from the quarter, extinguishing the
      two others, and laying the schooner incontinently to. The star approached
      slowly; the sounds of oars and of men's speech came to us across the
      water; and then a voice hailed us.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is that Mr. Dodd?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; I returned. &ldquo;Is Jim Pinkerton there?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, sir,&rdquo; replied the voice. &ldquo;But there's one of his
      crowd here; name of Speedy.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm here, Mr. Dodd,&rdquo; added Speedy himself. &ldquo;I have
      letters for you.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All right,&rdquo; I replied. &ldquo;Come aboard, gentlemen, and let
      me see my mail.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      A whaleboat accordingly ranged alongside, and three men boarded us: my old
      San Francisco friend, the stock-gambler Speedy, a little wizened person of
      the name of Sharpe, and a big, flourishing, dissipated-looking man called
      Fowler. The two last (I learned afterward) were frequent partners; Sharpe
      supplied the capital, and Fowler, who was quite a character in the islands
      and occupied a considerable station, brought activity, daring, and a
      private influence, highly necessary in the case. Both seemed to approach
      the business with a keen sense of romance; and I believe this was the
      chief attraction, at least with Fowler&mdash;for whom I early conceived a
      sentiment of liking. But in that first moment I had something else to
      think of than to judge my new acquaintances; and before Speedy had fished
      out the letters, the full extent of our misfortune was revealed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We've rather bad news for you, Mr. Dodd,&rdquo; said Fowler.
      &ldquo;Your firm's gone up.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Already!&rdquo; I exclaimed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, it was thought rather a wonder Pinkerton held on as long as
      he did,&rdquo; was the reply. &ldquo;The wreck deal was too big for your
      credit; you were doing a big business, no doubt, but you were doing it on
      precious little capital; and when the strain came, you were bound to go.
      Pinkerton's through all right: seven cents dividend; some remarks made,
      but nothing to hurt; the press let you down easy&mdash;I guess Jim had
      relations there. The only trouble is, that all this Flying Scud affair got
      in the papers with the rest; everybody's wide awake in Honolulu, and the
      sooner we get the stuff in and the dollars out, the better for all
      concerned.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gentlemen,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;you must excuse me. My friend, the
      captain here, will drink a glass of champagne with you to give you
      patience; but as for myself, I am unfit even for ordinary conversation
      till I have read these letters.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      They demurred a little: and indeed the danger of delay seemed obvious; but
      the sight of my distress, which I was unable entirely to control, appealed
      strongly to their good-nature; and I was suffered at last to get by myself
      on deck, where, by the light of a lantern smuggled under shelter of the
      low rail, I read the following wretched correspondence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear Loudon,&rdquo; ran the first, &ldquo;this will be handed
      you by your friend Speedy of the Catamount. His sterling character and
      loyal devotion to yourself pointed him out as the best man for our
      purposes in Honolulu&mdash;the parties on the spot being difficult to
      manipulate. A man called Billy Fowler (you must have heard of Billy) is
      the boss; he is in politics some, and squares the officers. I have hard
      times before me in the city, but I feel as bright as a dollar and as
      strong as John L. Sullivan. What with Mamie here, and my partner speeding
      over the seas, and the bonanza in the wreck, I feel like I could juggle
      with the Pyramids of Egypt, same as conjurers do with aluminium balls. My
      earnest prayers follow you, Loudon, that you may feel the way I do&mdash;just
      inspired! My feet don't touch the ground; I kind of swim. Mamie is like
      Moses and Aaron that held up the other individual's arms. She carries me
      along like a horse and buggy. I am beating the record.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your true partner,
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;J. PINKERTON.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Number two was in a different style:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dearest Loudon, how am I to prepare you for this dire
      intelligence? O dear me, it will strike you to the earth. The Fiat has
      gone forth; our firm went bust at a quarter before twelve. It was a bill
      of Bradley's (for $200) that brought these vast operations to a close, and
      evolved liabilities of upwards of two hundred and fifty thousand. O, the
      shame and pity of it! and you but three weeks gone! Loudon, don't blame
      your partner: if human hands and brains could have sufficed, I would have
      held the thing together. But it just slowly crumbled; Bradley was the last
      kick, but the blamed business just MELTED. I give the liabilities; it's
      supposed they're all in; for the cowards were waiting, and the claims were
      filed like taking tickets to hear Patti. I don't quite have the hang of
      the assets yet, our interests were so extended; but I am at it day and
      night, and I guess will make a creditable dividend. If the wreck pans out
      only half the way it ought, we'll turn the laugh still. I am as full of
      grit and work as ever, and just tower above our troubles. Mamie is a host
      in herself. Somehow I feel like it was only me that had gone bust, and you
      and she soared clear of it. Hurry up. That's all you have to do.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yours ever,
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;J. PINKERTON.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The third was yet more altered:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My poor Loudon,&rdquo; it began, &ldquo;I labour far into the night
      getting our affairs in order; you could not believe their vastness and
      complexity. Douglas B. Longhurst said humorously that the receiver's work
      would be cut out for him. I cannot deny that some of them have a
      speculative look. God forbid a sensitive, refined spirit like yours should
      ever come face to face with a Commissioner in Bankruptcy; these men get
      all the sweetness knocked right out of them. But I could bear up better if
      it weren't for press comments. Often and often, Loudon, I recall to mind
      your most legitimate critiques of the press system. They published an
      interview with me, not the least like what I said, and with JEERING
      comments; it would make your blood boil, it was literally INHUMANE; I
      wouldn't have written it about a yellow dog that was in trouble like what
      I am. Mamie just winced, the first time she has turned a hair right
      through the whole catastrophe. How wonderfully true was what you said long
      ago in Paris, about touching on people's personal appearance! The fellow
      said&mdash;&rdquo; And then these words had been scored through; and my
      distressed friend turned to another subject. &ldquo;I cannot bear to dwell
      upon our assets. They simply don't show up. Even Thirteen Star, as sound a
      line as can be produced upon this coast, goes begging. The wreck has
      thrown a blight on all we ever touched. And where's the use? God never
      made a wreck big enough to fill our deficit. I am haunted by the thought
      that you may blame me; I know how I despised your remonstrances. O,
      Loudon, don't be hard on your miserable partner. The funny-dog business is
      what kills. I fear your stern rectitude of mind like the eye of God. I
      cannot think but what some of my books seem mixed up; otherwise, I don't
      seem to see my way as plain as I could wish to. Or else my brain is gone
      soft. Loudon, if there should be any unpleasantness, you can trust me to
      do the right thing and keep you clear. I've been telling them already, how
      you had no business grip and never saw the books. O, I trust I have done
      right in this! I knew it was a liberty; I know you may justly complain;
      but it was some things that were said. And mind you, all legitimate
      business! Not even your shrinking sensitiveness could find fault with the
      first look of one of them, if they had panned out right. And you know, the
      Flying Scud was the biggest gamble of the crowd, and that was your own
      idea. Mamie says she never could bear to look you in the face, if that
      idea had been mine, she is SO conscientious!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your broken-hearted
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;JIM.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The last began without formality:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is the end of me commercially. I give up; my nerve is gone. I
      suppose I ought to be glad; for we're through the court. I don't know as
      ever I knew how, and I'm sure I don't remember. If it pans out&mdash;the
      wreck, I mean&mdash;we'll go to Europe, and live on the interest of our
      money. No more work for me. I shake when people speak to me. I have gone
      on, hoping and hoping, and working and working, and the lead has pinched
      right out. I want to lie on my back in a garden and read Shakespeare and
      E. P. Roe. Don't suppose it's cowardice, Loudon. I'm a sick man. Rest is
      what I must have. I've worked hard all my life; I never spared myself;
      every dollar I ever made, I've coined my brains for it. I've never done a
      mean thing; I've lived respectable, and given to the poor. Who has a
      better right to a holiday than I have? And I mean to have a year of it
      straight out; and if I don't, I shall lie right down here in my tracks,
      and die of worry and brain trouble. Don't mistake. That's so. If there are
      any pickings at all, TRUST SPEEDY; don't let the creditors get wind of
      what there is. I helped you when you were down; help me now. Don't deceive
      yourself; you've got to help me right now, or never. I am clerking, and
      NOT FIT TO CYPHER. Mamie's typewriting at the Phoenix Guano Exchange, down
      town. The light is right out of my life. I know you'll not like to do what
      I propose. Think only of this; that it's life or death for
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;JIM PINKERTON.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;P.S. Our figure was seven per cent. O, what a fall was there! Well,
      well, it's past mending; I don't want to whine. But, Loudon, I do want to
      live. No more ambition; all I ask is life. I have so much to make it sweet
      to me! I am clerking, and USELESS AT THAT. I know I would have fired such
      a clerk inside of forty minutes, in MY time. But my time's over. I can
      only cling on to you. Don't fail
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;JIM PINKERTON.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      There was yet one more postscript, yet one more outburst of self-pity and
      pathetic adjuration; and a doctor's opinion, unpromising enough, was
      besides enclosed. I pass them both in silence. I think shame to have
      shown, at so great length, the half-baked virtues of my friend dissolving
      in the crucible of sickness and distress; and the effect upon my spirits
      can be judged already. I got to my feet when I had done, drew a deep
      breath, and stared hard at Honolulu. One moment the world seemed at an
      end; the next, I was conscious of a rush of independent energy. On Jim I
      could rely no longer; I must now take hold myself. I must decide and act
      on my own better thoughts.
    </p>
    <p>
      The word was easy to say; the thing, at the first blush, was
      undiscoverable. I was overwhelmed with miserable, womanish pity for my
      broken friend; his outcries grieved my spirit; I saw him then and now&mdash;then,
      so invincible; now, brought so low&mdash;and knew neither how to refuse,
      nor how to consent to his proposal. The remembrance of my father, who had
      fallen in the same field unstained, the image of his monument
      incongruously rising, a fear of the law, a chill air that seemed to blow
      upon my fancy from the doors of prisons, and the imaginary clank of
      fetters, recalled me to a different resolve. And then again, the wails of
      my sick partner intervened. So I stood hesitating, and yet with a strong
      sense of capacity behind: sure, if I could but choose my path, that I
      should walk in it with resolution.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then I remembered that I had a friend on board, and stepped to the
      companion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gentlemen,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;only a few moments more: but
      these, I regret to say, I must make more tedious still by removing your
      companion. It is indispensable that I should have a word or two with
      Captain Nares.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Both the smugglers were afoot at once, protesting. The business, they
      declared, must be despatched at once; they had run risk enough, with a
      conscience; and they must either finish now, or go.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The choice is yours, gentlemen,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;and, I
      believe, the eagerness. I am not yet sure that I have anything in your
      way; even if I have, there are a hundred things to be considered; and I
      assure you it is not at all my habit to do business with a pistol to my
      head.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is all very proper, Mr. Dodd; there is no wish to coerce you,
      believe me,&rdquo; said Fowler; &ldquo;only, please consider our position.
      It is really dangerous; we were not the only people to see your schooner
      off Waimanolo.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Fowler,&rdquo; I replied, &ldquo;I was not born yesterday. Will
      you allow me to express an opinion, in which I may be quite wrong, but to
      which I am entirely wedded? If the custom-house officers had been coming,
      they would have been here now. In other words, somebody is working the
      oracle, and (for a good guess) his name is Fowler.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Both men laughed loud and long; and being supplied with another bottle of
      Longhurst's champagne, suffered the captain and myself to leave them
      without further word.
    </p>
    <p>
      I gave Nares the correspondence, and he skimmed it through.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, captain,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;I want a fresh mind on this.
      What does it mean?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's large enough text,&rdquo; replied the captain. &ldquo;It means
      you're to stake your pile on Speedy, hand him over all you can, and hold
      your tongue. I almost wish you hadn't shown it me,&rdquo; he added
      wearily. &ldquo;What with the specie from the wreck and the opium money,
      it comes to a biggish deal.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's supposing that I do it?&rdquo; said I.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Exactly,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;supposing you do it.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And there are pros and cons to that,&rdquo; I observed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There's San Quentin, to start in with,&rdquo; said the captain;
      &ldquo;and suppose you clear the penitentiary, there's the nasty taste in
      the mouth. The figure's big enough to make bad trouble, but it's not big
      enough to be picturesque; and I should guess a man always feels kind of
      small who has sold himself under six cyphers. That would be my way, at
      least; there's an excitement about a million that might carry me on; but
      the other way, I should feel kind of lonely when I woke in bed. Then
      there's Speedy. Do you know him well?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I do not,&rdquo; said I.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, of course he can vamoose with the entire speculation, if he
      chooses,&rdquo; pursued the captain, &ldquo;and if he don't I can't see
      but what you've got to support and bed and board with him to the end of
      time. I guess it would weary me. Then there's Mr. Pinkerton, of course.
      He's been a good friend to you, hasn't he? Stood by you, and all that? and
      pulled you through for all he was worth?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That he has,&rdquo; I cried; &ldquo;I could never begin telling you
      my debt to him!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, and that's a consideration,&rdquo; said the captain. &ldquo;As
      a matter of principle, I wouldn't look at this business at the money. 'Not
      good enough,' would be my word. But even principle goes under when it
      comes to friends&mdash;the right sort, I mean. This Pinkerton is
      frightened, and he seems sick; the medico don't seem to care a cent about
      his state of health; and you've got to figure how you would like it if he
      came to die. Remember, the risk of this little swindle is all yours; it's
      no sort of risk to Mr. Pinkerton. Well, you've got to put it that way
      plainly, and see how you like the sound of it: my friend Pinkerton is in
      danger of the New Jerusalem, I am in danger of San Quentin; which risk do
      I propose to run?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's an ugly way to put it,&rdquo; I objected, &ldquo;and perhaps
      hardly fair. There's right and wrong to be considered.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't know the parties,&rdquo; replied Nares; &ldquo;and I'm coming
      to them, anyway. For it strikes me, when it came to smuggling opium, you
      walked right up?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So I did,&rdquo; I said; &ldquo;sick I am to have to say it!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All the same,&rdquo; continued Nares, &ldquo;you went into the
      opium-smuggling with your head down; and a good deal of fussing I've
      listened to, that you hadn't more of it to smuggle. Now, maybe your
      partner's not quite fixed the same as you are; maybe he sees precious
      little difference between the one thing and the other.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You could not say truer: he sees none, I do believe,&rdquo; cried
      I; &ldquo;and though I see one, I could never tell you how.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We never can,&rdquo; said the oracular Nares; &ldquo;taste is all a
      matter of opinion. But the point is, how will your friend take it? You
      refuse a favour, and you take the high horse at the same time; you
      disappoint him, and you rap him over the knuckles. It won't do, Mr. Dodd;
      no friendship can stand that. You must be as good as your friend, or as
      bad as your friend, or start on a fresh deal without him.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't see it!&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;You don't know Jim!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, you WILL see,&rdquo; said Nares. &ldquo;And now, here's
      another point. This bit of money looks mighty big to Mr. Pinkerton; it may
      spell life or health to him; but among all your creditors, I don't see
      that it amounts to a hill of beans&mdash;I don't believe it'll pay their
      car-fares all round. And don't you think you'll ever get thanked. You were
      known to pay a long price for the chance of rummaging that wreck; you do
      the rummaging, you come home, and you hand over ten thousand&mdash;or
      twenty, if you like&mdash;a part of which you'll have to own up you made
      by smuggling; and, mind! you'll never get Billy Fowler to stick his name
      to a receipt. Now just glance at the transaction from the outside, and see
      what a clear case it makes. Your ten thousand is a sop; and people will
      only wonder you were so damned impudent as to offer such a small one!
      Whichever way you take it, Mr. Dodd, the bottom's out of your character;
      so there's one thing less to be considered.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I daresay you'll scarce believe me,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;but I
      feel that a positive relief.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must be made some way different from me, then,&rdquo; returned
      Nares. &ldquo;And, talking about me, I might just mention how I stand.
      You'll have no trouble from me&mdash;you've trouble enough of your own;
      and I'm friend enough, when a friend's in need, to shut my eyes and go
      right where he tells me. All the same, I'm rather queerly fixed. My
      owners'll have to rank with the rest on their charter-party. Here am I,
      their representative! and I have to look over the ship's side while the
      bankrupt walks his assets ashore in Mr. Speedy's hat-box. It's a thing I
      wouldn't do for James G. Blaine; but I'll do it for you, Mr. Dodd, and
      only sorry I can't do more.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you, captain; my mind is made up,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;I'll
      go straight, RUAT COELUM! I never understood that old tag before to-night.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hope it isn't my business that decides you?&rdquo; asked the
      captain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll never deny it was an element,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;I hope, I
      hope I'm not cowardly; I hope I could steal for Jim myself; but when it
      comes to dragging in you and Speedy, and this one and the other, why, Jim
      has got to die, and there's an end. I'll try and work for him when I get
      to 'Frisco, I suppose; and I suppose I'll fail, and look on at his death,
      and kick myself: it can't be helped&mdash;I'll fight it on this line.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't say as you're wrong,&rdquo; replied Nares, &ldquo;and I'll
      be hanged if I know if you're right. It suits me anyway. And look here&mdash;hadn't
      you better just show our friends over the side?&rdquo; he added; &ldquo;no
      good of being at the risk and worry of smuggling for the benefit of
      creditors.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't think of the creditors,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;But I've kept
      this pair so long, I haven't got the brass to fire them now.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Indeed, I believe that was my only reason for entering upon a transaction
      which was now outside my interest, but which (as it chanced) repaid me
      fifty-fold in entertainment. Fowler and Sharpe were both preternaturally
      sharp; they did me the honour in the beginning to attribute to myself
      their proper vices; and before we were done had grown to regard me with an
      esteem akin to worship. This proud position I attained by no more
      recondite arts, than telling the mere truth and unaffectedly displaying my
      indifference to the result. I have doubtless stated the essentials of all
      good diplomacy, which may be rather regarded, therefore, as a grace of
      state, than the effect of management. For to tell the truth is not in
      itself diplomatic, and to have no care for the result a thing involuntary.
      When I mentioned, for instance, that I had but two hundred and forty
      pounds of drug, my smugglers exchanged meaning glances, as who should say,
      &ldquo;Here is a foeman worthy of our steel!&rdquo; But when I carelessly
      proposed thirty-five dollars a pound, as an amendment to their offered
      twenty, and wound up with the remark: &ldquo;The whole thing is a matter
      of moonshine to me, gentlemen. Take it or want it, and fill your glasses&rdquo;&mdash;I
      had the indescribable gratification to see Sharpe nudge Fowler warningly,
      and Fowler choke down the jovial acceptance that stood ready on his lips,
      and lamely substitute a &ldquo;No&mdash;no more wine, please, Mr. Dodd!&rdquo;
      Nor was this all: for when the affair was settled at fifty dollars a pound&mdash;a
      shrewd stroke of business for my creditors&mdash;and our friends had got
      on board their whaleboat and shoved off, it appeared they were imperfectly
      acquainted with the conveyance of sound upon still water, and I had the
      joy to overhear the following testimonial.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Deep man, that Dodd,&rdquo; said Sharpe.
    </p>
    <p>
      And the bass-toned Fowler echoed, &ldquo;Damned if I understand his game.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus we were left once more alone upon the Norah Creina; and the news of
      the night, and the lamentations of Pinkerton, and the thought of my own
      harsh decision, returned and besieged me in the dark. According to all the
      rubbish I had read, I should have been sustained by the warm consciousness
      of virtue. Alas, I had but the one feeling: that I had sacrificed my sick
      friend to the fear of prison-cells and stupid starers. And no moralist has
      yet advanced so far as to number cowardice amongst the things that are
      their own reward.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017">
       <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XVII. LIGHT FROM THE MAN OF WAR.
    </h2>
    <p>
      In the early sunlight of the next day, we tossed close off the buoy and
      saw the city sparkle in its groves about the foot of the Punch-bowl, and
      the masts clustering thick in the small harbour. A good breeze, which had
      risen with the sea, carried us triumphantly through the intricacies of the
      passage; and we had soon brought up not far from the landing-stairs. I
      remember to have remarked an ugly horned reptile of a modern warship in
      the usual moorings across the port, but my mind was so profoundly plunged
      in melancholy that I paid no heed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Indeed, I had little time at my disposal. Messieurs Sharpe and Fowler had
      left the night before in the persuasion that I was a liar of the first
      magnitude; the genial belief brought them aboard again with the earliest
      opportunity, proffering help to one who had proved how little he required
      it, and hospitality to so respectable a character. I had business to mind,
      I had some need both of assistance and diversion; I liked Fowler&mdash;I
      don't know why; and in short, I let them do with me as they desired. No
      creditor intervening, I spent the first half of the day inquiring into the
      conditions of the tea and silk market under the auspices of Sharpe;
      lunched with him in a private apartment at the Hawaiian Hotel&mdash;for
      Sharpe was a teetotaler in public; and about four in the afternoon was
      delivered into the hands of Fowler. This gentleman owned a bungalow on the
      Waikiki beach; and there in company with certain young bloods of Honolulu,
      I was entertained to a sea-bathe, indiscriminate cocktails, a dinner, a
      hula-hula, and (to round off the night), poker and assorted liquors. To
      lose money in the small hours to pale, intoxicated youth, has always
      appeared to me a pleasure overrated. In my then frame of mind, I confess I
      found it even delightful; put up my money (or rather my creditors'), and
      put down Fowler's champagne with equal avidity and success; and awoke the
      next morning to a mild headache and the rather agreeable lees of the last
      night's excitement. The young bloods, many of whom were still far from
      sober, had taken the kitchen into their own hands, vice the Chinaman
      deposed; and since each was engaged upon a dish of his own, and none had
      the least scruple in demolishing his neighbour's handiwork, I became early
      convinced that many eggs would be broken and few omelets made. The
      discovery of a jug of milk and a crust of bread enabled me to stay my
      appetite; and since it was Sunday, when no business could be done, and the
      festivities were to be renewed that night in the abode of Fowler, it
      occurred to me to slip silently away and enjoy some air and solitude.
    </p>
    <p>
      I turned seaward under the dead crater known as Diamond Head. My way was
      for some time under the shade of certain thickets of green, thorny trees,
      dotted with houses. Here I enjoyed some pictures of the native life:
      wide-eyed, naked children, mingled with pigs; a youth asleep under a tree;
      an old gentleman spelling through glasses his Hawaiian Bible; the somewhat
      embarrassing spectacle of a lady at her bath in a spring; and the glimpse
      of gaudy-coloured gowns in the deep shade of the houses. Thence I found a
      road along the beach itself, wading in sand, opposed and buffeted by the
      whole weight of the Trade: on one hand, the glittering and sounding surf,
      and the bay lively with many sails; on the other, precipitous, arid
      gullies and sheer cliffs, mounting towards the crater and the blue sky.
      For all the companionship of skimming vessels, the place struck me with a
      sense of solitude. There came in my head what I had been told the day
      before at dinner, of a cavern above in the bowels of the volcano, a place
      only to be visited with the light of torches, a treasure-house of the
      bones of priests and warriors, and clamorous with the voice of an unseen
      river pouring seaward through the crannies of the mountain. At the
      thought, it was revealed to me suddenly, how the bungalows, and the
      Fowlers, and the bright busy town and crowding ships, were all children of
      yesterday; and for centuries before, the obscure life of the natives, with
      its glories and ambitions, its joys and crimes and agonies, had rolled
      unseen, like the mountain river, in that sea-girt place. Not Chaldea
      appeared more ancient, nor the Pyramids of Egypt more abstruse; and I
      heard time measured by &ldquo;the drums and tramplings&rdquo; of
      immemorial conquests, and saw myself the creature of an hour. Over the
      bankruptcy of Pinkerton and Dodd, of Montana Block, S. F., and the
      conscientious troubles of the junior partner, the spirit of eternity was
      seen to smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      To this mood of philosophic sadness, my excesses of the night before no
      doubt contributed; for more things than virtue are at times their own
      reward: but I was greatly healed at least of my distresses. And while I
      was yet enjoying my abstracted humour, a turn of the beach brought me in
      view of the signal-station, with its watch-house and flag-staff, perched
      on the immediate margin of a cliff. The house was new and clean and bald,
      and stood naked to the Trades. The wind beat about it in loud squalls; the
      seaward windows rattled without mercy; the breach of the surf below
      contributed its increment of noise; and the fall of my foot in the narrow
      verandah passed unheard by those within.
    </p>
    <p>
      There were two on whom I thus entered unexpectedly: the look-out man, with
      grizzled beard, keen seaman's eyes, and that brand on his countenance that
      comes of solitary living; and a visitor, an oldish, oratorical fellow, in
      the smart tropical array of the British man-o'-war's man, perched on a
      table, and smoking a cigar. I was made pleasantly welcome, and was soon
      listening with amusement to the sea-lawyer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, if I hadn't have been born an Englishman,&rdquo; was one of his
      sentiments, &ldquo;damn me! I'd rather 'a been born a Frenchy! I'd like to
      see another nation fit to black their boots.&rdquo; Presently after, he
      developed his views on home politics with similar trenchancy. &ldquo;I'd
      rather be a brute beast than what I'd be a liberal,&rdquo; he said.
      &ldquo;Carrying banners and that! a pig's got more sense. Why, look at our
      chief engineer&mdash;they do say he carried a banner with his own 'ands:
      'Hooroar for Gladstone!' I suppose, or 'Down with the Aristocracy!' What
      'arm does the aristocracy do? Show me a country any good without one! Not
      the States; why, it's the 'ome of corruption! I knew a man&mdash;he was a
      good man, 'ome born&mdash;who was signal quartermaster in the Wyandotte.
      He told me he could never have got there if he hadn't have 'run with the
      boys'&mdash;told it me as I'm telling you. Now, we're all British subjects
      here&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; he was going on.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am afraid I am an American,&rdquo; I said apologetically.
    </p>
    <p>
      He seemed the least bit taken aback, but recovered himself; and with the
      ready tact of his betters, paid me the usual British compliment on the
      riposte. &ldquo;You don't say so!&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;Well, I give
      you my word of honour, I'd never have guessed it. Nobody could tell it on
      you,&rdquo; said he, as though it were some form of liquor.
    </p>
    <p>
      I thanked him, as I always do, at this particular stage, with his
      compatriots: not so much perhaps for the compliment to myself and my poor
      country, as for the revelation (which is ever fresh to me) of Britannic
      self-sufficiency and taste. And he was so far softened by my gratitude as
      to add a word of praise on the American method of lacing sails. &ldquo;You're
      ahead of us in lacing sails,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;You can say that with
      a clear conscience.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you,&rdquo; I replied. &ldquo;I shall certainly do so.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      At this rate, we got along swimmingly; and when I rose to retrace my steps
      to the Fowlery, he at once started to his feet and offered me the welcome
      solace of his company for the return. I believe I discovered much alacrity
      at the idea, for the creature (who seemed to be unique, or to represent a
      type like that of the dodo) entertained me hugely. But when he had
      produced his hat, I found I was in the way of more than entertainment; for
      on the ribbon I could read the legend: &ldquo;H.M.S. Tempest.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I say,&rdquo; I began, when our adieus were paid, and we were
      scrambling down the path from the look-out, &ldquo;it was your ship that
      picked up the men on board the Flying Scud, wasn't it?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You may say so,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;And a blessed good job for
      the Flying-Scuds. It's a God-forsaken spot, that Midway Island.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I've just come from there,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;It was I who
      bought the wreck.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Beg your pardon, sir,&rdquo; cried the sailor: &ldquo;gen'lem'n in
      the white schooner?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The same,&rdquo; said I.
    </p>
    <p>
      My friend saluted, as though we were now, for the first time, formally
      introduced.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course,&rdquo; I continued, &ldquo;I am rather taken up with the
      whole story; and I wish you would tell me what you can of how the men were
      saved.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was like this,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;We had orders to call at
      Midway after castaways, and had our distance pretty nigh run down the day
      before. We steamed half-speed all night, looking to make it about noon;
      for old Tootles&mdash;beg your pardon, sir&mdash;the captain&mdash;was
      precious scared of the place at night. Well, there's nasty, filthy
      currents round that Midway; YOU know, as has been there; and one on 'em
      must have set us down. Leastways, about six bells, when we had ought to
      been miles away, some one sees a sail, and lo and be'old, there was the
      spars of a full-rigged brig! We raised her pretty fast, and the island
      after her; and made out she was hard aground, canted on her bilge, and had
      her ens'n flying, union down. It was breaking 'igh on the reef, and we
      laid well out, and sent a couple of boats. I didn't go in neither; only
      stood and looked on; but it seems they was all badly scared and muddled,
      and didn't know which end was uppermost. One on 'em kep' snivelling and
      wringing of his 'ands; he come on board all of a sop like a monthly nurse.
      That Trent, he come first, with his 'and in a bloody rag. I was near 'em
      as I am to you; and I could make out he was all to bits&mdash;'eard his
      breath rattle in his blooming lungs as he come down the ladder. Yes, they
      was a scared lot, small blame to 'em, I say! The next after Trent, come
      him as was mate.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Goddedaal!&rdquo; I exclaimed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And a good name for him too,&rdquo; chuckled the man-o'-war's man,
      who probably confounded the word with a familiar oath. &ldquo;A good name
      too; only it weren't his. He was a gen'lem'n born, sir, as had gone
      maskewerading. One of our officers knowed him at 'ome, reckonises him,
      steps up, 'olds out his 'and right off, and says he: ''Ullo, Norrie, old
      chappie!' he says. The other was coming up, as bold as look at it; didn't
      seem put out&mdash;that's where blood tells, sir! Well, no sooner does he
      'ear his born name given him, than he turns as white as the Day of
      Judgment, stares at Mr. Sebright like he was looking at a ghost, and then
      (I give you my word of honour) turned to, and doubled up in a dead faint.
      'Take him down to my berth,' says Mr. Sebright. ''Tis poor old Norrie
      Carthew,' he says.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what&mdash;what sort of a gentleman was this Mr. Carthew?&rdquo;
      I gasped.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The ward-room steward told me he was come of the best blood in
      England,&rdquo; was my friend's reply: &ldquo;Eton and 'Arrow bred;&mdash;and
      might have been a bar'net!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, but to look at?&rdquo; I corrected him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The same as you or me,&rdquo; was the uncompromising answer:
      &ldquo;not much to look at. I didn't know he was a gen'lem'n; but then, I
      never see him cleaned up.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How was that?&rdquo; I cried. &ldquo;O yes, I remember: he was sick
      all the way to 'Frisco, was he not?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sick, or sorry, or something,&rdquo; returned my informant. &ldquo;My
      belief, he didn't hanker after showing up. He kep' close; the ward-room
      steward, what took his meals in, told me he ate nex' to nothing; and he
      was fetched ashore at 'Frisco on the quiet. Here was how it was. It seems
      his brother had took and died, him as had the estate. This one had gone in
      for his beer, by what I could make out; the old folks at 'ome had turned
      rusty; no one knew where he had gone to. Here he was, slaving in a
      merchant brig, shipwrecked on Midway, and packing up his duds for a long
      voyage in a open boat. He comes on board our ship, and by God, here he is
      a landed proprietor, and may be in Parliament to-morrow! It's no less than
      natural he should keep dark: so would you and me in the same box.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I daresay,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;But you saw more of the others?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To be sure,&rdquo; says he: &ldquo;no 'arm in them from what I see.
      There was one 'Ardy there: colonial born he was, and had been through a
      power of money. There was no nonsense about 'Ardy; he had been up, and he
      had come down, and took it so. His 'eart was in the right place; and he
      was well-informed, and knew French; and Latin, I believe, like a native! I
      liked that 'Ardy; he was a good-looking boy, too.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did they say much about the wreck?&rdquo; I asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There wasn't much to say, I reckon,&rdquo; replied the man-o'-war's
      man. &ldquo;It was all in the papers. 'Ardy used to yarn most about the
      coins he had gone through; he had lived with book-makers, and jockeys, and
      pugs, and actors, and all that: a precious low lot!&rdquo; added this
      judicious person. &ldquo;But it's about here my 'orse is moored, and by
      your leave I'll be getting ahead.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One moment,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;Is Mr. Sebright on board?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, sir, he's ashore to-day,&rdquo; said the sailor. &ldquo;I took
      up a bag for him to the 'otel.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      With that we parted. Presently after my friend overtook and passed me on a
      hired steed which seemed to scorn its cavalier; and I was left in the dust
      of his passage, a prey to whirling thoughts. For I now stood, or seemed to
      stand, on the immediate threshold of these mysteries. I knew the name of
      the man Dickson&mdash;his name was Carthew; I knew where the money came
      from that opposed us at the sale&mdash;it was part of Carthew's
      inheritance; and in my gallery of illustrations to the history of the
      wreck, one more picture hung; perhaps the most dramatic of the series. It
      showed me the deck of a warship in that distant part of the great ocean,
      the officers and seamen looking curiously on; and a man of birth and
      education, who had been sailing under an alias on a trading brig, and was
      now rescued from desperate peril, felled like an ox by the bare sound of
      his own name. I could not fail to be reminded of my own experience at the
      Occidental telephone. The hero of three styles, Dickson, Goddedaal, or
      Carthew, must be the owner of a lively&mdash;or a loaded&mdash;conscience,
      and the reflection recalled to me the photograph found on board the Flying
      Scud; just such a man, I reasoned, would be capable of just such starts
      and crises, and I inclined to think that Goddedaal (or Carthew) was the
      mainspring of the mystery.
    </p>
    <p>
      One thing was plain: as long as the Tempest was in reach, I must make the
      acquaintance of both Sebright and the doctor. To this end, I excused
      myself with Mr. Fowler, returned to Honolulu, and passed the remainder of
      the day hanging vainly round the cool verandahs of the hotel. It was near
      nine o'clock at night before I was rewarded.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is the gentleman you were asking for,&rdquo; said the clerk.
    </p>
    <p>
      I beheld a man in tweeds, of an incomparable languor of demeanour, and
      carrying a cane with genteel effort. From the name, I had looked to find a
      sort of Viking and young ruler of the battle and the tempest; and I was
      the more disappointed, and not a little alarmed, to come face to face with
      this impracticable type.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I believe I have the pleasure of addressing Lieutenant Sebright,&rdquo;
      said I, stepping forward.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aw, yes,&rdquo; replied the hero; &ldquo;but, aw! I dawn't knaw
      you, do I?&rdquo; (He spoke for all the world like Lord Foppington in the
      old play&mdash;a proof of the perennial nature of man's affectations. But
      his limping dialect, I scorn to continue to reproduce.)
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was with the intention of making myself known, that I have taken
      this step,&rdquo; said I, entirely unabashed (for impudence begets in me
      its like&mdash;perhaps my only martial attribute). &ldquo;We have a common
      subject of interest, to me very lively; and I believe I may be in a
      position to be of some service to a friend of yours&mdash;to give him, at
      least, some very welcome information.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The last clause was a sop to my conscience: I could not pretend, even to
      myself, either the power or the will to serve Mr. Carthew; but I felt sure
      he would like to hear the Flying Scud was burned.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know&mdash;I&mdash;I don't understand you,&rdquo; stammered
      my victim. &ldquo;I don't have any friends in Honolulu, don't you know?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The friend to whom I refer is English,&rdquo; I replied. &ldquo;It
      is Mr. Carthew, whom you picked up at Midway. My firm has bought the
      wreck; I am just returned from breaking her up; and&mdash;to make my
      business quite clear to you&mdash;I have a communication it is necessary I
      should make; and have to trouble you for Mr. Carthew's address.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      It will be seen how rapidly I had dropped all hope of interesting the
      frigid British bear. He, on his side, was plainly on thorns at my
      insistence; I judged he was suffering torments of alarm lest I should
      prove an undesirable acquaintance; diagnosed him for a shy, dull, vain,
      unamiable animal, without adequate defence&mdash;a sort of dishoused
      snail; and concluded, rightly enough, that he would consent to anything to
      bring our interview to a conclusion. A moment later, he had fled, leaving
      me with a sheet of paper, thus inscribed:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      Norris Carthew,
    </p>
    <p>
      Stallbridge-le-Carthew,
    </p>
    <p>
      Dorset.
    </p>
    <p>
      I might have cried victory, the field of battle and some of the enemy's
      baggage remaining in my occupation. As a matter of fact, my moral
      sufferings during the engagement had rivalled those of Mr. Sebright; I was
      left incapable of fresh hostilities; I owned that the navy of old England
      was (for me) invincible as of yore; and giving up all thought of the
      doctor, inclined to salute her veteran flag, in the future, from a prudent
      distance. Such was my inclination, when I retired to rest; and my first
      experience the next morning strengthened it to certainty. For I had the
      pleasure of encountering my fair antagonist on his way on board; and he
      honoured me with a recognition so disgustingly dry, that my impatience
      overflowed, and (recalling the tactics of Nelson) I neglected to perceive
      or to return it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Judge of my astonishment, some half-hour later, to receive a note of
      invitation from the Tempest.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear Sir,&rdquo; it began, &ldquo;we are all naturally very much
      interested in the wreck of the Flying Scud, and as soon as I mentioned
      that I had the pleasure of making your acquaintance, a very general wish
      was expressed that you would come and dine on board. It will give us all
      the greatest pleasure to see you to-night, or in case you should be
      otherwise engaged, to luncheon either to-morrow or to-day.&rdquo; A note
      of the hours followed, and the document wound up with the name of &ldquo;J.
      Lascelles Sebright,&rdquo; under an undeniable statement that he was
      sincerely mine.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Mr. Lascelles Sebright,&rdquo; I reflected, &ldquo;you are not,
      but I begin to suspect that (like the lady in the song) you are another's.
      You have mentioned your adventure, my friend; you have been blown up; you
      have got your orders; this note has been dictated; and I am asked on board
      (in spite of your melancholy protests) not to meet the men, and not to
      talk about the Flying Scud, but to undergo the scrutiny of some one
      interested in Carthew: the doctor, for a wager. And for a second wager,
      all this springs from your facility in giving the address.&rdquo; I lost
      no time in answering the billet, electing for the earliest occasion; and
      at the appointed hour, a somewhat blackguard-looking boat's crew from the
      Norah Creina conveyed me under the guns of the Tempest.
    </p>
    <p>
      The ward-room appeared pleased to see me; Sebright's brother officers, in
      contrast to himself, took a boyish interest in my cruise; and much was
      talked of the Flying Scud; of how she had been lost, of how I had found
      her, and of the weather, the anchorage, and the currents about Midway
      Island. Carthew was referred to more than once without embarrassment; the
      parallel case of a late Earl of Aberdeen, who died mate on board a Yankee
      schooner, was adduced. If they told me little of the man, it was because
      they had not much to tell, and only felt an interest in his recognition
      and pity for his prolonged ill-health. I could never think the subject was
      avoided; and it was clear that the officers, far from practising
      concealment, had nothing to conceal.
    </p>
    <p>
      So far, then, all seemed natural, and yet the doctor troubled me. This was
      a tall, rugged, plain man, on the wrong side of fifty, already gray, and
      with a restless mouth and bushy eyebrows: he spoke seldom, but then with
      gaiety; and his great, quaking, silent laughter was infectious. I could
      make out that he was at once the quiz of the ward-room and perfectly
      respected; and I made sure that he observed me covertly. It is certain I
      returned the compliment. If Carthew had feigned sickness&mdash;and all
      seemed to point in that direction&mdash;here was the man who knew all&mdash;or
      certainly knew much. His strong, sterling face progressively and silently
      persuaded of his full knowledge. That was not the mouth, these were not
      the eyes, of one who would act in ignorance, or could be led at random.
      Nor again was it the face of a man squeamish in the case of malefactors;
      there was even a touch of Brutus there, and something of the hanging
      judge. In short, he seemed the last character for the part assigned him in
      my theories; and wonder and curiosity contended in my mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      Luncheon was over, and an adjournment to the smoking-room proposed, when
      (upon a sudden impulse) I burned my ships, and pleading indisposition,
      requested to consult the doctor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is nothing the matter with my body, Dr. Urquart,&rdquo; said
      I, as soon as we were alone.
    </p>
    <p>
      He hummed, his mouth worked, he regarded me steadily with his gray eyes,
      but resolutely held his peace.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I want to talk to you about the Flying Scud and Mr. Carthew,&rdquo;
      I resumed. &ldquo;Come: you must have expected this. I am sure you know
      all; you are shrewd, and must have a guess that I know much. How are we to
      stand to one another? and how am I to stand to Mr. Carthew?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not fully understand you,&rdquo; he replied, after a pause;
      and then, after another: &ldquo;It is the spirit I refer to, Mr. Dodd.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The spirit of my inquiries?&rdquo; I asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      He nodded.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think we are at cross-purposes,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;The spirit
      is precisely what I came in quest of. I bought the Flying Scud at a
      ruinous figure, run up by Mr. Carthew through an agent; and I am, in
      consequence, a bankrupt. But if I have found no fortune in the wreck, I
      have found unmistakable evidences of foul play. Conceive my position: I am
      ruined through this man, whom I never saw; I might very well desire
      revenge or compensation; and I think you will admit I have the means to
      extort either.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      He made no sign in answer to this challenge.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can you not understand, then,&rdquo; I resumed, &ldquo;the spirit
      in which I come to one who is surely in the secret, and ask him, honestly
      and plainly: How do I stand to Mr. Carthew?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must ask you to be more explicit,&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You do not help me much,&rdquo; I retorted. &ldquo;But see if you
      can understand: my conscience is not very fine-spun; still, I have one.
      Now, there are degrees of foul play, to some of which I have no particular
      objection. I am sure with Mr. Carthew, I am not at all the person to forgo
      an advantage; and I have much curiosity. But on the other hand, I have no
      taste for persecution; and I ask you to believe that I am not the man to
      make bad worse, or heap trouble on the unfortunate.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; I think I understand,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;Suppose I pass
      you my word that, whatever may have occurred, there were excuses&mdash;great
      excuses&mdash;I may say, very great?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It would have weight with me, doctor,&rdquo; I replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I may go further,&rdquo; he pursued. &ldquo;Suppose I had been
      there, or you had been there: after a certain event had taken place, it's
      a grave question what we might have done&mdash;it's even a question what
      we could have done&mdash;ourselves. Or take me. I will be plain with you,
      and own that I am in possession of the facts. You have a shrewd guess how
      I have acted in that knowledge. May I ask you to judge from the character
      of my action, something of the nature of that knowledge, which I have no
      call, nor yet no title, to share with you?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      I cannot convey a sense of the rugged conviction and judicial emphasis of
      Dr. Urquart's speech. To those who did not hear him, it may appear as if
      he fed me on enigmas; to myself, who heard, I seemed to have received a
      lesson and a compliment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thank you,&rdquo; I said. &ldquo;I feel you have said as much as
      possible, and more than I had any right to ask. I take that as a mark of
      confidence, which I will try to deserve. I hope, sir, you will let me
      regard you as a friend.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      He evaded my proffered friendship with a blunt proposal to rejoin the
      mess; and yet a moment later, contrived to alleviate the snub. For, as we
      entered the smoking-room, he laid his hand on my shoulder with a kind
      familiarity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have just prescribed for Mr. Dodd,&rdquo; says he, &ldquo;a glass
      of our Madeira.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      I have never again met Dr. Urquart: but he wrote himself so clear upon my
      memory that I think I see him still. And indeed I had cause to remember
      the man for the sake of his communication. It was hard enough to make a
      theory fit the circumstances of the Flying Scud; but one in which the
      chief actor should stand the least excused, and might retain the esteem or
      at least the pity of a man like Dr. Urquart, failed me utterly. Here at
      least was the end of my discoveries; I learned no more, till I learned
      all; and my reader has the evidence complete. Is he more astute than I
      was? or, like me, does he give it up?
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018">
       <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XVIII. CROSS-QUESTIONS AND CROOKED ANSWERS.
    </h2>
    <p>
      I have said hard words of San Francisco; they must scarce be literally
      understood (one cannot suppose the Israelites did justice to the land of
      Pharaoh); and the city took a fine revenge of me on my return. She had
      never worn a more becoming guise; the sun shone, the air was lively, the
      people had flowers in their button-holes and smiles upon their faces; and
      as I made my way towards Jim's place of employment, with some very black
      anxieties at heart, I seemed to myself a blot on the surrounding gaiety.
    </p>
    <p>
      My destination was in a by-street in a mean, rickety building; &ldquo;The
      Franklin H. Dodge Steam Printing Company&rdquo; appeared upon its front,
      and in characters of greater freshness, so as to suggest recent
      conversion, the watch-cry, &ldquo;White Labour Only.&rdquo; In the office,
      in a dusty pen, Jim sat alone before a table. A wretched change had
      overtaken him in clothes, body, and bearing; he looked sick and shabby; he
      who had once rejoiced in his day's employment, like a horse among
      pastures, now sat staring on a column of accounts, idly chewing a pen, at
      times heavily sighing, the picture of inefficiency and inattention. He was
      sunk deep in a painful reverie; he neither saw nor heard me; and I stood
      and watched him unobserved. I had a sudden vain relenting. Repentance
      bludgeoned me. As I had predicted to Nares, I stood and kicked myself.
      Here was I come home again, my honour saved; there was my friend in want
      of rest, nursing, and a generous diet; and I asked myself with Falstaff,
      &ldquo;What is in that word honour? what is that honour?&rdquo; and, like
      Falstaff, I told myself that it was air.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jim!&rdquo; said I.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Loudon!&rdquo; he gasped, and jumped from his chair and stood
      shaking.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next moment I was over the barrier, and we were hand in hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My poor old man!&rdquo; I cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank God, you're home at last!&rdquo; he gulped, and kept patting
      my shoulder with his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I've no good news for you, Jim!&rdquo; said I.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You've come&mdash;that's the good news that I want,&rdquo; he
      replied. &ldquo;O, how I've longed for you, Loudon!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I couldn't do what you wrote me,&rdquo; I said, lowering my voice.
      &ldquo;The creditors have it all. I couldn't do it.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ssh!&rdquo; returned Jim. &ldquo;I was crazy when wrote. I could
      never have looked Mamie in the face if we had done it. O, Loudon, what a
      gift that woman is! You think you know something of life: you just don't
      know anything. It's the GOODNESS of the woman, it's a revelation!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's all right,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;That's how I hoped to hear
      you, Jim.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And so the Flying Scud was a fraud,&rdquo; he resumed. &ldquo;I
      didn't quite understand your letter, but I made out that.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fraud is a mild term for it,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;The creditors
      will never believe what fools we were. And that reminds me,&rdquo; I
      continued, rejoicing in the transition, &ldquo;how about the bankruptcy?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You were lucky to be out of that,&rdquo; answered Jim, shaking his
      head; &ldquo;you were lucky not to see the papers. The <i>Occidental</i>
      called me a fifth-rate Kerbstone broker with water on the brain; another
      said I was a tree-frog that had got into the same meadow with Longhurst,
      and had blown myself out till I went pop. It was rough on a man in his
      honeymoon; so was what they said about my looks, and what I had on, and
      the way I perspired. But I braced myself up with the Flying Scud. How did
      it exactly figure out anyway? I don't seem to catch on to that story,
      Loudon.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The devil you don't!&rdquo; thinks I to myself; and then aloud:
      &ldquo;You see we had neither one of us good luck. I didn't do much more
      than cover current expenses; and you got floored immediately. How did we
      come to go so soon?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, we'll have to have a talk over all this,&rdquo; said Jim with
      a sudden start. &ldquo;I should be getting to my books; and I guess you
      had better go up right away to Mamie. She's at Speedy's. She expects you
      with impatience. She regards you in the light of a favourite brother,
      Loudon.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Any scheme was welcome which allowed me to postpone the hour of
      explanation, and avoid (were it only for a breathing space) the topic of
      the Flying Scud. I hastened accordingly to Bush Street. Mrs. Speedy,
      already rejoicing in the return of a spouse, hailed me with acclamation.
      &ldquo;And it's beautiful you're looking, Mr. Dodd, my dear,&rdquo; she
      was kind enough to say. &ldquo;And a miracle they naygur waheenies let ye
      lave the oilands. I have my suspicions of Shpeedy,&rdquo; she added,
      roguishly. &ldquo;Did ye see him after the naygresses now?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      I gave Speedy an unblemished character.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The one of ye will niver bethray the other,&rdquo; said the playful
      dame, and ushered me into a bare room, where Mamie sat working a
      type-writer.
    </p>
    <p>
      I was touched by the cordiality of her greeting. With the prettiest
      gesture in the world she gave me both her hands; wheeled forth a chair;
      and produced, from a cupboard, a tin of my favourite tobacco, and a book
      of my exclusive cigarette papers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There!&rdquo; she cried; &ldquo;you see, Mr. Loudon, we were all
      prepared for you; the things were bought the very day you sailed.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      I imagined she had always intended me a pleasant welcome; but the certain
      fervour of sincerity, which I could not help remarking, flowed from an
      unexpected source. Captain Nares, with a kindness for which I can never be
      sufficiently grateful, had stolen a moment from his occupations, driven to
      call on Mamie, and drawn her a generous picture of my prowess at the
      wreck. She was careful not to breathe a word of this interview, till she
      had led me on to tell my adventures for myself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! Captain Nares was better,&rdquo; she cried, when I had done.
      &ldquo;From your account, I have only learned one new thing, that you are
      modest as well as brave.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      I cannot tell with what sort of disclamation I sought to reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is of no use,&rdquo; said Mamie. &ldquo;I know a hero. And when
      I heard of you working all day like a common labourer, with your hands
      bleeding and your nails broken&mdash;and how you told the captain to
      'crack on' (I think he said) in the storm, when he was terrified himself&mdash;and
      the danger of that horrid mutiny&rdquo;&mdash;(Nares had been obligingly
      dipping his brush in earthquake and eclipse)&mdash;&ldquo;and how it was
      all done, in part at least, for Jim and me&mdash;I felt we could never say
      how we admired and thanked you.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mamie,&rdquo; I cried, &ldquo;don't talk of thanks; it is not a
      word to be used between friends. Jim and I have been prosperous together;
      now we shall be poor together. We've done our best, and that's all that
      need be said. The next thing is for me to find a situation, and send you
      and Jim up country for a long holiday in the redwoods&mdash;for a holiday
      Jim has got to have.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jim can't take your money, Mr. Loudon,&rdquo; said Mamie.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jim?&rdquo; cried I. &ldquo;He's got to. Didn't I take his?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Presently after, Jim himself arrived, and before he had yet done mopping
      his brow, he was at me with the accursed subject. &ldquo;Now, Loudon,&rdquo;
      said he, &ldquo;here we are all together, the day's work done and the
      evening before us; just start in with the whole story.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One word on business first,&rdquo; said I, speaking from the lips
      outward, and meanwhile (in the private apartments of my brain) trying for
      the thousandth time to find some plausible arrangement of my story.
      &ldquo;I want to have a notion how we stand about the bankruptcy.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, that's ancient history,&rdquo; cried Jim. &ldquo;We paid seven
      cents, and a wonder we did as well. The receiver&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
      (methought a spasm seized him at the name of this official, and he broke
      off). &ldquo;But it's all past and done with anyway; and what I want to
      get at is the facts about the wreck. I don't seem to understand it;
      appears to me like as there was something underneath.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There was nothing IN it, anyway,&rdquo; I said, with a forced
      laugh.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's what I want to judge of,&rdquo; returned Jim.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How the mischief is it I can never keep you to that bankruptcy? It
      looks as if you avoided it,&rdquo; said I&mdash;for a man in my situation,
      with unpardonable folly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't it look a little as if you were trying to avoid the wreck?&rdquo;
      asked Jim.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was my own doing; there was no retreat. &ldquo;My dear fellow, if you
      make a point of it, here goes!&rdquo; said I, and launched with spurious
      gaiety into the current of my tale. I told it with point and spirit;
      described the island and the wreck, mimicked Anderson and the Chinese,
      maintained the suspense.... My pen has stumbled on the fatal word. I
      maintained the suspense so well that it was never relieved; and when I
      stopped&mdash;I dare not say concluded, where there was no conclusion&mdash;I
      found Jim and Mamie regarding me with surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well?&rdquo; said Jim.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, that's all,&rdquo; said I.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But how do you explain it?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can't explain it,&rdquo; said I.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mamie wagged her head ominously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, great Caesar's ghost! the money was offered!&rdquo; cried Jim.
      &ldquo;It won't do, Loudon; it's nonsense, on the face of it! I don't say
      but what you and Nares did your best; I'm sure, of course, you did; but I
      do say, you got fooled. I say the stuff is in that ship to-day, and I say
      I mean to get it.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is nothing in the ship, I tell you, but old wood and iron!&rdquo;
      said I.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You'll see,&rdquo; said Jim. &ldquo;Next time I go myself. I'll
      take Mamie for the trip; Longhurst won't refuse me the expense of a
      schooner. You wait till I get the searching of her.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you can't search her!&rdquo; cried I. &ldquo;She's burned.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Burned!&rdquo; cried Mamie, starting a little from the attitude of
      quiescent capacity in which she had hitherto sat to hear me, her hands
      folded in her lap.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was an appreciable pause.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I beg your pardon, Loudon,&rdquo; began Jim at last, &ldquo;but why
      in snakes did you burn her?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was an idea of Nares's,&rdquo; said I.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is certainly the strangest circumstance of all,&rdquo;
      observed Mamie.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must say, Loudon, it does seem kind of unexpected,&rdquo; added
      Jim. &ldquo;It seems kind of crazy even. What did you&mdash;what did Nares
      expect to gain by burning her?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know; it didn't seem to matter; we had got all there was to
      get,&rdquo; said I.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's the very point,&rdquo; cried Jim. &ldquo;It was quite plain
      you hadn't.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What made you so sure?&rdquo; asked Mamie.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How can I tell you?&rdquo; I cried. &ldquo;We had been all through
      her. We WERE sure; that's all that I can say.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I begin to think you were,&rdquo; she returned, with a significant
      emphasis.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jim hurriedly intervened. &ldquo;What I don't quite make out, Loudon, is
      that you don't seem to appreciate the peculiarities of the thing,&rdquo;
      said he. &ldquo;It doesn't seem to have struck you same as it does me.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pshaw! why go on with this?&rdquo; cried Mamie, suddenly rising.
      &ldquo;Mr. Dodd is not telling us either what he thinks or what he knows.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mamie!&rdquo; cried Jim.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You need not be concerned for his feelings, James; he is not
      concerned for yours,&rdquo; returned the lady. &ldquo;He dare not deny it,
      besides. And this is not the first time he has practised reticence. Have
      you forgotten that he knew the address, and did not tell it you until that
      man had escaped?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Jim turned to me pleadingly&mdash;we were all on our feet. &ldquo;Loudon,&rdquo;
      he said, &ldquo;you see Mamie has some fancy; and I must say there's just
      a sort of a shadow of an excuse; for it IS bewildering&mdash;even to me,
      Loudon, with my trained business intelligence. For God's sake, clear it
      up.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This serves me right,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;I should not have tried
      to keep you in the dark; I should have told you at first that I was
      pledged to secrecy; I should have asked you to trust me in the beginning.
      It is all I can do now. There is more of the story, but it concerns none
      of us, and my tongue is tied. I have given my word of honour. You must
      trust me and try to forgive me.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I daresay I am very stupid, Mr. Dodd,&rdquo; began Mamie, with an
      alarming sweetness, &ldquo;but I thought you went upon this trip as my
      husband's representative and with my husband's money? You tell us now that
      you are pledged, but I should have thought you were pledged first of all
      to James. You say it does not concern us; we are poor people, and my
      husband is sick, and it concerns us a great deal to understand how we come
      to have lost our money, and why our representative comes back to us with
      nothing. You ask that we should trust you; you do not seem to understand;
      the question we are asking ourselves is whether we have not trusted you
      too much.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not ask you to trust me,&rdquo; I replied. &ldquo;I ask Jim.
      He knows me.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You think you can do what you please with James; you trust to his
      affection, do you not? And me, I suppose, you do not consider,&rdquo; said
      Mamie. &ldquo;But it was perhaps an unfortunate day for you when we were
      married, for I at least am not blind. The crew run away, the ship is sold
      for a great deal of money, you know that man's address and you conceal it,
      you do not find what you were sent to look for, and yet you burn the ship;
      and now, when we ask explanations, you are pledged to secrecy! But I am
      pledged to no such thing; I will not stand by in silence and see my sick
      and ruined husband betrayed by his condescending friend. I will give you
      the truth for once. Mr. Dodd, you have been bought and sold.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mamie,&rdquo; cried Jim, &ldquo;no more of this! It's me you're
      striking; it's only me you hurt. You don't know, you cannot understand
      these things. Why, to-day, if it hadn't been for Loudon, I couldn't have
      looked you in the face. He saved my honesty.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have heard plenty of this talk before,&rdquo; she replied.
      &ldquo;You are a sweet-hearted fool, and I love you for it. But I am a
      clear-headed woman; my eyes are open, and I understand this man's
      hypocrisy. Did he not come here to-day and pretend he would take a
      situation&mdash;pretend he would share his hard-earned wages with us until
      you were well? Pretend! It makes me furious! His wages! a share of his
      wages! That would have been your pittance, that would have been your share
      of the Flying Scud&mdash;you who worked and toiled for him when he was a
      beggar in the streets of Paris. But we do not want your charity; thank
      God, I can work for my own husband! See what it is to have obliged a
      gentleman. He would let you pick him up when he was begging; he would
      stand and look on, and let you black his shoes, and sneer at you. For you
      were always sneering at my James; you always looked down upon him in your
      heart, you know it!&rdquo; She turned back to Jim. &ldquo;And now when he
      is rich,&rdquo; she began, and then swooped again on me. &ldquo;For you
      are rich, I dare you to deny it; I defy you to look me in the face and try
      to deny that you are rich&mdash;rich with our money&mdash;my husband's
      money&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Heaven knows to what a height she might have risen, being, by this time,
      bodily whirled away in her own hurricane of words. Heart-sickness, a black
      depression, a treacherous sympathy with my assailant, pity unutterable for
      poor Jim, already filled, divided, and abashed my spirit. Flight seemed
      the only remedy; and making a private sign to Jim, as if to ask
      permission, I slunk from the unequal field.
    </p>
    <p>
      I was but a little way down the street, when I was arrested by the sound
      of some one running, and Jim's voice calling me by name. He had followed
      me with a letter which had been long awaiting my return.
    </p>
    <p>
      I took it in a dream. &ldquo;This has been a devil of a business,&rdquo;
      said I.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't think hard of Mamie,&rdquo; he pleaded. &ldquo;It's the way
      she's made; it's her high-toned loyalty. And of course I know it's all
      right. I know your sterling character; but you didn't, somehow, make out
      to give us the thing straight, Loudon. Anybody might have&mdash;I mean it&mdash;I
      mean&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never mind what you mean, my poor Jim,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;She's
      a gallant little woman and a loyal wife: and I thought her splendid. My
      story was as fishy as the devil. I'll never think the less of either her
      or you.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It'll blow over; it must blow over,&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It never can,&rdquo; I returned, sighing: &ldquo;and don't you try
      to make it! Don't name me, unless it's with an oath. And get home to her
      right away. Good by, my best of friends. Good by, and God bless you. We
      shall never meet again.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O Loudon, that we should live to say such words!&rdquo; he cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      I had no views on life, beyond an occasional impulse to commit suicide, or
      to get drunk, and drifted down the street, semi-conscious, walking
      apparently on air, in the light-headedness of grief. I had money in my
      pocket, whether mine or my creditors' I had no means of guessing; and, the
      Poodle Dog lying in my path, I went mechanically in and took a table. A
      waiter attended me, and I suppose I gave my orders; for presently I found
      myself, with a sudden return of consciousness, beginning dinner. On the
      white cloth at my elbow lay the letter, addressed in a clerk's hand, and
      bearing an English stamp and the Edinburgh postmark. A bowl of bouillon
      and a glass of wine awakened in one corner of my brain (where all the rest
      was in mourning, the blinds down as for a funeral) a faint stir of
      curiosity; and while I waited the next course, wondering the while what I
      had ordered, I opened and began to read the epoch-making document.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;DEAR SIR: I am charged with the melancholy duty of announcing to
      you the death of your excellent grandfather, Mr. Alexander Loudon, on the
      17th ult. On Sunday the 13th, he went to church as usual in the forenoon,
      and stopped on his way home, at the corner of Princes Street, in one of
      our seasonable east winds, to talk with an old friend. The same evening
      acute bronchitis declared itself; from the first, Dr. M'Combie anticipated
      a fatal result, and the old gentleman appeared to have no illusion as to
      his own state. He repeatedly assured me it was 'by' with him now; 'and
      high time, too,' he once added with characteristic asperity. He was not in
      the least changed on the approach of death: only (what I am sure must be
      very grateful to your feelings) he seemed to think and speak even more
      kindly than usual of yourself: referring to you as 'Jeannie's yin,' with
      strong expressions of regard. 'He was the only one I ever liket of the
      hale jing-bang,' was one of his expressions; and you will be glad to know
      that he dwelt particularly on the dutiful respect you had always displayed
      in your relations. The small codicil, by which he bequeaths you his
      Molesworth and other professional works, was added (you will observe) on
      the day before his death; so that you were in his thoughts until the end.
      I should say that, though rather a trying patient, he was most tenderly
      nursed by your uncle, and your cousin, Miss Euphemia. I enclose a copy of
      the testament, by which you will see that you share equally with Mr. Adam,
      and that I hold at your disposal a sum nearly approaching seventeen
      thousand pounds. I beg to congratulate you on this considerable
      acquisition, and expect your orders, to which I shall hasten to give my
      best attention. Thinking that you might desire to return at once to this
      country, and not knowing how you may be placed, I enclose a credit for six
      hundred pounds. Please sign the accompanying slip, and let me have it at
      your earliest convenience.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am, dear sir, yours truly,
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;W. RUTHERFORD GREGG.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God bless the old gentleman!&rdquo; I thought; &ldquo;and for that
      matter God bless Uncle Adam! and my cousin Euphemia! and Mr. Gregg!&rdquo;
      I had a vision of that grey old life now brought to an end&mdash;&ldquo;and
      high time too&rdquo;&mdash;a vision of those Sabbath streets alternately
      vacant and filled with silent people; of the babel of the bells, the
      long-drawn psalmody, the shrewd sting of the east wind, the hollow,
      echoing, dreary house to which &ldquo;Ecky&rdquo; had returned with the
      hand of death already on his shoulder; a vision, too, of the long, rough
      country lad, perhaps a serious courtier of the lasses in the hawthorn den,
      perhaps a rustic dancer on the green, who had first earned and answered to
      that harsh diminutive. And I asked myself if, on the whole, poor Ecky had
      succeeded in life; if the last state of that man were not on the whole
      worse than the first; and the house in Randolph Crescent a less admirable
      dwelling than the hamlet where he saw the day and grew to manhood. Here
      was a consolatory thought for one who was himself a failure.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yes, I declare the word came in my mind; and all the while, in another
      partition of the brain, I was glowing and singing for my new-found
      opulence. The pile of gold&mdash;four thousand two hundred and fifty
      double eagles, seventeen thousand ugly sovereigns, twenty-one thousand two
      hundred and fifty Napoleons&mdash;danced, and rang and ran molten, and lit
      up life with their effulgence, in the eye of fancy. Here were all things
      made plain to me: Paradise&mdash;Paris, I mean&mdash;Regained, Carthew
      protected, Jim restored, the creditors...
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The creditors!&rdquo; I repeated, and sank back benumbed. It was
      all theirs to the last farthing: my grandfather had died too soon to save
      me.
    </p>
    <p>
      I must have somewhere a rare vein of decision. In that revolutionary
      moment, I found myself prepared for all extremes except the one: ready to
      do anything, or to go anywhere, so long as I might save my money. At the
      worst, there was flight, flight to some of those blest countries where the
      serpent, extradition, has not yet entered in.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     On no condition is extradition
     Allowed in Callao!
</pre>
    <p>
      &mdash;the old lawless words haunted me; and I saw myself hugging my gold
      in the company of such men as had once made and sung them, in the rude and
      bloody wharfside drinking-shops of Chili and Peru. The run of my ill-luck,
      the breach of my old friendship, this bubble fortune flaunted for a moment
      in my eyes and snatched again, had made me desperate and (in the
      expressive vulgarism) ugly. To drink vile spirits among vile companions by
      the flare of a pine-torch; to go burthened with my furtive treasure in a
      belt; to fight for it knife in hand, rolling on a clay floor; to flee
      perpetually in fresh ships and to be chased through the sea from isle to
      isle, seemed, in my then frame of mind, a welcome series of events.
    </p>
    <p>
      That was for the worst; but it began to dawn slowly on my mind that there
      was yet a possible better. Once escaped, once safe in Callao, I might
      approach my creditors with a good grace; and properly handled by a cunning
      agent, it was just possible they might accept some easy composition. The
      hope recalled me to the bankruptcy. It was strange, I reflected: often as
      I had questioned Jim, he had never obliged me with an answer. In his haste
      for news about the wreck, my own no less legitimate curiosity had gone
      disappointed. Hateful as the thought was to me, I must return at once and
      find out where I stood.
    </p>
    <p>
      I left my dinner still unfinished, paying for the whole, of course, and
      tossing the waiter a gold piece. I was reckless; I knew not what was mine
      and cared not: I must take what I could get and give as I was able; to rob
      and to squander seemed the complementary parts of my new destiny. I walked
      up Bush Street, whistling, brazening myself to confront Mamie in the first
      place, and the world at large and a certain visionary judge upon a bench
      in the second. Just outside, I stopped and lighted a cigar to give me
      greater countenance; and puffing this and wearing what (I am sure) was a
      wretched assumption of braggadocio, I reappeared on the scene of my
      disgrace.
    </p>
    <p>
      My friend and his wife were finishing a poor meal&mdash;rags of old
      mutton, the remainder cakes from breakfast eaten cold, and a starveling
      pot of coffee.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I beg your pardon, Mrs. Pinkerton,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;Sorry to
      inflict my presence where it cannot be desired; but there is a piece of
      business necessary to be discussed.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pray do not consider me,&rdquo; said Mamie, rising, and she sailed
      into the adjoining bedroom.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jim watched her go and shook his head; he looked miserably old and ill.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it, now?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps you remember you answered none of my questions,&rdquo; said
      I.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your questions?&rdquo; faltered Jim.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Even so, Jim. My questions,&rdquo; I repeated. &ldquo;I put
      questions as well as yourself; and however little I may have satisfied
      Mamie with my answers, I beg to remind you that you gave me none at all.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You mean about the bankruptcy?&rdquo; asked Jim.
    </p>
    <p>
      I nodded.
    </p>
    <p>
      He writhed in his chair. &ldquo;The straight truth is, I was ashamed,&rdquo;
      he said. &ldquo;I was trying to dodge you. I've been playing fast and
      loose with you, Loudon; I've deceived you from the first, I blush to own
      it. And here you came home and put the very question I was fearing. Why
      did we bust so soon? Your keen business eye had not deceived you. That's
      the point, that's my shame; that's what killed me this afternoon when
      Mamie was treating you so, and my conscience was telling me all the time,
      Thou art the man.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What was it, Jim?&rdquo; I asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What I had been at all the time, Loudon,&rdquo; he wailed; &ldquo;and
      I don't know how I'm to look you in the face and say it, after my
      duplicity. It was stocks,&rdquo; he added in a whisper.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you were afraid to tell me that!&rdquo; I cried. &ldquo;You
      poor, old, cheerless dreamer! what would it matter what you did or didn't?
      Can't you see we're doomed? And anyway, that's not my point. It's how I
      stand that I want to know. There is a particular reason. Am I clear? Have
      I a certificate, or what have I to do to get one? And when will it be
      dated? You can't think what hangs by it!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's the worst of all,&rdquo; said Jim, like a man in a dream,
      &ldquo;I can't see how to tell him!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you mean?&rdquo; I cried, a small pang of terror at my
      heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm afraid I sacrificed you, Loudon,&rdquo; he said, looking at me
      pitifully.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sacrificed me?&rdquo; I repeated. &ldquo;How? What do you mean by
      sacrifice?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know it'll shock your delicate self-respect,&rdquo; he said;
      &ldquo;but what was I to do? Things looked so bad. The receiver&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
      (as usual, the name stuck in his throat, and he began afresh). &ldquo;There
      was a lot of talk; the reporters were after me already; there was the
      trouble and all about the Mexican business; and I got scared right out,
      and I guess I lost my head. You weren't there, you see, and that was my
      temptation.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      I did not know how long he might thus beat about the bush with dreadful
      hintings, and I was already beside myself with terror. What had he done? I
      saw he had been tempted; I knew from his letters that he was in no
      condition to resist. How had he sacrificed the absent?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jim,&rdquo; I said, &ldquo;you must speak right out. I've got all
      that I can carry.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; he said&mdash;&ldquo;I know it was a liberty&mdash;I
      made it out you were no business man, only a stone-broke painter; that
      half the time you didn't know anything anyway, particularly money and
      accounts. I said you never could be got to understand whose was whose. I
      had to say that because of some entries in the books&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For God's sake,&rdquo; I cried, &ldquo;put me out of this agony!
      What did you accuse me of?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Accuse you of?&rdquo; repeated Jim. &ldquo;Of what I'm telling you.
      And there being no deed of partnership, I made out you were only a kind of
      clerk that I called a partner just to give you taffy; and so I got you
      ranked a creditor on the estate for your wages and the money you had lent.
      And&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      I believe I reeled. &ldquo;A creditor!&rdquo; I roared; &ldquo;a creditor!
      I'm not in the bankruptcy at all?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said Jim. &ldquo;I know it was a liberty&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, damn your liberty! read that,&rdquo; I cried, dashing the letter
      before him on the table, &ldquo;and call in your wife, and be done with
      eating this truck &ldquo;&mdash;as I spoke, I slung the cold mutton in the
      empty grate&mdash;&ldquo;and let's all go and have a champagne supper.
      I've dined&mdash;I'm sure I don't remember what I had; I'd dine again ten
      scores of times upon a night like this. Read it, you blaying ass! I'm not
      insane. Here, Mamie,&rdquo; I continued, opening the bedroom door, &ldquo;come
      out and make it up with me, and go and kiss your husband; and I'll tell
      you what, after the supper, let's go to some place where there's a band,
      and I'll waltz with you till sunrise.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What does it all mean?&rdquo; cried Jim.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It means we have a champagne supper to-night, and all go to Napa
      Valley or to Monterey to-morrow,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;Mamie, go and get
      your things on; and you, Jim, sit down right where you are, take a sheet
      of paper, and tell Franklin Dodge to go to Texas. Mamie, you were right,
      my dear; I was rich all the time, and didn't know it.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019">
       <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XIX. TRAVELS WITH A SHYSTER.
    </h2>
    <p>
      The absorbing and disastrous adventure of the Flying Scud was now quite
      ended; we had dashed into these deep waters and we had escaped again to
      starve, we had been ruined and were saved, had quarrelled and made up;
      there remained nothing but to sing Te Deum, draw a line, and begin on a
      fresh page of my unwritten diary. I do not pretend that I recovered all I
      had lost with Mamie; it would have been more than I had merited; and I had
      certainly been more uncommunicative than became either the partner or the
      friend. But she accepted the position handsomely; and during the week that
      I now passed with them, both she and Jim had the grace to spare me
      questions. It was to Calistoga that we went; there was some rumour of a
      Napa land-boom at the moment, the possibility of stir attracted Jim, and
      he informed me he would find a certain joy in looking on, much as Napoleon
      on St. Helena took a pleasure to read military works. The field of his
      ambition was quite closed; he was done with action; and looked forward to
      a ranch in a mountain dingle, a patch of corn, a pair of kine, a leisurely
      and contemplative age in the green shade of forests. &ldquo;Just let me
      get down on my back in a hayfield,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;and you'll find
      there's no more snap to me than that much putty.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And for two days the perfervid being actually rested. The third, he was
      observed in consultation with the local editor, and owned he was in two
      minds about purchasing the press and paper. &ldquo;It's a kind of a hold
      for an idle man,&rdquo; he said, pleadingly; &ldquo;and if the section was
      to open up the way it ought to, there might be dollars in the thing.&rdquo;
      On the fourth day he was gone till dinner-time alone; on the fifth we made
      a long picnic drive to the fresh field of enterprise; and the sixth was
      passed entirely in the preparation of prospectuses. The pioneer of McBride
      City was already upright and self-reliant as of yore; the fire rekindled
      in his eye, the ring restored to his voice; a charger sniffing battle and
      saying ha-ha, among the spears. On the seventh morning we signed a deed of
      partnership, for Jim would not accept a dollar of my money otherwise; and
      having once more engaged myself&mdash;or that mortal part of me, my purse&mdash;among
      the wheels of his machinery, I returned alone to San Francisco and took
      quarters in the Palace Hotel.
    </p>
    <p>
      The same night I had Nares to dinner. His sunburnt face, his queer and
      personal strain of talk, recalled days that were scarce over and that
      seemed already distant. Through the music of the band outside, and the
      chink and clatter of the dining-room, it seemed to me as if I heard the
      foaming of the surf and the voices of the sea-birds about Midway Island.
      The bruises on our hands were not yet healed; and there we sat, waited on
      by elaborate darkies, eating pompano and drinking iced champagne.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Think of our dinners on the Norah, captain, and then oblige me by
      looking round the room for contrast.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      He took the scene in slowly. &ldquo;Yes, it is like a dream,&rdquo; he
      said: &ldquo;like as if the darkies were really about as big as dimes; and
      a great big scuttle might open up there, and Johnson stick in a great big
      head and shoulders, and cry, 'Eight bells!'&mdash;and the whole thing
      vanish.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, it's the other thing that has done that,&rdquo; I replied.
      &ldquo;It's all bygone now, all dead and buried. Amen! say I.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know that, Mr. Dodd; and to tell you the fact, I don't
      believe it,&rdquo; said Nares. &ldquo;There's more Flying Scud in the
      oven; and the baker's name, I take it, is Bellairs. He tackled me the day
      we came in: sort of a razee of poor old humanity&mdash;jury clothes&mdash;full
      new suit of pimples: knew him at once from your description. I let him
      pump me till I saw his game. He knows a good deal that we don't know, a
      good deal that we do, and suspects the balance. There's trouble brewing
      for somebody.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      I was surprised I had not thought of this before. Bellairs had been behind
      the scenes; he had known Dickson; he knew the flight of the crew; it was
      hardly possible but what he should suspect; it was certain if he
      suspected, that he would seek to trade on the suspicion. And sure enough,
      I was not yet dressed the next morning ere the lawyer was knocking at my
      door. I let him in, for I was curious; and he, after some ambiguous
      prolegomena, roundly proposed I should go shares with him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shares in what?&rdquo; I inquired.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you will allow me to clothe my idea in a somewhat vulgar form,&rdquo;
      said he, &ldquo;I might ask you, did you go to Midway for your health?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know that I did,&rdquo; I replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Similarly, Mr. Dodd, you may be sure I would never have taken the
      present step without influential grounds,&rdquo; pursued the lawyer.
      &ldquo;Intrusion is foreign to my character. But you and I, sir, are
      engaged on the same ends. If we can continue to work the thing in company,
      I place at your disposal my knowledge of the law and a considerable
      practice in delicate negotiations similar to this. Should you refuse to
      consent, you might find in me a formidable and&rdquo;&mdash;he hesitated&mdash;&ldquo;and
      to my own regret, perhaps a dangerous competitor.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you get this by heart?&rdquo; I asked, genially.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I advise YOU to!&rdquo; he said, with a sudden sparkle of temper
      and menace, instantly gone, instantly succeeded by fresh cringing. &ldquo;I
      assure you, sir, I arrive in the character of a friend; and I believe you
      underestimate my information. If I may instance an example, I am
      acquainted to the last dime with what you made (or rather lost), and I
      know you have since cashed a considerable draft on London.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you infer?&rdquo; I asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know where that draft came from,&rdquo; he cried, wincing back
      like one who has greatly dared, and instantly regrets the venture.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So?&rdquo; said I.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You forget I was Mr. Dickson's confidential agent,&rdquo; he
      explained. &ldquo;You had his address, Mr. Dodd. We were the only two that
      he communicated with in San Francisco. You see my deductions are quite
      obvious: you see how open and frank I deal with you, as I should wish to
      do with any gentleman with whom I was conjoined in business. You see how
      much I know; and it can scarcely escape your strong common-sense, how much
      better it would be if I knew all. You cannot hope to get rid of me at this
      time of day, I have my place in the affair, I cannot be shaken off; I am,
      if you will excuse a rather technical pleasantry, an encumbrance on the
      estate. The actual harm I can do, I leave you to valuate for yourself. But
      without going so far, Mr. Dodd, and without in any way inconveniencing
      myself, I could make things very uncomfortable. For instance, Mr.
      Pinkerton's liquidation. You and I know, sir&mdash;and you better than I&mdash;on
      what a large fund you draw. Is Mr. Pinkerton in the thing at all? It was
      you only who knew the address, and you were concealing it. Suppose I
      should communicate with Mr. Pinkerton&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look here!&rdquo; I interrupted, &ldquo;communicate with him (if
      you will permit me to clothe my idea in a vulgar shape) till you are blue
      in the face. There is only one person with whom I refuse to allow you to
      communicate further, and that is myself. Good morning.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      He could not conceal his rage, disappointment, and surprise; and in the
      passage (I have no doubt) was shaken by St. Vitus.
    </p>
    <p>
      I was disgusted by this interview; it struck me hard to be suspected on
      all hands, and to hear again from this trafficker what I had heard already
      from Jim's wife; and yet my strongest impression was different and might
      rather be described as an impersonal fear. There was something against
      nature in the man's craven impudence; it was as though a lamb had butted
      me; such daring at the hands of such a dastard, implied unchangeable
      resolve, a great pressure of necessity, and powerful means. I thought of
      the unknown Carthew, and it sickened me to see this ferret on his trail.
    </p>
    <p>
      Upon inquiry I found the lawyer was but just disbarred for some
      malpractice; and the discovery added excessively to my disquiet. Here was
      a rascal without money or the means of making it, thrust out of the doors
      of his own trade, publicly shamed, and doubtless in a deuce of a bad
      temper with the universe. Here, on the other hand, was a man with a
      secret; rich, terrified, practically in hiding; who had been willing to
      pay ten thousand pounds for the bones of the Flying Scud. I slipped
      insensibly into a mental alliance with the victim; the business weighed on
      me; all day long, I was wondering how much the lawyer knew, how much he
      guessed, and when he would open his attack.
    </p>
    <p>
      Some of these problems are unsolved to this day; others were soon made
      clear. Where he got Carthew's name is still a mystery; perhaps some sailor
      on the Tempest, perhaps my own sea-lawyer served him for a tool; but I was
      actually at his elbow when he learned the address. It fell so. One
      evening, when I had an engagement and was killing time until the hour, I
      chanced to walk in the court of the hotel while the band played. The place
      was bright as day with the electric light; and I recognised, at some
      distance among the loiterers, the person of Bellairs in talk with a
      gentleman whose face appeared familiar. It was certainly some one I had
      seen, and seen recently; but who or where, I knew not. A porter standing
      hard by, gave me the necessary hint. The stranger was an English navy man,
      invalided home from Honolulu, where he had left his ship; indeed, it was
      only from the change of clothes and the effects of sickness, that I had
      not immediately recognised my friend and correspondent, Lieutenant
      Sebright.
    </p>
    <p>
      The conjunction of these planets seeming ominous, I drew near; but it
      seemed Bellairs had done his business; he vanished in the crowd, and I
      found my officer alone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you know whom you have been talking to, Mr. Sebright?&rdquo; I
      began.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;I don't know him from Adam. Anything
      wrong?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is a disreputable lawyer, recently disbarred,&rdquo; said I.
      &ldquo;I wish I had seen you in time. I trust you told him nothing about
      Carthew?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      He flushed to his ears. &ldquo;I'm awfully sorry,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;He
      seemed civil, and I wanted to get rid of him. It was only the address he
      asked.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you gave it?&rdquo; I cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm really awfully sorry,&rdquo; said Sebright. &ldquo;I'm afraid I
      did.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God forgive you!&rdquo; was my only comment, and I turned my back
      upon the blunderer.
    </p>
    <p>
      The fat was in the fire now: Bellairs had the address, and I was the more
      deceived or Carthew would have news of him. So strong was this impression,
      and so painful, that the next morning I had the curiosity to pay the
      lawyer's den a visit. An old woman was scrubbing the stair, and the board
      was down.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lawyer Bellairs?&rdquo; said the old woman. &ldquo;Gone East this
      morning. There's Lawyer Dean next block up.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      I did not trouble Lawyer Dean, but walked slowly back to my hotel,
      ruminating as I went. The image of the old woman washing that desecrated
      stair had struck my fancy; it seemed that all the water-supply of the city
      and all the soap in the State would scarce suffice to cleanse it, it had
      been so long a clearing-house of dingy secrets and a factory of sordid
      fraud. And now the corner was untenanted; some judge, like a careful
      housewife, had knocked down the web, and the bloated spider was scuttling
      elsewhere after new victims. I had of late (as I have said) insensibly
      taken sides with Carthew; now when his enemy was at his heels, my interest
      grew more warm; and I began to wonder if I could not help. The drama of
      the Flying Scud was entering on a new phase. It had been singular from the
      first: it promised an extraordinary conclusion; and I, who had paid so
      much to learn the beginning, might pay a little more and see the end. I
      lingered in San Francisco, indemnifying myself after the hardships of the
      cruise, spending money, regretting it, continually promising departure for
      the morrow. Why not go indeed, and keep a watch upon Bellairs? If I missed
      him, there was no harm done, I was the nearer Paris. If I found and kept
      his trail, it was hard if I could not put some stick in his machinery, and
      at the worst I could promise myself interesting scenes and revelations.
    </p>
    <p>
      In such a mixed humour, I made up what it pleases me to call my mind, and
      once more involved myself in the story of Carthew and the Flying Scud. The
      same night I wrote a letter of farewell to Jim, and one of anxious warning
      to Dr. Urquart begging him to set Carthew on his guard; the morrow saw me
      in the ferry-boat; and ten days later, I was walking the hurricane deck on
      the City of Denver. By that time my mind was pretty much made down again,
      its natural condition: I told myself that I was bound for Paris or
      Fontainebleau to resume the study of the arts; and I thought no more of
      Carthew or Bellairs, or only to smile at my own fondness. The one I could
      not serve, even if I wanted; the other I had no means of finding, even if
      I could have at all influenced him after he was found.
    </p>
    <p>
      And for all that, I was close on the heels of an absurd adventure. My
      neighbour at table that evening was a 'Frisco man whom I knew slightly. I
      found he had crossed the plains two days in front of me, and this was the
      first steamer that had left New York for Europe since his arrival. Two
      days before me meant a day before Bellairs; and dinner was scarce done
      before I was closeted with the purser.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bellairs?&rdquo; he repeated. &ldquo;Not in the saloon, I am sure.
      He may be in the second class. The lists are not made out, but&mdash;Hullo!
      'Harry D. Bellairs?' That the name? He's there right enough.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And the next morning I saw him on the forward deck, sitting in a chair, a
      book in his hand, a shabby puma skin rug about his knees: the picture of
      respectable decay. Off and on, I kept him in my eye. He read a good deal,
      he stood and looked upon the sea, he talked occasionally with his
      neighbours, and once when a child fell he picked it up and soothed it. I
      damned him in my heart; the book, which I was sure he did not read&mdash;the
      sea, to which I was ready to take oath he was indifferent&mdash;the child,
      whom I was certain he would as lieve have tossed overboard&mdash;all
      seemed to me elements in a theatrical performance; and I made no doubt he
      was already nosing after the secrets of his fellow-passengers. I took no
      pains to conceal myself, my scorn for the creature being as strong as my
      disgust. But he never looked my way, and it was night before I learned he
      had observed me.
    </p>
    <p>
      I was smoking by the engine-room door, for the air was a little sharp,
      when a voice rose close beside me in the darkness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I beg your pardon, Mr. Dodd,&rdquo; it said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That you, Bellairs?&rdquo; I replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A single word, sir. Your presence on this ship has no connection
      with our interview?&rdquo; he asked. &ldquo;You have no idea, Mr. Dodd, of
      returning upon your determination?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;None,&rdquo; said I; and then, seeing he still lingered, I was
      polite enough to add &ldquo;Good evening;&rdquo; at which he sighed and
      went away.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next day, he was there again with the chair and the puma skin; read
      his book and looked at the sea with the same constancy; and though there
      was no child to be picked up, I observed him to attend repeatedly on a
      sick woman. Nothing fosters suspicion like the act of watching; a man
      spied upon can hardly blow his nose but we accuse him of designs; and I
      took an early opportunity to go forward and see the woman for myself. She
      was poor, elderly, and painfully plain; I stood abashed at the sight, felt
      I owed Bellairs amends for the injustice of my thoughts, and seeing him
      standing by the rail in his usual attitude of contemplation, walked up and
      addressed him by name.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You seem very fond of the sea,&rdquo; said I.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I may really call it a passion, Mr. Dodd,&rdquo; he replied.
      &ldquo;And the tall cataract haunted me like a passion,&rdquo; he quoted.
      &ldquo;I never weary of the sea, sir. This is my first ocean voyage. I
      find it a glorious experience.&rdquo; And once more my disbarred lawyer
      dropped into poetry: &ldquo;Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, roll!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Though I had learned the piece in my reading-book at school, I came into
      the world a little too late on the one hand&mdash;and I daresay a little
      too early on the other&mdash;to think much of Byron; and the sonorous
      verse, prodigiously well delivered, struck me with surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are fond of poetry, too?&rdquo; I asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am a great reader,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;At one time I had
      begun to amass quite a small but well selected library; and when that was
      scattered, I still managed to preserve a few volumes&mdash;chiefly of
      pieces designed for recitation&mdash;which have been my travelling
      companions.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is that one of them?&rdquo; I asked, pointing to the volume in his
      hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, sir,&rdquo; he replied, showing me a translation of the <i>Sorrows
      of Werther</i>, &ldquo;that is a novel I picked up some time ago. It has
      afforded me great pleasure, though immoral.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, immoral!&rdquo; cried I, indignant as usual at any complication
      of art and ethics.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Surely you cannot deny that, sir&mdash;if you know the book,&rdquo;
      he said. &ldquo;The passion is illicit, although certainly drawn with a
      good deal of pathos. It is not a work one could possibly put into the
      hands of a lady; which is to be regretted on all accounts, for I do not
      know how it may strike you; but it seems to me&mdash;as a depiction, if I
      make myself clear&mdash;to rise high above its compeers&mdash;even famous
      compeers. Even in Scott, Dickens, Thackeray, or Hawthorne, the sentiment
      of love appears to me to be frequently done less justice to.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are expressing a very general opinion,&rdquo; said I.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is that so, indeed, sir?&rdquo; he exclaimed, with unmistakable
      excitement. &ldquo;Is the book well known? and who was GO-EATH? I am
      interested in that, because upon the title-page the usual initials are
      omitted, and it runs simply 'by GO-EATH.' Was he an author of distinction?
      Has he written other works?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Such was our first interview, the first of many; and in all he showed the
      same attractive qualities and defects. His taste for literature was native
      and unaffected; his sentimentality, although extreme and a thought
      ridiculous, was plainly genuine. I wondered at my own innocent wonder. I
      knew that Homer nodded, that Caesar had compiled a jest-book, that Turner
      lived by preference the life of Puggy Booth, that Shelley made paper
      boats, and Wordsworth wore green spectacles! and with all this mass of
      evidence before me, I had expected Bellairs to be entirely of one piece,
      subdued to what he worked in, a spy all through. As I abominated the man's
      trade, so I had expected to detest the man himself; and behold, I liked
      him. Poor devil! he was essentially a man on wires, all sensibility and
      tremor, brimful of a cheap poetry, not without parts, quite without
      courage. His boldness was despair; the gulf behind him thrust him on; he
      was one of those who might commit a murder rather than confess the theft
      of a postage-stamp. I was sure that his coming interview with Carthew rode
      his imagination like a nightmare; when the thought crossed his mind, I
      used to think I knew of it, and that the qualm appeared in his face
      visibly. Yet he would never flinch: necessity stalking at his back, famine
      (his old pursuer) talking in his ear; and I used to wonder whether I most
      admired, or most despised, this quivering heroism for evil. The image that
      occurred to me after his visit was just; I had been butted by a lamb; and
      the phase of life that I was now studying might be called the Revolt of a
      Sheep.
    </p>
    <p>
      It could be said of him that he had learned in sorrow what he taught in
      song&mdash;or wrong; and his life was that of one of his victims. He was
      born in the back parts of the State of New York; his father a farmer, who
      became subsequently bankrupt and went West. The lawyer and money-lender
      who had ruined this poor family seems to have conceived in the end a
      feeling of remorse; he turned the father out indeed, but he offered, in
      compensation, to charge himself with one of the sons: and Harry, the fifth
      child and already sickly, was chosen to be left behind. He made himself
      useful in the office; picked up the scattered rudiments of an education;
      read right and left; attended and debated at the Young Men's Christian
      Association; and in all his early years, was the model for a good
      story-book. His landlady's daughter was his bane. He showed me her
      photograph; she was a big, handsome, dashing, dressy, vulgar hussy,
      without character, without tenderness, without mind, and (as the result
      proved) without virtue. The sickly and timid boy was in the house; he was
      handy; when she was otherwise unoccupied, she used and played with him:
      Romeo and Cressida; till in that dreary life of a poor boy in a country
      town, she grew to be the light of his days and the subject of his dreams.
      He worked hard, like Jacob, for a wife; he surpassed his patron in sharp
      practice; he was made head clerk; and the same night, encouraged by a
      hundred freedoms, depressed by the sense of his youth and his infirmities,
      he offered marriage and was received with laughter. Not a year had passed,
      before his master, conscious of growing infirmities, took him for a
      partner; he proposed again; he was accepted; led two years of troubled
      married life; and awoke one morning to find his wife had run away with a
      dashing drummer, and had left him heavily in debt. The debt, and not the
      drummer, was supposed to be the cause of the hegira; she had concealed her
      liabilities, they were on the point of bursting forth, she was weary of
      Bellairs; and she took the drummer as she might have taken a cab. The blow
      disabled her husband, his partner was dead; he was now alone in the
      business, for which he was no longer fit; the debts hampered him;
      bankruptcy followed; and he fled from city to city, falling daily into
      lower practice. It is to be considered that he had been taught, and had
      learned as a delightful duty, a kind of business whose highest merit is to
      escape the commentaries of the bench: that of the usurious lawyer in a
      county town. With this training, he was now shot, a penniless stranger,
      into the deeper gulfs of cities; and the result is scarce a thing to be
      surprised at.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you heard of your wife again?&rdquo; I asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      He displayed a pitiful agitation. &ldquo;I am afraid you will think ill of
      me,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you taken her back?&rdquo; I asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, sir. I trust I have too much self-respect,&rdquo; he answered,
      &ldquo;and, at least, I was never tempted. She won't come, she dislikes,
      she seems to have conceived a positive distaste for me, and yet I was
      considered an indulgent husband.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are still in relations, then?&rdquo; I asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I place myself in your hands, Mr. Dodd,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;The
      world is very hard; I have found it bitter hard myself&mdash;bitter hard
      to live. How much worse for a woman, and one who has placed herself (by
      her own misconduct, I am far from denying that) in so unfortunate a
      position!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In short, you support her?&rdquo; I suggested.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I cannot deny it. I practically do,&rdquo; he admitted. &ldquo;It
      has been a mill-stone round my neck. But I think she is grateful. You can
      see for yourself.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      He handed me a letter in a sprawling, ignorant hand, but written with
      violet ink on fine, pink paper with a monogram. It was very foolishly
      expressed, and I thought (except for a few obvious cajoleries) very
      heartless and greedy in meaning. The writer said she had been sick, which
      I disbelieved; declared the last remittance was all gone in doctor's
      bills, for which I took the liberty of substituting dress, drink, and
      monograms; and prayed for an increase, which I could only hope had been
      denied her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think she is really grateful?&rdquo; he asked, with some
      eagerness, as I returned it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I daresay,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;Has she any claim on you?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O no, sir. I divorced her,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;I have a very
      strong sense of self-respect in such matters, and I divorced her
      immediately.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What sort of life is she leading now?&rdquo; I asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will not deceive you, Mr. Dodd. I do not know, I make a point of
      not knowing; it appears more dignified. I have been very harshly
      criticised,&rdquo; he added, sighing.
    </p>
    <p>
      It will be seen that I had fallen into an ignominious intimacy with the
      man I had gone out to thwart. My pity for the creature, his admiration for
      myself, his pleasure in my society, which was clearly unassumed, were the
      bonds with which I was fettered; perhaps I should add, in honesty, my own
      ill-regulated interest in the phases of life and human character. The fact
      is (at least) that we spent hours together daily, and that I was nearly as
      much on the forward deck as in the saloon. Yet all the while I could never
      forget he was a shabby trickster, embarked that very moment in a dirty
      enterprise. I used to tell myself at first that our acquaintance was a
      stroke of art, and that I was somehow fortifying Carthew. I told myself, I
      say; but I was no such fool as to believe it, even then. In these
      circumstances I displayed the two chief qualities of my character on the
      largest scale&mdash;my helplessness and my instinctive love of
      procrastination&mdash;and fell upon a course of action so ridiculous that
      I blush when I recall it.
    </p>
    <p>
      We reached Liverpool one forenoon, the rain falling thickly and
      insidiously on the filthy town. I had no plans, beyond a sensible
      unwillingness to let my rascal escape; and I ended by going to the same
      inn with him, dining with him, walking with him in the wet streets, and
      hearing with him in a penny gaff that venerable piece, <i>The
      Ticket-of-Leave Man</i>. It was one of his first visits to a theatre,
      against which places of entertainment he had a strong prejudice; and his
      innocent, pompous talk, innocent old quotations, and innocent reverence
      for the character of Hawkshaw delighted me beyond relief. In charity to
      myself, I dwell upon and perhaps exaggerate my pleasures. I have need of
      all conceivable excuses, when I confess that I went to bed without one
      word upon the matter of Carthew, but not without having covenanted with my
      rascal for a visit to Chester the next day. At Chester we did the
      Cathedral, walked on the walls, discussed Shakespeare and the musical
      glasses&mdash;and made a fresh engagement for the morrow. I do not know,
      and I am glad to have forgotten, how long these travels were continued. We
      visited at least, by singular zigzags, Stratford, Warwick, Coventry,
      Gloucester, Bristol, Bath, and Wells. At each stage we spoke dutifully of
      the scene and its associations; I sketched, the Shyster spouted poetry and
      copied epitaphs. Who could doubt we were the usual Americans, travelling
      with a design of self-improvement? Who was to guess that one was a
      blackmailer, trembling to approach the scene of action&mdash;the other a
      helpless, amateur detective, waiting on events?
    </p>
    <p>
      It is unnecessary to remark that none occurred, or none the least suitable
      with my design of protecting Carthew. Two trifles, indeed, completed
      though they scarcely changed my conception of the Shyster. The first was
      observed in Gloucester, where we spent Sunday, and I proposed we should
      hear service in the cathedral. To my surprise, the creature had an ISM of
      his own, to which he was loyal; and he left me to go alone to the
      cathedral&mdash;or perhaps not to go at all&mdash;and stole off down a
      deserted alley to some Bethel or Ebenezer of the proper shade. When we met
      again at lunch, I rallied him, and he grew restive.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You need employ no circumlocutions with me, Mr. Dodd,&rdquo; he
      said suddenly. &ldquo;You regard my behaviour from an unfavourable point
      of view: you regard me, I much fear, as hypocritical.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      I was somewhat confused by the attack. &ldquo;You know what I think of
      your trade,&rdquo; I replied, lamely and coarsely.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Excuse me, if I seem to press the subject,&rdquo; he continued,
      &ldquo;but if you think my life erroneous, would you have me neglect the
      means of grace? Because you consider me in the wrong on one point, would
      you have me place myself on the wrong in all? Surely, sir, the church is
      for the sinner.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you ask a blessing on your present enterprise?&rdquo; I
      sneered.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had a bad attack of St. Vitus, his face was changed, and his eyes
      flashed. &ldquo;I will tell you what I did!&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;I
      prayed for an unfortunate man and a wretched woman whom he tries to
      support.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      I cannot pretend that I found any repartee.
    </p>
    <p>
      The second incident was at Bristol, where I lost sight of my gentleman
      some hours. From this eclipse, he returned to me with thick speech,
      wandering footsteps, and a back all whitened with plaster. I had half
      expected, yet I could have wept to see it. All disabilities were piled on
      that weak back&mdash;domestic misfortune, nervous disease, a displeasing
      exterior, empty pockets, and the slavery of vice.
    </p>
    <p>
      I will never deny that our prolonged conjunction was the result of double
      cowardice. Each was afraid to leave the other, each was afraid to speak,
      or knew not what to say. Save for my ill-judged allusion at Gloucester,
      the subject uppermost in both our minds was buried. Carthew,
      Stallbridge-le-Carthew, Stallbridge-Minster&mdash;which we had long since
      (and severally) identified to be the nearest station&mdash;even the name
      of Dorsetshire was studiously avoided. And yet we were making progress all
      the time, tacking across broad England like an unweatherly vessel on a
      wind; approaching our destination, not openly, but by a sort of flying
      sap. And at length, I can scarce tell how, we were set down by a dilatory
      butt-end of local train on the untenanted platform of Stallbridge-Minster.
    </p>
    <p>
      The town was ancient and compact: a domino of tiled houses and walled
      gardens, dwarfed by the disproportionate bigness of the church. From the
      midst of the thoroughfare which divided it in half, fields and trees were
      visible at either end; and through the sally-port of every street, there
      flowed in from the country a silent invasion of green grass. Bees and
      birds appeared to make the majority of the inhabitants; every garden had
      its row of hives, the eaves of every house were plastered with the nests
      of swallows, and the pinnacles of the church were flickered about all day
      long by a multitude of wings. The town was of Roman foundation; and as I
      looked out that afternoon from the low windows of the inn, I should scarce
      have been surprised to see a centurion coming up the street with a fatigue
      draft of legionaries. In short, Stallbridge-Minster was one of those towns
      which appear to be maintained by England for the instruction and delight
      of the American rambler; to which he seems guided by an instinct not less
      surprising than the setter's; and which he visits and quits with equal
      enthusiasm.
    </p>
    <p>
      I was not at all in the humour of the tourist. I had wasted weeks of time
      and accomplished nothing; we were on the eve of the engagement, and I had
      neither plans nor allies. I had thrust myself into the trade of private
      providence and amateur detective; I was spending money and I was reaping
      disgrace. All the time, I kept telling myself that I must at least speak;
      that this ignominious silence should have been broken long ago, and must
      be broken now. I should have broken it when he first proposed to come to
      Stallbridge-Minster; I should have broken it in the train; I should break
      it there and then, on the inn doorstep, as the omnibus rolled off. I
      turned toward him at the thought; he seemed to wince, the words died on my
      lips, and I proposed instead that we should visit the Minster.
    </p>
    <p>
      While we were engaged upon this duty, it came on to rain in a manner
      worthy of the tropics. The vault reverberated; every gargoyle instantly
      poured its full discharge; we waded back to the inn, ankle-deep in
      impromptu brooks; and the rest of the afternoon sat weatherbound,
      hearkening to the sonorous deluge. For two hours I talked of indifferent
      matters, laboriously feeding the conversation; for two hours my mind was
      quite made up to do my duty instantly&mdash;and at each particular instant
      I postponed it till the next. To screw up my faltering courage, I called
      at dinner for some sparkling wine. It proved when it came to be
      detestable; I could not put it to my lips; and Bellairs, who had as much
      palate as a weevil, was left to finish it himself. Doubtless the wine
      flushed him; doubtless he may have observed my embarrassment of the
      afternoon; doubtless he was conscious that we were approaching a crisis,
      and that that evening, if I did not join with him, I must declare myself
      an open enemy. At least he fled. Dinner was done; this was the time when I
      had bound myself to break my silence; no more delays were to be allowed,
      no more excuses received. I went upstairs after some tobacco; which I felt
      to be a mere necessity in the circumstances; and when I returned, the man
      was gone. The waiter told me he had left the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      The rain still plumped, like a vast shower-bath, over the deserted town.
      The night was dark and windless: the street lit glimmeringly from end to
      end, lamps, house windows, and the reflections in the rain-pools all
      contributing. From a public-house on the other side of the way, I heard a
      harp twang and a doleful voice upraised in the &ldquo;Larboard Watch,&rdquo;
      &ldquo;The Anchor's Weighed,&rdquo; and other naval ditties. Where had my
      Shyster wandered? In all likelihood to that lyrical tavern; there was no
      choice of diversion; in comparison with Stallbridge-Minster on a rainy
      night, a sheepfold would seem gay.
    </p>
    <p>
      Again I passed in review the points of my interview, on which I was always
      constantly resolved so long as my adversary was absent from the scene: and
      again they struck me as inadequate. From this dispiriting exercise I
      turned to the native amusements of the inn coffee-room, and studied for
      some time the mezzotints that frowned upon the wall. The railway guide,
      after showing me how soon I could leave Stallbridge and how quickly I
      could reach Paris, failed to hold my attention. An illustrated
      advertisement book of hotels brought me very low indeed; and when it came
      to the local paper, I could have wept. At this point, I found a passing
      solace in a copy of Whittaker's Almanac, and obtained in fifty minutes
      more information than I have yet been able to use.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then a fresh apprehension assailed me. Suppose Bellairs had given me the
      slip? suppose he was now rolling on the road to Stallbridge-le-Carthew? or
      perhaps there already and laying before a very white-faced auditor his
      threats and propositions? A hasty person might have instantly pursued.
      Whatever I am, I am not hasty, and I was aware of three grave objections.
      In the first place, I could not be certain that Bellairs was gone. In the
      second, I had no taste whatever for a long drive at that hour of the night
      and in so merciless a rain. In the third, I had no idea how I was to get
      admitted if I went, and no idea what I should say if I got admitted.
      &ldquo;In short,&rdquo; I concluded, &ldquo;the whole situation is the
      merest farce. You have thrust yourself in where you had no business and
      have no power. You would be quite as useful in San Francisco; far happier
      in Paris; and being (by the wrath of God) at Stallbridge-Minster, the
      wisest thing is to go quietly to bed.&rdquo; On the way to my room, I saw
      (in a flash) that which I ought to have done long ago, and which it was
      now too late to think of&mdash;written to Carthew, I mean, detailing the
      facts and describing Bellairs, letting him defend himself if he were able,
      and giving him time to flee if he were not. It was the last blow to my
      self-respect; and I flung myself into my bed with contumely.
    </p>
    <p>
      I have no guess what hour it was, when I was wakened by the entrance of
      Bellairs carrying a candle. He had been drunk, for he was bedaubed with
      mire from head to foot; but he was now sober and under the empire of some
      violent emotion which he controlled with difficulty. He trembled visibly;
      and more than once, during the interview which followed, tears suddenly
      and silently overflowed his cheeks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have to ask your pardon, sir, for this untimely visit,&rdquo; he
      said. &ldquo;I make no defence, I have no excuse, I have disgraced myself,
      I am properly punished; I appear before you to appeal to you in mercy for
      the most trifling aid or, God help me! I fear I may go mad.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What on earth is wrong?&rdquo; I asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have been robbed,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I have no defence to
      offer; it was of my own fault, I am properly punished.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, gracious goodness me!&rdquo; I cried, &ldquo;who is there to
      rob you in a place like this?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can form no opinion,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;I have no idea. I
      was lying in a ditch inanimate. This is a degrading confession, sir; I can
      only say in self-defence that perhaps (in your good nature) you have made
      yourself partly responsible for my shame. I am not used to these rich
      wines.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In what form was your money? Perhaps it may be traced,&rdquo; I
      suggested.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was in English sovereigns. I changed it in New York; I got very
      good exchange,&rdquo; he said, and then, with a momentary outbreak,
      &ldquo;God in heaven, how I toiled for it!&rdquo; he cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That doesn't sound encouraging,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;It may be
      worth while to apply to the police, but it doesn't sound a hopeful case.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I have no hope in that direction,&rdquo; said Bellairs. &ldquo;My
      hopes, Mr. Dodd, are all fixed upon yourself. I could easily convince you
      that a small, a very small advance, would be in the nature of an excellent
      investment; but I prefer to rely on your humanity. Our acquaintance began
      on an unusual footing; but you have now known me for some time, we have
      been some time&mdash;I was going to say we had been almost intimate. Under
      the impulse of instinctive sympathy, I have bared my heart to you, Mr.
      Dodd, as I have done to few; and I believe&mdash;I trust&mdash;I may say
      that I feel sure&mdash;you heard me with a kindly sentiment. This is what
      brings me to your side at this most inexcusable hour. But put yourself in
      my place&mdash;how could I sleep&mdash;how could I dream of sleeping, in
      this blackness of remorse and despair? There was a friend at hand&mdash;so
      I ventured to think of you; it was instinctive; I fled to your side, as
      the drowning man clutches at a straw. These expressions are not
      exaggerated, they scarcely serve to express the agitation of my mind. And
      think, sir, how easily you can restore me to hope and, I may say, to
      reason. A small loan, which shall be faithfully repaid. Five hundred
      dollars would be ample.&rdquo; He watched me with burning eyes. &ldquo;Four
      hundred would do. I believe, Mr. Dodd, that I could manage with economy on
      two.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And then you will repay me out of Carthew's pocket?&rdquo; I said.
      &ldquo;I am much obliged. But I will tell you what I will do: I will see
      you on board a steamer, pay your fare through to San Francisco, and place
      fifty dollars in the purser's hands, to be given you in New York.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      He drank in my words; his face represented an ecstasy of cunning thought.
      I could read there, plain as print, that he but thought to overreach me.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what am I to do in 'Frisco?&rdquo; he asked. &ldquo;I am
      disbarred, I have no trade, I cannot dig, to beg&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; he
      paused in the citation. &ldquo;And you know that I am not alone,&rdquo; he
      added, &ldquo;others depend upon me.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will write to Pinkerton,&rdquo; I returned. &ldquo;I feel sure he
      can help you to some employment, and in the meantime, and for three months
      after your arrival, he shall pay to yourself personally, on the first and
      the fifteenth, twenty-five dollars.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Dodd, I scarce believe you can be serious in this offer,&rdquo;
      he replied. &ldquo;Have you forgotten the circumstances of the case? Do
      you know these people are the magnates of the section? They were spoken of
      to-night in the saloon; their wealth must amount to many millions of
      dollars in real estate alone; their house is one of the sights of the
      locality, and you offer me a bribe of a few hundred!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I offer you no bribe, Mr. Bellairs, I give you alms,&rdquo; I
      returned. &ldquo;I will do nothing to forward you in your hateful
      business; yet I would not willingly have you starve.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give me a hundred dollars then, and be done with it,&rdquo; he
      cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will do what I have said, and neither more nor less,&rdquo; said
      I.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take care,&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;You are playing a fool's game;
      you are making an enemy for nothing; you will gain nothing by this, I warn
      you of it!&rdquo; And then with one of his changes, &ldquo;Seventy dollars&mdash;only
      seventy&mdash;in mercy, Mr. Dodd, in common charity. Don't dash the bowl
      from my lips! You have a kindly heart. Think of my position, remember my
      unhappy wife.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You should have thought of her before,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;I have
      made my offer, and I wish to sleep.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is that your last word, sir? Pray consider; pray weigh both sides:
      my misery, your own danger. I warn you&mdash;I beseech you; measure it
      well before you answer,&rdquo; so he half pleaded, half threatened me,
      with clasped hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My first word, and my last,&rdquo; said I.
    </p>
    <p>
      The change upon the man was shocking. In the storm of anger that now shook
      him, the lees of his intoxication rose again to the surface; his face was
      deformed, his words insane with fury; his pantomime excessive in itself,
      was distorted by an access of St. Vitus.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will perhaps allow me to inform you of my cold opinion,&rdquo;
      he began, apparently self-possessed, truly bursting with rage: &ldquo;when
      I am a glorified saint, I shall see you howling for a drop of water and
      exult to see you. That your last word! Take it in your face, you spy, you
      false friend, you fat hypocrite! I defy, I defy and despise and spit upon
      you! I'm on the trail, his trail or yours, I smell blood, I'll follow it
      on my hands and knees, I'll starve to follow it! I'll hunt you down, hunt
      you, hunt you down! If I were strong, I'd tear your vitals out, here in
      this room&mdash;tear them out&mdash;I'd tear them out! Damn, damn, damn!
      You think me weak! I can bite, bite to the blood, bite you, hurt you,
      disgrace you ...&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      He was thus incoherently raging, when the scene was interrupted by the
      arrival of the landlord and inn servants in various degrees of deshabille,
      and to them I gave my temporary lunatic in charge.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take him to his room,&rdquo; I said, &ldquo;he's only drunk.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      These were my words; but I knew better. After all my study of Mr.
      Bellairs, one discovery had been reserved for the last moment: that of his
      latent and essential madness.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020">
       <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XX. STALLBRIDGE-LE-CARTHEW.
    </h2>
    <p>
      Long before I was awake, the shyster had disappeared, leaving his bill
      unpaid. I did not need to inquire where he was gone, I knew too well, I
      knew there was nothing left me but to follow; and about ten in the
      morning, set forth in a gig for Stallbridge-le-Carthew.
    </p>
    <p>
      The road, for the first quarter of the way, deserts the valley of the
      river, and crosses the summit of a chalk-down, grazed over by flocks of
      sheep and haunted by innumerable larks. It was a pleasant but a vacant
      scene, arousing but not holding the attention; and my mind returned to the
      violent passage of the night before. My thought of the man I was pursuing
      had been greatly changed. I conceived of him, somewhere in front of me,
      upon his dangerous errand, not to be turned aside, not to be stopped, by
      either fear or reason. I had called him a ferret; I conceived him now as a
      mad dog. Methought he would run, not walk; methought, as he ran, that he
      would bark and froth at the lips; methought, if the great wall of China
      were to rise across his path, he would attack it with his nails.
    </p>
    <p>
      Presently the road left the down, returned by a precipitous descent into
      the valley of the Stall, and ran thenceforward among enclosed fields and
      under the continuous shade of trees. I was told we had now entered on the
      Carthew property. By and by, a battlemented wall appeared on the left
      hand, and a little after I had my first glimpse of the mansion. It stood
      in a hollow of a bosky park, crowded to a degree that surprised and even
      displeased me, with huge timber and dense shrubberies of laurel and
      rhododendron. Even from this low station and the thronging neighbourhood
      of the trees, the pile rose conspicuous like a cathedral. Behind, as we
      continued to skirt the park wall, I began to make out a straggling town of
      offices which became conjoined to the rear with those of the home farm. On
      the left was an ornamental water sailed in by many swans. On the right
      extended a flower garden, laid in the old manner, and at this season of
      the year, as brilliant as stained glass. The front of the house presented
      a facade of more than sixty windows, surmounted by a formal pediment and
      raised upon a terrace. A wide avenue, part in gravel, part in turf, and
      bordered by triple alleys, ran to the great double gateways. It was
      impossible to look without surprise on a place that had been prepared
      through so many generations, had cost so many tons of minted gold, and was
      maintained in order by so great a company of emulous servants. And yet of
      these there was no sign but the perfection of their work. The whole domain
      was drawn to the line and weeded like the front plot of some suburban
      amateur; and I looked in vain for any belated gardener, and listened in
      vain for any sounds of labour. Some lowing of cattle and much calling of
      birds alone disturbed the stillness, and even the little hamlet, which
      clustered at the gates, appeared to hold its breath in awe of its great
      neighbour, like a troop of children who should have strayed into a king's
      anteroom.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Carthew Arms, the small but very comfortable inn, was a mere appendage
      and outpost of the family whose name it bore. Engraved portraits of
      by-gone Carthews adorned the walls; Fielding Carthew, Recorder of the city
      of London; Major-General John Carthew in uniform, commanding some military
      operations; the Right Honourable Bailley Carthew, Member of Parliament for
      Stallbridge, standing by a table and brandishing a document; Singleton
      Carthew, Esquire, represented in the foreground of a herd of cattle&mdash;doubtless
      at the desire of his tenantry, who had made him a compliment of this work
      of art; and the Venerable Archdeacon Carthew, D.D., LL.D., A.M., laying
      his hand on the head of a little child in a manner highly frigid and
      ridiculous. So far as my memory serves me, there were no other pictures in
      this exclusive hostelry; and I was not surprised to learn that the
      landlord was an ex-butler, the landlady an ex-lady's-maid, from the great
      house; and that the bar-parlour was a sort of perquisite of former
      servants.
    </p>
    <p>
      To an American, the sense of the domination of this family over so
      considerable a tract of earth was even oppressive; and as I considered
      their simple annals, gathered from the legends of the engravings, surprise
      began to mingle with my disgust. &ldquo;Mr. Recorder&rdquo; doubtless
      occupies an honourable post; but I thought that, in the course of so many
      generations, one Carthew might have clambered higher. The soldier had
      stuck at Major-General; the churchman bloomed unremarked in an
      archidiaconate; and though the Right Honourable Bailley seemed to have
      sneaked into the privy council, I have still to learn what he did when he
      had got there. Such vast means, so long a start, and such a modest
      standard of achievement, struck in me a strong sense of the dulness of
      that race.
    </p>
    <p>
      I found that to come to the hamlet and not visit the Hall, would be
      regarded as a slight. To feed the swans, to see the peacocks and the
      Raphaels&mdash;for these commonplace people actually possessed two
      Raphaels&mdash;to risk life and limb among a famous breed of cattle called
      the Carthew Chillinghams, and to do homage to the sire (still living) of
      Donibristle, a renowned winner of the oaks: these, it seemed, were the
      inevitable stations of the pilgrimage. I was not so foolish as to resist,
      for I might have need before I was done of general good-will; and two
      pieces of news fell in which changed my resignation to alacrity. It
      appeared in the first place, that Mr. Norris was from home &ldquo;travelling
      &ldquo;; in the second, that a visitor had been before me and already made
      the tour of the Carthew curiosities. I thought I knew who this must be; I
      was anxious to learn what he had done and seen; and fortune so far
      favoured me that the under-gardener singled out to be my guide had already
      performed the same function for my predecessor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, sir,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;an American gentleman right
      enough. At least, I don't think he was quite a gentleman, but a very civil
      person.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The person, it seems, had been civil enough to be delighted with the
      Carthew Chillinghams, to perform the whole pilgrimage with rising
      admiration, and to have almost prostrated himself before the shrine of
      Donibristle's sire.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He told me, sir,&rdquo; continued the gratified under-gardener,
      &ldquo;that he had often read of the 'stately 'omes of England,' but ours
      was the first he had the chance to see. When he came to the 'ead of the
      long alley, he fetched his breath. 'This is indeed a lordly domain!' he
      cries. And it was natural he should be interested in the place, for it
      seems Mr. Carthew had been kind to him in the States. In fact, he seemed a
      grateful kind of person, and wonderful taken up with flowers.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      I heard this story with amazement. The phrases quoted told their own tale;
      they were plainly from the shyster's mint. A few hours back I had seen him
      a mere bedlamite and fit for a strait-waistcoat; he was penniless in a
      strange country; it was highly probable he had gone without breakfast; the
      absence of Norris must have been a crushing blow; the man (by all reason)
      should have been despairing. And now I heard of him, clothed and in his
      right mind, deliberate, insinuating, admiring vistas, smelling flowers,
      and talking like a book. The strength of character implied amazed and
      daunted me.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is curious,&rdquo; I said to the under-gardener. &ldquo;I have
      had the pleasure of some acquaintance with Mr. Carthew myself; and I
      believe none of our western friends ever were in England. Who can this
      person be? He couldn't&mdash;no, that's impossible, he could never have
      had the impudence. His name was not Bellairs?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I didn't 'ear the name, sir. Do you know anything against him?&rdquo;
      cried my guide.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;he is certainly not the person Carthew
      would like to have here in his absence.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good gracious me!&rdquo; exclaimed the gardener. &ldquo;He was so
      pleasant spoken, too; I thought he was some form of a schoolmaster.
      Perhaps, sir, you wouldn't mind going right up to Mr. Denman? I
      recommended him to Mr. Denman, when he had done the grounds. Mr. Denman is
      our butler, sir,&rdquo; he added.
    </p>
    <p>
      The proposal was welcome, particularly as affording me a graceful retreat
      from the neighbourhood of the Carthew Chillinghams; and, giving up our
      projected circuit, we took a short cut through the shrubbery and across
      the bowling green to the back quarters of the Hall.
    </p>
    <p>
      The bowling green was surrounded by a great hedge of yew, and entered by
      an archway in the quick. As we were issuing from this passage, my
      conductor arrested me.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Honourable Lady Ann Carthew,&rdquo; he said, in an august
      whisper. And looking over his shoulder, I was aware of an old lady with a
      stick, hobbling somewhat briskly along the garden path. She must have been
      extremely handsome in her youth; and even the limp with which she walked
      could not deprive her of an unusual and almost menacing dignity of
      bearing. Melancholy was impressed besides on every feature, and her eyes,
      as she looked straight before her, seemed to contemplate misfortune.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She seems sad,&rdquo; said I, when she had hobbled past and we had
      resumed our walk.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She enjoy rather poor spirits, sir,&rdquo; responded the
      under-gardener. &ldquo;Mr. Carthew&mdash;the old gentleman, I mean&mdash;died
      less than a year ago; Lord Tillibody, her ladyship's brother, two months
      after; and then there was the sad business about the young gentleman.
      Killed in the 'unting-field, sir; and her ladyship's favourite. The
      present Mr. Norris has never been so equally.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So I have understood,&rdquo; said I, persistently, and (I think)
      gracefully pursuing my inquiries and fortifying my position as a family
      friend. &ldquo;Dear, dear, how sad! And has this change&mdash;poor
      Carthew's return, and all&mdash;has this not mended matters?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, no, sir, not a sign of it,&rdquo; was the reply. &ldquo;Worse,
      we think, than ever.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear, dear!&rdquo; said I again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When Mr. Norris arrived, she DID seem glad to see him,&rdquo; he
      pursued; &ldquo;and we were all pleased, I'm sure; for no one knows the
      young gentleman but what likes him. Ah, sir, it didn't last long! That
      very night they had a talk, and fell out or something; her ladyship took
      on most painful; it was like old days, but worse. And the next morning Mr.
      Norris was off again upon his travels. 'Denman,' he said to Mr. Denman,
      'Denman, I'll never come back,' he said, and shook him by the 'and. I
      wouldn't be saying all this to a stranger, sir,&rdquo; added my informant,
      overcome with a sudden fear lest he had gone too far.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had indeed told me much, and much that was unsuspected by himself. On
      that stormy night of his return, Carthew had told his story; the old lady
      had more upon her mind than mere bereavements; and among the mental
      pictures on which she looked, as she walked staring down the path, was one
      of Midway Island and the Flying Scud.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Denman heard my inquiries with discomposure, but informed me the
      shyster was already gone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gone?&rdquo; cried I. &ldquo;Then what can he have come for? One
      thing I can tell you, it was not to see the house.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't see it could have been anything else,&rdquo; replied the
      butler.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You may depend upon it it was,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;And whatever
      it was, he has got it. By the way, where is Mr. Carthew at present? I was
      sorry to find he was from home.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is engaged in travelling, sir,&rdquo; replied the butler, dryly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, bravo!&rdquo; cried I. &ldquo;I laid a trap for you there, Mr.
      Denman. Now I need not ask you; I am sure you did not tell this prying
      stranger.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To be sure not, sir,&rdquo; said the butler.
    </p>
    <p>
      I went through the form of &ldquo;shaking him by the 'and&rdquo;&mdash;like
      Mr. Norris&mdash;not, however, with genuine enthusiasm. For I had failed
      ingloriously to get the address for myself; and I felt a sure conviction
      that Bellairs had done better, or he had still been here and still
      cultivating Mr. Denman.
    </p>
    <p>
      I had escaped the grounds and the cattle; I could not escape the house. A
      lady with silver hair, a slender silver voice, and a stream of
      insignificant information not to be diverted, led me through the picture
      gallery, the music-room, the great dining-room, the long drawing-room, the
      Indian room, the theatre, and every corner (as I thought) of that
      interminable mansion. There was but one place reserved; the garden-room,
      whither Lady Ann had now retired. I paused a moment on the outside of the
      door, and smiled to myself. The situation was indeed strange, and these
      thin boards divided the secret of the Flying Scud.
    </p>
    <p>
      All the while, as I went to and fro, I was considering the visit and
      departure of Bellairs. That he had got the address, I was quite certain:
      that he had not got it by direct questioning, I was convinced; some
      ingenuity, some lucky accident, had served him. A similar chance, an equal
      ingenuity, was required; or I was left helpless, the ferret must run down
      his prey, the great oaks fall, the Raphaels be scattered, the house let to
      some stockbroker suddenly made rich, and the name which now filled the
      mouths of five or six parishes dwindle to a memory. Strange that such
      great matters, so old a mansion, a family so ancient and so dull, should
      come to depend for perpetuity upon the intelligence, the discretion, and
      the cunning of a Latin-Quarter student! What Bellairs had done, I must do
      likewise. Chance or ingenuity, ingenuity or chance&mdash;so I continued to
      ring the changes as I walked down the avenue, casting back occasional
      glances at the red brick facade and the twinkling windows of the house.
      How was I to command chance? where was I to find the ingenuity?
    </p>
    <p>
      These reflections brought me to the door of the inn. And here, pursuant to
      my policy of keeping well with all men, I immediately smoothed my brow,
      and accepted (being the only guest in the house) an invitation to dine
      with the family in the bar-parlour. I sat down accordingly with Mr. Higgs
      the ex-butler, Mrs. Higgs the ex-lady's-maid, and Miss Agnes Higgs their
      frowsy-headed little girl, the least promising and (as the event showed)
      the most useful of the lot. The talk ran endlessly on the great house and
      the great family; the roast beef, the Yorkshire pudding, the jam-roll, and
      the cheddar cheese came and went, and still the stream flowed on; near
      four generations of Carthews were touched upon without eliciting one point
      of interest; and we had killed Mr. Henry in &ldquo;the 'unting-field,&rdquo;
      with a vast elaboration of painful circumstance, and buried him in the
      midst of a whole sorrowing county, before I could so much as manage to
      bring upon the stage my intimate friend, Mr. Norris. At the name, the
      ex-butler grew diplomatic, and the ex-lady's-maid tender. He was the only
      person of the whole featureless series who seemed to have accomplished
      anything worth mention; and his achievements, poor dog, seemed to have
      been confined to going to the devil and leaving some regrets. He had been
      the image of the Right Honourable Bailley, one of the lights of that dim
      house, and a career of distinction had been predicted of him in
      consequence almost from the cradle. But before he was out of long clothes,
      the cloven foot began to show; he proved to be no Carthew, developed a
      taste for low pleasures and bad company, went birdnesting with a
      stable-boy before he was eleven, and when he was near twenty, and might
      have been expected to display at least some rudiments of the family
      gravity, rambled the country over with a knapsack, making sketches and
      keeping company in wayside inns. He had no pride about him, I was told; he
      would sit down with any man; and it was somewhat woundingly implied that I
      was indebted to this peculiarity for my own acquaintance with the hero.
      Unhappily, Mr. Norris was not only eccentric, he was fast. His debts were
      still remembered at the University; still more, it appeared, the highly
      humorous circumstances attending his expulsion. &ldquo;He was always fond
      of his jest,&rdquo; commented Mrs. Higgs.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That he were!&rdquo; observed her lord.
    </p>
    <p>
      But it was after he went into the diplomatic service that the real trouble
      began.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It seems, sir, that he went the pace extraordinary,&rdquo; said the
      ex-butler, with a solemn gusto.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;His debts were somethink awful,&rdquo; said the lady's-maid.
      &ldquo;And as nice a young gentleman all the time as you would wish to
      see!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When word came to Mr. Carthew's ears, the turn up was 'orrible,&rdquo;
      continued Mr. Higgs. &ldquo;I remember it as if it was yesterday. The bell
      was rung after her la'ship was gone, which I answered it myself, supposing
      it were the coffee. There was Mr. Carthew on his feet. ''Iggs,' he says,
      pointing with his stick, for he had a turn of the gout, 'order the
      dog-cart instantly for this son of mine which has disgraced hisself.' Mr.
      Norris say nothink: he sit there with his 'ead down, making belief to be
      looking at a walnut. You might have bowled me over with a straw,&rdquo;
      said Mr. Higgs.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Had he done anything very bad?&rdquo; I asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not he, Mr. Dodsley!&rdquo; cried the lady&mdash;it was so she had
      conceived my name. &ldquo;He never did anythink to all really wrong in his
      poor life. The 'ole affair was a disgrace. It was all rank favouritising.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mrs. 'Iggs! Mrs. 'Iggs!&rdquo; cried the butler warningly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, what do I care?&rdquo; retorted the lady, shaking her
      ringlets. &ldquo;You know it was yourself, Mr. 'Iggs, and so did every
      member of the staff.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      While I was getting these facts and opinions, I by no means neglected the
      child. She was not attractive; but fortunately she had reached the corrupt
      age of seven, when half a crown appears about as large as a saucer and is
      fully as rare as the dodo. For a shilling down, sixpence in her money-box,
      and an American gold dollar which I happened to find in my pocket, I
      bought the creature soul and body. She declared her intention to accompany
      me to the ends of the earth; and had to be chidden by her sire for drawing
      comparisons between myself and her uncle William, highly damaging to the
      latter.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dinner was scarce done, the cloth was not yet removed, when Miss Agnes
      must needs climb into my lap with her stamp album, a relic of the
      generosity of Uncle William. There are few things I despise more than old
      stamps, unless perhaps it be crests; for cattle (from the Carthew
      Chillinghams down to the old gate-keeper's milk-cow in the lane) contempt
      is far from being my first sentiment. But it seemed I was doomed to pass
      that day in viewing curiosities, and smothering a yawn, I devoted myself
      once more to tread the well-known round. I fancy Uncle William must have
      begun the collection himself and tired of it, for the book (to my
      surprise) was quite respectably filled. There were the varying shades of
      the English penny, Russians with the coloured heart, old undecipherable
      Thurn-und-Taxis, obsolete triangular Cape of Good Hopes, Swan Rivers with
      the Swan, and Guianas with the sailing ship. Upon all these I looked with
      the eyes of a fish and the spirit of a sheep; I think indeed I was at
      times asleep; and it was probably in one of these moments that I capsized
      the album, and there fell from the end of it, upon the floor, a
      considerable number of what I believe to be called &ldquo;exchanges.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Here, against all probability, my chance had come to me; for as I
      gallantly picked them up, I was struck with the disproportionate amount of
      five-sous French stamps. Some one, I reasoned, must write very regularly
      from France to the neighbourhood of Stallbridge-le-Carthew. Could it be
      Norris? On one stamp I made out an initial C; upon a second I got as far
      as CH; beyond which point, the postmark used was in every instance
      undecipherable. CH, when you consider that about a quarter of the towns in
      France begin with &ldquo;chateau,&rdquo; was an insufficient clue; and I
      promptly annexed the plainest of the collection in order to consult the
      post-office.
    </p>
    <p>
      The wretched infant took me in the fact. &ldquo;Naughty man, to 'teal my
      'tamp!&rdquo; she cried; and when I would have brazened it off with a
      denial, recovered and displayed the stolen article.
    </p>
    <p>
      My position was now highly false; and I believe it was in mere pity that
      Mrs. Higgs came to my rescue with a welcome proposition. If the gentleman
      was really interested in stamps, she said, probably supposing me a
      monomaniac on the point, he should see Mr. Denman's album. Mr. Denman had
      been collecting forty years, and his collection was said to be worth a
      mint of money. &ldquo;Agnes,&rdquo; she went on, &ldquo;if you were a kind
      little girl, you would run over to the 'All, tell Mr. Denman there's a
      connaisseer in the 'ouse, and ask him if one of the young gentlemen might
      bring the album down.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should like to see his exchanges too,&rdquo; I cried, rising to
      the occasion. &ldquo;I may have some of mine in my pocket-book and we
      might trade.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Half an hour later Mr. Denman arrived himself with a most unconscionable
      volume under his arm. &ldquo;Ah, sir,&rdquo; he cried, &ldquo;when I 'eard
      you was a collector, I dropped all. It's a saying of mine, Mr. Dodsley,
      that collecting stamps makes all collectors kin. It's a bond, sir; it
      creates a bond.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Upon the truth of this, I cannot say; but there is no doubt that the
      attempt to pass yourself off for a collector falsely creates a precarious
      situation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, here's the second issue!&rdquo; I would say, after consulting
      the legend at the side. &ldquo;The pink&mdash;no, I mean the mauve&mdash;yes,
      that's the beauty of this lot. Though of course, as you say,&rdquo; I
      would hasten to add, &ldquo;this yellow on the thin paper is more rare.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Indeed I must certainly have been detected, had I not plied Mr. Denman in
      self-defence with his favourite liquor&mdash;a port so excellent that it
      could never have ripened in the cellar of the Carthew Arms, but must have
      been transported, under cloud of night, from the neighbouring vaults of
      the great house. At each threat of exposure, and in particular whenever I
      was directly challenged for an opinion, I made haste to fill the butler's
      glass, and by the time we had got to the exchanges, he was in a condition
      in which no stamp collector need be seriously feared. God forbid I should
      hint that he was drunk; he seemed incapable of the necessary liveliness;
      but the man's eyes were set, and so long as he was suffered to talk
      without interruption, he seemed careless of my heeding him.
    </p>
    <p>
      In Mr. Denman's exchanges, as in those of little Agnes, the same
      peculiarity was to be remarked, an undue preponderance of that despicably
      common stamp, the French twenty-five centimes. And here joining them in
      stealthy review, I found the C and the CH; then something of an A just
      following; and then a terminal Y. Here was also the whole name spelt out
      to me; it seemed familiar, too; and yet for some time I could not bridge
      the imperfection. Then I came upon another stamp, in which an L was
      legible before the Y, and in a moment the word leaped up complete.
      Chailly, that was the name; Chailly-en-Biere, the post town of Barbizon&mdash;ah,
      there was the very place for any man to hide himself&mdash;there was the
      very place for Mr. Norris, who had rambled over England making sketches&mdash;the
      very place for Goddedaal, who had left a palette-knife on board the Flying
      Scud. Singular, indeed, that while I was drifting over England with the
      shyster, the man we were in quest of awaited me at my own ultimate
      destination.
    </p>
    <p>
      Whether Mr. Denman had shown his album to Bellairs, whether, indeed,
      Bellairs could have caught (as I did) this hint from an obliterated
      postmark, I shall never know, and it mattered not. We were equal now; my
      task at Stallbridge-le-Carthew was accomplished; my interest in
      postage-stamps died shamelessly away; the astonished Denman was bowed out;
      and ordering the horse to be put in, I plunged into the study of the
      time-table.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021">
       <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXI. FACE TO FACE.
    </h2>
    <p>
      I fell from the skies on Barbizon about two o'clock of a September
      afternoon. It is the dead hour of the day; all the workers have gone
      painting, all the idlers strolling, in the forest or the plain; the
      winding causewayed street is solitary, and the inn deserted. I was the
      more pleased to find one of my old companions in the dining-room; his town
      clothes marked him for a man in the act of departure; and indeed his
      portmanteau lay beside him on the floor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Stennis,&rdquo; I cried, &ldquo;you're the last man I expected
      to find here.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You won't find me here long,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;King Pandion
      he is dead; all his friends are lapped in lead. For men of our antiquity,
      the poor old shop is played out.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have had playmates, I have had companions,&rdquo; I quoted in
      return. We were both moved, I think, to meet again in this scene of our
      old pleasure parties so unexpectedly, after so long an interval, and both
      already so much altered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is the sentiment,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;All, all are gone,
      the old familiar faces. I have been here a week, and the only living
      creature who seemed to recollect me was the Pharaon. Bar the Sirons, of
      course, and the perennial Bodmer.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is there no survivor?&rdquo; I inquired.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of our geological epoch? not one,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;This is
      the city of Petra in Edom.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what sort of Bedouins encamp among the ruins?&rdquo; I asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Youth, Dodd, youth; blooming, conscious youth,&rdquo; he returned.
      &ldquo;Such a gang, such reptiles! to think we were like that! I wonder
      Siron didn't sweep us from his premises.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps we weren't so bad,&rdquo; I suggested.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't let me depress you,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;We were both
      Anglo-Saxons, anyway, and the only redeeming feature to-day is another.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The thought of my quest, a moment driven out by this rencounter, revived
      in my mind. &ldquo;Who is he?&rdquo; I cried. &ldquo;Tell me about him.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, the Redeeming Feature?&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;Well, he's a
      very pleasing creature, rather dim, and dull, and genteel, but really
      pleasing. He is very British, though, the artless Briton! Perhaps you'll
      find him too much so for the transatlantic nerves. Come to think of it, on
      the other hand, you ought to get on famously. He is an admirer of your
      great republic in one of its (excuse me) shoddiest features; he takes in
      and sedulously reads a lot of American papers. I warned you he was
      artless.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What papers are they?&rdquo; cried I.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;San Francisco papers,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;He gets a bale of them
      about twice a week, and studies them like the Bible. That's one of his
      weaknesses; another is to be incalculably rich. He has taken Masson's old
      studio&mdash;you remember?&mdash;at the corner of the road; he has
      furnished it regardless of expense, and lives there surrounded with vins
      fins and works of art. When the youth of to-day goes up to the Caverne des
      Brigands to make punch&mdash;they do all that we did, like some nauseous
      form of ape (I never appreciated before what a creature of tradition
      mankind is)&mdash;this Madden follows with a basket of champagne. I told
      him he was wrong, and the punch tasted better; but he thought the boys
      liked the style of the thing, and I suppose they do. He is a very
      good-natured soul, and a very melancholy, and rather a helpless. O, and he
      has a third weakness which I came near forgetting. He paints. He has never
      been taught, and he's past thirty, and he paints.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How?&rdquo; I asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Rather well, I think,&rdquo; was the reply. &ldquo;That's the
      annoying part of it. See for yourself. That panel is his.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      I stepped toward the window. It was the old familiar room, with the tables
      set like a Greek P, and the sideboard, and the aphasiac piano, and the
      panels on the wall. There were Romeo and Juliet, Antwerp from the river,
      Enfield's ships among the ice, and the huge huntsman winding a huge horn;
      mingled with them a few new ones, the thin crop of a succeeding
      generation, not better and not worse. It was to one of these I was
      directed; a thing coarsely and wittily handled, mostly with the
      palette-knife, the colour in some parts excellent, the canvas in others
      loaded with mere clay. But it was the scene, and not the art or want of
      it, that riveted my notice. The foreground was of sand and scrub and
      wreckwood; in the middle distance the many-hued and smooth expanse of a
      lagoon, enclosed by a wall of breakers; beyond, a blue strip of ocean. The
      sky was cloudless, and I could hear the surf break. For the place was
      Midway Island; the point of view the very spot at which I had landed with
      the captain for the first time, and from which I had re-embarked the day
      before we sailed. I had already been gazing for some seconds, before my
      attention was arrested by a blur on the sea-line; and stooping to look, I
      recognised the smoke of a steamer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said I, turning toward Stennis, &ldquo;it has merit.
      What is it?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A fancy piece,&rdquo; he returned. &ldquo;That's what pleased me.
      So few of the fellows in our time had the imagination of a garden snail.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madden, you say his name is?&rdquo; I pursued.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madden,&rdquo; he repeated.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Has he travelled much?&rdquo; I inquired.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I haven't an idea. He is one of the least autobiographical of men.
      He sits, and smokes, and giggles, and sometimes he makes small jests; but
      his contributions to the art of pleasing are generally confined to looking
      like a gentleman and being one. No,&rdquo; added Stennis, &ldquo;he'll
      never suit you, Dodd; you like more head on your liquor. You'll find him
      as dull as ditch water.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Has he big blonde side-whiskers like tusks?&rdquo; I asked, mindful
      of the photograph of Goddedaal.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly not: why should he?&rdquo; was the reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Does he write many letters?&rdquo; I continued.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God knows,&rdquo; said Stennis. &ldquo;What is wrong with you? I
      never saw you taken this way before.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The fact is, I think I know the man,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;I think
      I'm looking for him. I rather think he is my long-lost brother.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not twins, anyway,&rdquo; returned Stennis.
    </p>
    <p>
      And about the same time, a carriage driving up to the inn, he took his
      departure.
    </p>
    <p>
      I walked till dinner-time in the plain, keeping to the fields; for I
      instinctively shunned observation, and was racked by many incongruous and
      impatient feelings. Here was a man whose voice I had once heard, whose
      doings had filled so many days of my life with interest and distress, whom
      I had lain awake to dream of like a lover; and now his hand was on the
      door; now we were to meet; now I was to learn at last the mystery of the
      substituted crew. The sun went down over the plain of the Angelus, and as
      the hour approached, my courage lessened. I let the laggard peasants pass
      me on the homeward way. The lamps were lit, the soup was served, the
      company were all at table, and the room sounded already with multitudinous
      talk before I entered. I took my place and found I was opposite to Madden.
      Over six feet high and well set up, the hair dark and streaked with
      silver, the eyes dark and kindly, the mouth very good-natured, the teeth
      admirable; linen and hands exquisite; English clothes, an English voice,
      an English bearing: the man stood out conspicuous from the company. Yet he
      had made himself at home, and seemed to enjoy a certain quiet popularity
      among the noisy boys of the table d'hote. He had an odd, silver giggle of
      a laugh, that sounded nervous even when he was really amused, and accorded
      ill with his big stature and manly, melancholy face. This laugh fell in
      continually all through dinner like the note of the triangle in a piece of
      modern French music; and he had at times a kind of pleasantry, rather of
      manner than of words, with which he started or maintained the merriment.
      He took his share in these diversions, not so much like a man in high
      spirits, but like one of an approved good nature, habitually
      self-forgetful, accustomed to please and to follow others. I have remarked
      in old soldiers much the same smiling sadness and sociable
      self-effacement.
    </p>
    <p>
      I feared to look at him, lest my glances should betray my deep excitement,
      and chance served me so well that the soup was scarce removed before we
      were naturally introduced. My first sip of Chateau Siron, a vintage from
      which I had been long estranged, startled me into speech.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, this'll never do!&rdquo; I cried, in English.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dreadful stuff, isn't it?&rdquo; said Madden, in the same language.
      &ldquo;Do let me ask you to share my bottle. They call it Chambertin,
      which it isn't; but it's fairly palatable, and there's nothing in this
      house that a man can drink at all.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      I accepted; anything would do that paved the way to better knowledge.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your name is Madden, I think,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;My old friend
      Stennis told me about you when I came.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I am sorry he went; I feel such a Grandfather William, alone
      among all these lads,&rdquo; he replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My name is Dodd,&rdquo; I resumed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;so Madame Siron told me.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dodd, of San Francisco,&rdquo; I continued. &ldquo;Late of
      Pinkerton and Dodd.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Montana Block, I think?&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The same,&rdquo; said I.
    </p>
    <p>
      Neither of us looked at each other; but I could see his hand deliberately
      making bread pills.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's a nice thing of yours,&rdquo; I pursued, &ldquo;that panel.
      The foreground is a little clayey, perhaps, but the lagoon is excellent.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You ought to know,&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; returned I, &ldquo;I'm rather a good judge of&mdash;that
      panel.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a considerable pause.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know a man by the name of Bellairs, don't you?&rdquo; he
      resumed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; cried I, &ldquo;you have heard from Doctor Urquart?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This very morning,&rdquo; he replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, there is no hurry about Bellairs,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;It's
      rather a long story and rather a silly one. But I think we have a good
      deal to tell each other, and perhaps we had better wait till we are more
      alone.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think so,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;Not that any of these fellows
      know English, but we'll be more comfortable over at my place. Your health,
      Dodd.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And we took wine together across the table.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus had this singular introduction passed unperceived in the midst of
      more than thirty persons, art students, ladies in dressing-gowns and
      covered with rice powder, six foot of Siron whisking dishes over our head,
      and his noisy sons clattering in and out with fresh relays.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One question more,&rdquo; said I: &ldquo;Did you recognise my
      voice?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your voice?&rdquo; he repeated. &ldquo;How should I? I had never
      heard it&mdash;we have never met.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And yet, we have been in conversation before now,&rdquo; said I,
      &ldquo;and I asked you a question which you never answered, and which I
      have since had many thousand better reasons for putting to myself.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      He turned suddenly white. &ldquo;Good God!&rdquo; he cried, &ldquo;are you
      the man in the telephone?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      I nodded.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, well!&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;It would take a good deal of
      magnanimity to forgive you that. What nights I have passed! That little
      whisper has whistled in my ear ever since, like the wind in a keyhole. Who
      could it be? What could it mean? I suppose I have had more real, solid
      misery out of that ...&rdquo; He paused, and looked troubled. &ldquo;Though
      I had more to bother me, or ought to have,&rdquo; he added, and slowly
      emptied his glass.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It seems we were born to drive each other crazy with conundrums,&rdquo;
      said I. &ldquo;I have often thought my head would split.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Carthew burst into his foolish laugh. &ldquo;And yet neither you nor I had
      the worst of the puzzle,&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;There were others deeper
      in.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And who were they?&rdquo; I asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The underwriters,&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, to be sure!&rdquo; cried I, &ldquo;I never thought of that.
      What could they make of it?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing,&rdquo; replied Carthew. &ldquo;It couldn't be explained.
      They were a crowd of small dealers at Lloyd's who took it up in syndicate;
      one of them has a carriage now; and people say he is a deuce of a deep
      fellow, and has the makings of a great financier. Another furnished a
      small villa on the profits. But they're all hopelessly muddled; and when
      they meet each other, they don't know where to look, like the Augurs.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Dinner was no sooner at an end than he carried me across the road to
      Masson's old studio. It was strangely changed. On the walls were tapestry,
      a few good etchings, and some amazing pictures&mdash;a Rousseau, a Corot,
      a really superb old Crome, a Whistler, and a piece which my host claimed
      (and I believe) to be a Titian. The room was furnished with comfortable
      English smoking-room chairs, some American rockers, and an elaborate
      business table; spirits and soda-water (with the mark of Schweppe, no
      less) stood ready on a butler's tray, and in one corner, behind a
      half-drawn curtain, I spied a camp-bed and a capacious tub. Such a room in
      Barbizon astonished the beholder, like the glories of the cave of Monte
      Cristo.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;we are quiet. Sit down, if you don't
      mind, and tell me your story all through.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      I did as he asked, beginning with the day when Jim showed me the passage
      in the <i>Daily Occidental</i>, and winding up with the stamp album and
      the Chailly postmark. It was a long business; and Carthew made it longer,
      for he was insatiable of details; and it had struck midnight on the old
      eight-day clock in the corner, before I had made an end.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And now,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;turn about: I must tell you my
      side, much as I hate it. Mine is a beastly story. You'll wonder how I can
      sleep. I've told it once before, Mr. Dodd.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To Lady Ann?&rdquo; I asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As you suppose,&rdquo; he answered; &ldquo;and to say the truth, I
      had sworn never to tell it again. Only, you seem somehow entitled to the
      thing; you have paid dear enough, God knows; and God knows I hope you may
      like it, now you've got it!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      With that he began his yarn. A new day had dawned, the cocks crew in the
      village and the early woodmen were afoot, when he concluded.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022">
       <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXII. THE REMITTANCE MAN.
    </h2>
    <p>
      Singleton Carthew, the father of Norris, was heavily built and feebly
      vitalised, sensitive as a musician, dull as a sheep, and conscientious as
      a dog. He took his position with seriousness, even with pomp; the long
      rooms, the silent servants, seemed in his eyes like the observances of
      some religion of which he was the mortal god. He had the stupid man's
      intolerance of stupidity in others; the vain man's exquisite alarm lest it
      should be detected in himself. And on both sides Norris irritated and
      offended him. He thought his son a fool, and he suspected that his son
      returned the compliment with interest. The history of their relation was
      simple; they met seldom, they quarrelled often. To his mother, a fiery,
      pungent, practical woman, already disappointed in her husband and her
      elder son, Norris was only a fresh disappointment.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yet the lad's faults were no great matter; he was diffident, placable,
      passive, unambitious, unenterprising; life did not much attract him; he
      watched it like a curious and dull exhibition, not much amused, and not
      tempted in the least to take a part. He beheld his father ponderously
      grinding sand, his mother fierily breaking butterflies, his brother
      labouring at the pleasures of the Hawbuck with the ardour of a soldier in
      a doubtful battle; and the vital sceptic looked on wondering. They were
      careful and troubled about many things; for him there seemed not even one
      thing needful. He was born disenchanted, the world's promises awoke no
      echo in his bosom, the world's activities and the world's distinctions
      seemed to him equally without a base in fact. He liked the open air; he
      liked comradeship, it mattered not with whom, his comrades were only a
      remedy for solitude. And he had a taste for painted art. An array of fine
      pictures looked upon his childhood, and from these roods of jewelled
      canvas he received an indelible impression. The gallery at Stallbridge
      betokened generations of picture lovers; Norris was perhaps the first of
      his race to hold the pencil. The taste was genuine, it grew and
      strengthened with his growth; and yet he suffered it to be suppressed with
      scarce a struggle. Time came for him to go to Oxford, and he resisted
      faintly. He was stupid, he said; it was no good to put him through the
      mill; he wished to be a painter. The words fell on his father like a
      thunderbolt, and Norris made haste to give way. &ldquo;It didn't really
      matter, don't you know?&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;And it seemed an awful
      shame to vex the old boy.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      To Oxford he went obediently, hopelessly; and at Oxford became the hero of
      a certain circle. He was active and adroit; when he was in the humour, he
      excelled in many sports; and his singular melancholy detachment gave him a
      place apart. He set a fashion in his clique. Envious undergraduates sought
      to parody his unaffected lack of zeal and fear; it was a kind of new
      Byronism more composed and dignified. &ldquo;Nothing really mattered&rdquo;;
      among other things, this formula embraced the dons; and though he always
      meant to be civil, the effect on the college authorities was one of
      startling rudeness. His indifference cut like insolence; and in some
      outbreak of his constitutional levity (the complement of his melancholy)
      he was &ldquo;sent down&rdquo; in the middle of the second year.
    </p>
    <p>
      The event was new in the annals of the Carthews, and Singleton was
      prepared to make the most of it. It had been long his practice to prophesy
      for his second son a career of ruin and disgrace. There is an advantage in
      this artless parental habit. Doubtless the father is interested in his
      son; but doubtless also the prophet grows to be interested in his
      prophecies. If the one goes wrong, the others come true. Old Carthew drew
      from this source esoteric consolations; he dwelt at length on his own
      foresight; he produced variations hitherto unheard from the old theme
      &ldquo;I told you so,&rdquo; coupled his son's name with the gallows and
      the hulks, and spoke of his small handful of college debts as though he
      must raise money on a mortgage to discharge them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't think that is fair, sir,&rdquo; said Norris. &ldquo;I lived
      at college exactly as you told me. I am sorry I was sent down, and you
      have a perfect right to blame me for that; but you have no right to pitch
      into me about these debts.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The effect upon a stupid man not unjustly incensed need scarcely be
      described. For a while Singleton raved.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll tell you what, father,&rdquo; said Norris at last, &ldquo;I
      don't think this is going to do. I think you had better let me take to
      painting. It's the only thing I take a spark of interest in. I shall never
      be steady as long as I'm at anything else.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When you stand here, sir, to the neck in disgrace,&rdquo; said the
      father, &ldquo;I should have hoped you would have had more good taste than
      to repeat this levity.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The hint was taken; the levity was never more obtruded on the father's
      notice, and Norris was inexorably launched upon a backward voyage. He went
      abroad to study foreign languages, which he learned, at a very expensive
      rate; and a fresh crop of debts fell soon to be paid, with similar
      lamentations, which were in this case perfectly justified, and to which
      Norris paid no regard. He had been unfairly treated over the Oxford
      affair; and with a spice of malice very surprising in one so placable, and
      an obstinacy remarkable in one so weak, refused from that day forward to
      exercise the least captaincy on his expenses. He wasted what he would; he
      allowed his servants to despoil him at their pleasure; he sowed
      insolvency; and when the crop was ripe, notified his father with
      exasperating calm. His own capital was put in his hands, he was planted in
      the diplomatic service and told he must depend upon himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      He did so till he was twenty-five; by which time he had spent his money,
      laid in a handsome choice of debts, and acquired (like so many other
      melancholic and uninterested persons) a habit of gambling. An Austrian
      colonel&mdash;the same who afterwards hanged himself at Monte Carlo&mdash;gave
      him a lesson which lasted two-and-twenty hours, and left him wrecked and
      helpless. Old Singleton once more repurchased the honour of his name, this
      time at a fancy figure; and Norris was set afloat again on stern
      conditions. An allowance of three hundred pounds in the year was to be
      paid to him quarterly by a lawyer in Sydney, New South Wales. He was not
      to write. Should he fail on any quarter-day to be in Sydney, he was to be
      held for dead, and the allowance tacitly withdrawn. Should he return to
      Europe, an advertisement publicly disowning him was to appear in every
      paper of repute.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was one of his most annoying features as a son, that he was always
      polite, always just, and in whatever whirlwind of domestic anger, always
      calm. He expected trouble; when trouble came, he was unmoved: he might
      have said with Singleton, &ldquo;I told you so&rdquo;; he was content with
      thinking, &ldquo;just as I expected.&rdquo; On the fall of these last
      thunderbolts, he bore himself like a person only distantly interested in
      the event; pocketed the money and the reproaches, obeyed orders
      punctually; took ship and came to Sydney. Some men are still lads at
      twenty-five; and so it was with Norris. Eighteen days after he landed, his
      quarter's allowance was all gone, and with the light-hearted hopefulness
      of strangers in what is called a new country, he began to besiege offices
      and apply for all manner of incongruous situations. Everywhere, and last
      of all from his lodgings, he was bowed out; and found himself reduced, in
      a very elegant suit of summer tweeds, to herd and camp with the degraded
      outcasts of the city.
    </p>
    <p>
      In this strait, he had recourse to the lawyer who paid him his allowance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Try to remember that my time is valuable, Mr. Carthew,&rdquo; said
      the lawyer. &ldquo;It is quite unnecessary you should enlarge on the
      peculiar position in which you stand. Remittance men, as we call them
      here, are not so rare in my experience; and in such cases I act upon a
      system. I make you a present of a sovereign; here it is. Every day you
      choose to call, my clerk will advance you a shilling; on Saturday, since
      my office is closed on Sunday, he will advance you half a crown. My
      conditions are these: that you do not come to me, but to my clerk; that
      you do not come here the worse of liquor; and you go away the moment you
      are paid and have signed a receipt. I wish you a good-morning.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have to thank you, I suppose,&rdquo; said Carthew. &ldquo;My
      position is so wretched that I cannot even refuse this starvation
      allowance.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Starvation!&rdquo; said the lawyer, smiling. &ldquo;No man will
      starve here on a shilling a day. I had on my hands another young
      gentleman, who remained continuously intoxicated for six years on the same
      allowance.&rdquo; And he once more busied himself with his papers.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the time that followed, the image of the smiling lawyer haunted
      Carthew's memory. &ldquo;That three minutes' talk was all the education I
      ever had worth talking of,&rdquo; says he. &ldquo;It was all life in a
      nut-shell. Confound it! I thought, have I got to the point of envying that
      ancient fossil?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Every morning for the next two or three weeks, the stroke of ten found
      Norris, unkempt and haggard, at the lawyer's door. The long day and longer
      night he spent in the Domain, now on a bench, now on the grass under a
      Norfolk Island pine, the companion of perhaps the lowest class on earth,
      the Larrikins of Sydney. Morning after morning, the dawn behind the
      lighthouse recalled him from slumber; and he would stand and gaze upon the
      changing east, the fading lenses, the smokeless city, and the many-armed
      and many-masted harbour growing slowly clear under his eyes. His
      bed-fellows (so to call them) were less active; they lay sprawled upon the
      grass and benches, the dingy men, the frowsy women, prolonging their late
      repose; and Carthew wandered among the sleeping bodies alone, and cursed
      the incurable stupidity of his behaviour. Day brought a new society of
      nursery-maids and children, and fresh-dressed and (I am sorry to say)
      tight-laced maidens, and gay people in rich traps; upon the skirts of
      which Carthew and &ldquo;the other blackguards&rdquo;&mdash;his own bitter
      phrase&mdash;skulked, and chewed grass, and looked on. Day passed, the
      light died, the green and leafy precinct sparkled with lamps or lay in
      shadow, and the round of the night began again, the loitering women, the
      lurking men, the sudden outburst of screams, the sound of flying feet.
      &ldquo;You mayn't believe it,&rdquo; says Carthew, &ldquo;but I got to
      that pitch that I didn't care a hang. I have been wakened out of my sleep
      to hear a woman screaming, and I have only turned upon my other side. Yes,
      it's a queer place, where the dowagers and the kids walk all day, and at
      night you can hear people bawling for help as if it was the Forest of
      Bondy, with the lights of a great town all round, and parties spinning
      through in cabs from Government House and dinner with my lord!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      It was Norris's diversion, having none other, to scrape acquaintance,
      where, how, and with whom he could. Many a long dull talk he held upon the
      benches or the grass; many a strange waif he came to know; many strange
      things he heard, and saw some that were abominable. It was to one of these
      last that he owed his deliverance from the Domain. For some time the rain
      had been merciless; one night after another he had been obliged to
      squander fourpence on a bed and reduce his board to the remaining
      eightpence: and he sat one morning near the Macquarrie Street entrance,
      hungry, for he had gone without breakfast, and wet, as he had already been
      for several days, when the cries of an animal in distress attracted his
      attention. Some fifty yards away, in the extreme angle of the grass, a
      party of the chronically unemployed had got hold of a dog, whom they were
      torturing in a manner not to be described. The heart of Norris, which had
      grown indifferent to the cries of human anger or distress, woke at the
      appeal of the dumb creature. He ran amongst the Larrikins, scattered them,
      rescued the dog, and stood at bay. They were six in number, shambling
      gallowsbirds; but for once the proverb was right, cruelty was coupled with
      cowardice, and the wretches cursed him and made off. It chanced that this
      act of prowess had not passed unwitnessed. On a bench near by there was
      seated a shopkeeper's assistant out of employ, a diminutive, cheerful,
      red-headed creature by the name of Hemstead. He was the last man to have
      interfered himself, for his discretion more than equalled his valour; but
      he made haste to congratulate Carthew, and to warn him he might not always
      be so fortunate.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They're a dyngerous lot of people about this park. My word! it
      doesn't do to ply with them!&rdquo; he observed, in that RYCY AUSTRYLIAN
      English, which (as it has received the imprimatur of Mr. Froude) we should
      all make haste to imitate.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, I'm one of that lot myself,&rdquo; returned Carthew.
    </p>
    <p>
      Hemstead laughed and remarked that he knew a gentleman when he saw one.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For all that, I am simply one of the unemployed,&rdquo; said
      Carthew, seating himself beside his new acquaintance, as he had sat (since
      this experience began) beside so many dozen others.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm out of a plyce myself,&rdquo; said Hemstead.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You beat me all the way and back,&rdquo; says Carthew. &ldquo;My
      trouble is that I have never been in one.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I suppose you've no tryde?&rdquo; asked Hemstead.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know how to spend money,&rdquo; replied Carthew, &ldquo;and I
      really do know something of horses and something of the sea. But the
      unions head me off; if it weren't for them, I might have had a dozen
      berths.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My word!&rdquo; cried the sympathetic listener. &ldquo;Ever try the
      mounted police?&rdquo; he inquired.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did, and was bowled out,&rdquo; was the reply; &ldquo;couldn't
      pass the doctors.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, what do you think of the ryleways, then?&rdquo; asked
      Hemstead.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do YOU think of them, if you come to that?&rdquo; asked
      Carthew.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, <i>I</i> don't think of them; I don't go in for manual labour,&rdquo;
      said the little man proudly. &ldquo;But if a man don't mind that, he's
      pretty sure of a job there.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By George, you tell me where to go!&rdquo; cried Carthew, rising.
    </p>
    <p>
      The heavy rains continued, the country was already overrun with floods;
      the railway system daily required more hands, daily the superintendent
      advertised; but &ldquo;the unemployed&rdquo; preferred the resources of
      charity and rapine, and a navvy, even an amateur navvy, commanded money in
      the market. The same night, after a tedious journey, and a change of
      trains to pass a landslip, Norris found himself in a muddy cutting behind
      South Clifton, attacking his first shift of manual labour.
    </p>
    <p>
      For weeks the rain scarce relented. The whole front of the mountain
      slipped seaward from above, avalanches of clay, rock, and uprooted forest
      spewed over the cliffs and fell upon the beach or in the breakers. Houses
      were carried bodily away and smashed like nuts; others were menaced and
      deserted, the door locked, the chimney cold, the dwellers fled elsewhere
      for safety. Night and day the fire blazed in the encampment; night and day
      hot coffee was served to the overdriven toilers in the shift; night and
      day the engineer of the section made his rounds with words of
      encouragement, hearty and rough and well suited to his men. Night and day,
      too, the telegraph clicked with disastrous news and anxious inquiry. Along
      the terraced line of rail, rare trains came creeping and signalling; and
      paused at the threatened corner, like living things conscious of peril.
      The commandant of the post would hastily review his labours, make (with a
      dry throat) the signal to advance; and the whole squad line the way and
      look on in a choking silence, or burst into a brief cheer as the train
      cleared the point of danger and shot on, perhaps through the thin sunshine
      between squalls, perhaps with blinking lamps into the gathering, rainy
      twilight.
    </p>
    <p>
      One such scene Carthew will remember till he dies. It blew great guns from
      the seaward; a huge surf bombarded, five hundred feet below him, the steep
      mountain's foot; close in was a vessel in distress, firing shots from a
      fowling-piece, if any help might come. So he saw and heard her the moment
      before the train appeared and paused, throwing up a Babylonian tower of
      smoke into the rain, and oppressing men's hearts with the scream of her
      whistle. The engineer was there himself; he paled as he made the signal:
      the engine came at a foot's pace; but the whole bulk of mountain shook and
      seemed to nod seaward, and the watching navvies instinctively clutched at
      shrubs and trees: vain precautions, vain as the shots from the poor
      sailors. Once again fear was disappointed; the train passed unscathed; and
      Norris, drawing a long breath, remembered the labouring ship and glanced
      below. She was gone.
    </p>
    <p>
      So the days and the nights passed: Homeric labour in Homeric circumstance.
      Carthew was sick with sleeplessness and coffee; his hands, softened by the
      wet, were cut to ribbons; yet he enjoyed a peace of mind and health of
      body hitherto unknown. Plenty of open air, plenty of physical exertion, a
      continual instancy of toil; here was what had been hitherto lacking in
      that misdirected life, and the true cure of vital scepticism. To get the
      train through: there was the recurrent problem; no time remained to ask if
      it were necessary. Carthew, the idler, the spendthrift, the drifting
      dilettant, was soon remarked, praised, and advanced. The engineer swore by
      him and pointed him out for an example. &ldquo;I've a new chum, up here,&rdquo;
      Norris overheard him saying, &ldquo;a young swell. He's worth any two in
      the squad.&rdquo; The words fell on the ears of the discarded son like
      music; and from that moment, he not only found an interest, he took a
      pride, in his plebeian tasks.
    </p>
    <p>
      The press of work was still at its highest when quarter-day approached.
      Norris was now raised to a position of some trust; at his discretion,
      trains were stopped or forwarded at the dangerous cornice near North
      Clifton; and he found in this responsibility both terror and delight. The
      thought of the seventy-five pounds that would soon await him at the
      lawyer's, and of his own obligation to be present every quarter-day in
      Sydney, filled him for a little with divided councils. Then he made up his
      mind, walked in a slack moment to the inn at Clifton, ordered a sheet of
      paper and a bottle of beer, and wrote, explaining that he held a good
      appointment which he would lose if he came to Sydney, and asking the
      lawyer to accept this letter as an evidence of his presence in the colony,
      and retain the money till next quarter-day. The answer came in course of
      post, and was not merely favourable but cordial. &ldquo;Although what you
      propose is contrary to the terms of my instructions,&rdquo; it ran,
      &ldquo;I willingly accept the responsibility of granting your request. I
      should say I am agreeably disappointed in your behaviour. My experience
      has not led me to found much expectations on gentlemen in your position.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The rains abated, and the temporary labour was discharged; not Norris, to
      whom the engineer clung as to found money; not Norris, who found himself a
      ganger on the line in the regular staff of navvies. His camp was pitched
      in a grey wilderness of rock and forest, far from any house; as he sat
      with his mates about the evening fire, the trains passing on the track
      were their next and indeed their only neighbours, except the wild things
      of the wood. Lovely weather, light and monotonous employment, long hours
      of somnolent camp-fire talk, long sleepless nights, when he reviewed his
      foolish and fruitless career as he rose and walked in the moonlit forest,
      an occasional paper of which he would read all, the advertisements with as
      much relish as the text: such was the tenor of an existence which soon
      began to weary and harass him. He lacked and regretted the fatigue, the
      furious hurry, the suspense, the fires, the midnight coffee, the rude and
      mud-bespattered poetry of the first toilful weeks. In the quietness of his
      new surroundings, a voice summoned him from this exorbital part of life,
      and about the middle of October he threw up his situation and bade
      farewell to the camp of tents and the shoulder of Bald Mountain.
    </p>
    <p>
      Clad in his rough clothes, with a bundle on his shoulder and his
      accumulated wages in his pocket, he entered Sydney for the second time,
      and walked with pleasure and some bewilderment in the cheerful streets,
      like a man landed from a voyage. The sight of the people led him on. He
      forgot his necessary errands, he forgot to eat. He wandered in moving
      multitudes like a stick upon a river. Last he came to the Domain and
      strolled there, and remembered his shame and sufferings, and looked with
      poignant curiosity at his successors. Hemstead, not much shabbier and no
      less cheerful than before, he recognised and addressed like an old family
      friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That was a good turn you did me,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;That
      railway was the making of me. I hope you've had luck yourself.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My word, no!&rdquo; replied the little man. &ldquo;I just sit here
      and read the <i>Dead Bird</i>. It's the depression in tryde, you see.
      There's no positions goin' that a man like me would care to look at.&rdquo;
      And he showed Norris his certificates and written characters, one from a
      grocer in Wooloomooloo, one from an ironmonger, and a third from a
      billiard saloon. &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;I tried bein' a
      billiard marker. It's no account; these lyte hours are no use for a man's
      health. I won't be no man's slyve,&rdquo; he added firmly.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the principle that he who is too proud to be a slave is usually not too
      modest to become a pensioner, Carthew gave him half a sovereign, and
      departed, being suddenly struck with hunger, in the direction of the Paris
      House. When he came to that quarter of the city, the barristers were
      trotting in the streets in wig and gown, and he stood to observe them with
      his bundle on his shoulder, and his mind full of curious recollections of
      the past.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By George!&rdquo; cried a voice, &ldquo;it's Mr. Carthew!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And turning about he found himself face to face with a handsome sunburnt
      youth, somewhat fatted, arrayed in the finest of fine raiment, and
      sporting about a sovereign's worth of flowers in his buttonhole. Norris
      had met him during his first days in Sydney at a farewell supper; had even
      escorted him on board a schooner full of cockroaches and black-boy
      sailors, in which he was bound for six months among the islands; and had
      kept him ever since in entertained remembrance. Tom Hadden (known to the
      bulk of Sydney folk as Tommy) was heir to a considerable property, which a
      prophetic father had placed in the hands of rigorous trustees. The income
      supported Mr. Hadden in splendour for about three months out of twelve;
      the rest of the year he passed in retreat among the islands. He was now
      about a week returned from his eclipse, pervading Sydney in hansom cabs
      and airing the first bloom of six new suits of clothes; and yet the
      unaffected creature hailed Carthew in his working jeans and with the
      damning bundle on his shoulder, as he might have claimed acquaintance with
      a duke.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come and have a drink!&rdquo; was his cheerful cry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm just going to have lunch at the Paris House,&rdquo; returned
      Carthew. &ldquo;It's a long time since I have had a decent meal.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Splendid scheme!&rdquo; said Hadden. &ldquo;I've only had breakfast
      half an hour ago; but we'll have a private room, and I'll manage to pick
      something. It'll brace me up. I was on an awful tear last night, and I've
      met no end of fellows this morning.&rdquo; To meet a fellow, and to stand
      and share a drink, were with Tom synonymous terms.
    </p>
    <p>
      They were soon at table in the corner room up-stairs, and paying due
      attention to the best fare in Sydney. The odd similarity of their
      positions drew them together, and they began soon to exchange confidences.
      Carthew related his privations in the Domain and his toils as a navvy;
      Hadden gave his experience as an amateur copra merchant in the South Seas,
      and drew a humorous picture of life in a coral island. Of the two plans of
      retirement, Carthew gathered that his own had been vastly the more
      lucrative; but Hadden's trading outfit had consisted largely of bottled
      stout and brown sherry for his own consumption.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I had champagne too,&rdquo; said Hadden, &ldquo;but I kept that in
      case of sickness, until I didn't seem to be going to be sick, and then I
      opened a pint every Sunday. Used to sleep all morning, then breakfast with
      my pint of fizz, and lie in a hammock and read Hallam's <i>Middle Ages</i>.
      Have you read that? I always take something solid to the islands. There's
      no doubt I did the thing in rather a fine style; but if it was gone about
      a little cheaper, or there were two of us to bear the expense, it ought to
      pay hand over fist. I've got the influence, you see. I'm a chief now, and
      sit in the speak-house under my own strip of roof. I'd like to see them
      taboo ME! They daren't try it; I've a strong party, I can tell you. Why,
      I've had upwards of thirty cowtops sitting in my front verandah eating
      tins of salmon.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Cowtops?&rdquo; asked Carthew, &ldquo;what are they?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's what Hallam would call feudal retainers,&rdquo; explained
      Hadden, not without vainglory. &ldquo;They're My Followers. They belong to
      My Family. I tell you, they come expensive, though; you can't fill up all
      these retainers on tinned salmon for nothing; but whenever I could get it,
      I would give 'em squid. Squid's good for natives, but I don't care for it,
      do you?&mdash;or shark either. It's like the working classes at home. With
      copra at the price it is, they ought to be willing to bear their share of
      the loss; and so I've told them again and again. I think it's a man's duty
      to open their minds, and I try to, but you can't get political economy
      into them; it doesn't seem to reach their intelligence.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      There was an expression still sticking in Carthew's memory, and he
      returned upon it with a smile. &ldquo;Talking of political economy,&rdquo;
      said he, &ldquo;you said if there were two of us to bear the expense, the
      profits would increase. How do you make out that?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll show you! I'll figure it out for you!&rdquo; cried Hadden, and
      with a pencil on the back of the bill of fare proceeded to perform
      miracles. He was a man, or let us rather say a lad, of unusual projective
      power. Give him the faintest hint of any speculation, and the figures
      flowed from him by the page. A lively imagination and a ready though
      inaccurate memory supplied his data; he delivered himself with an
      inimitable heat that made him seem the picture of pugnacity; lavished
      contradiction; had a form of words, with or without significance, for
      every form of criticism; and the looker-on alternately smiled at his
      simplicity and fervour, or was amazed by his unexpected shrewdness. He was
      a kind of Pinkerton in play. I have called Jim's the romance of business;
      this was its Arabian tale.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you any idea what this would cost?&rdquo; he asked, pausing at
      an item.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not I,&rdquo; said Carthew.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ten pounds ought to be ample,&rdquo; concluded the projector.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, nonsense!&rdquo; cried Carthew. &ldquo;Fifty at the very least.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You told me yourself this moment you knew nothing about it!&rdquo;
      cried Tommy. &ldquo;How can I make a calculation, if you blow hot and
      cold? You don't seem able to be serious!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      But he consented to raise his estimate to twenty; and a little after, the
      calculation coming out with a deficit, cut it down again to five pounds
      ten, with the remark, &ldquo;I told you it was nonsense. This sort of
      thing has to be done strictly, or where's the use?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Some of these processes struck Carthew as unsound; and he was at times
      altogether thrown out by the capricious startings of the prophet's mind.
      These plunges seemed to be gone into for exercise and by the way, like the
      curvets of a willing horse. Gradually the thing took shape; the glittering
      if baseless edifice arose; and the hare still ran on the mountains, but
      the soup was already served in silver plate. Carthew in a few days could
      command a hundred and fifty pounds; Hadden was ready with five hundred;
      why should they not recruit a fellow or two more, charter an old ship, and
      go cruising on their own account? Carthew was an experienced yachtsman;
      Hadden professed himself able to &ldquo;work an approximate sight.&rdquo;
      Money was undoubtedly to be made, or why should so many vessels cruise
      about the islands? they, who worked their own ship, were sure of a still
      higher profit.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And whatever else comes of it, you see,&rdquo; cried Hadden,
      &ldquo;we get our keep for nothing. Come, buy some togs, that's the first
      thing you have to do of course; and then we'll take a hansom and go to the
      Currency Lass.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm going to stick to the togs I have,&rdquo; said Norris.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you?&rdquo; cried Hadden. &ldquo;Well, I must say I admire you.
      You're a regular sage. It's what you call Pythagoreanism, isn't it? if I
      haven't forgotten my philosophy.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I call it economy,&rdquo; returned Carthew. &ldquo;If we are
      going to try this thing on, I shall want every sixpence.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You'll see if we're going to try it!&rdquo; cried Tommy, rising
      radiant from table. &ldquo;Only, mark you, Carthew, it must be all in your
      name. I have capital, you see; but you're all right. You can play vacuus
      viator, if the thing goes wrong.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thought we had just proved it was quite safe,&rdquo; said
      Carthew.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There's nothing safe in business, my boy,&rdquo; replied the sage;
      &ldquo;not even bookmaking.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The public house and tea garden called the Currency Lass represented a
      moderate fortune gained by its proprietor, Captain Bostock, during a long,
      active, and occasionally historic career among the islands. Anywhere from
      Tonga to the Admiralty Isles, he knew the ropes and could lie in the
      native dialect. He had seen the end of sandal wood, the end of oil, and
      the beginning of copra; and he was himself a commercial pioneer, the first
      that ever carried human teeth into the Gilberts. He was tried for his life
      in Fiji in Sir Arthur Gordon's time; and if ever he prayed at all, the
      name of Sir Arthur was certainly not forgotten. He was speared in seven
      places in New Ireland&mdash;the same time his mate was killed&mdash;the
      famous &ldquo;outrage on the brig Jolly Roger&rdquo;; but the treacherous
      savages made little by their wickedness, and Bostock, in spite of their
      teeth, got seventy-five head of volunteer labour on board, of whom not
      more than a dozen died of injuries. He had a hand, besides, in the amiable
      pleasantry which cost the life of Patteson; and when the sham bishop
      landed, prayed, and gave his benediction to the natives, Bostock, arrayed
      in a female chemise out of the traderoom, had stood at his right hand and
      boomed amens. This, when he was sure he was among good fellows, was his
      favourite yarn. &ldquo;Two hundred head of labour for a hatful of amens,&rdquo;
      he used to name the tale; and its sequel, the death of the real bishop,
      struck him as a circumstance of extraordinary humour.
    </p>
    <p>
      Many of these details were communicated in the hansom, to the surprise of
      Carthew.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why do we want to visit this old ruffian?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You wait till you hear him,&rdquo; replied Tommy. &ldquo;That man
      knows everything.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      On descending from the hansom at the Currency Lass, Hadden was struck with
      the appearance of the cabman, a gross, salt-looking man, red-faced,
      blue-eyed, short-handed and short-winded, perhaps nearing forty.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Surely I know you?&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;Have you driven me
      before?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Many's the time, Mr. Hadden,&rdquo; returned the driver. &ldquo;The
      last time you was back from the islands, it was me that drove you to the
      races, sir.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All right: jump down and have a drink then,&rdquo; said Tom, and he
      turned and led the way into the garden.
    </p>
    <p>
      Captain Bostock met the party: he was a slow, sour old man, with fishy
      eyes; greeted Tommy offhand, and (as was afterwards remembered) exchanged
      winks with the driver.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A bottle of beer for the cabman there at that table,&rdquo; said
      Tom. &ldquo;Whatever you please from shandygaff to champagne at this one
      here; and you sit down with us. Let me make you acquainted with my friend,
      Mr. Carthew. I've come on business, Billy; I want to consult you as a
      friend; I'm going into the island trade upon my own account.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Doubtless the captain was a mine of counsel, but opportunity was denied
      him. He could not venture on a statement, he was scarce allowed to finish
      a phrase, before Hadden swept him from the field with a volley of protest
      and correction. That projector, his face blazing with inspiration, first
      laid before him at inordinate length a question, and as soon as he
      attempted to reply, leaped at his throat, called his facts in question,
      derided his policy, and at times thundered on him from the heights of
      moral indignation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I beg your pardon,&rdquo; he said once. &ldquo;I am a gentleman,
      Mr. Carthew here is a gentleman, and we don't mean to do that class of
      business. Can't you see who you are talking to? Can't you talk sense?
      Can't you give us 'a dead bird' for a good traderoom?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I don't suppose I can,&rdquo; returned old Bostock; &ldquo;not
      when I can't hear my own voice for two seconds together. It was gin and
      guns I did it with.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take your gin and guns to Putney!&rdquo; cried Hadden. &ldquo;It
      was the thing in your times, that's right enough; but you're old now, and
      the game's up. I'll tell you what's wanted now-a-days, Bill Bostock,&rdquo;
      said he; and did, and took ten minutes to it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carthew could not refrain from smiling. He began to think less seriously
      of the scheme, Hadden appearing too irresponsible a guide; but on the
      other hand, he enjoyed himself amazingly. It was far from being the same
      with Captain Bostock.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know a sight, don't you?&rdquo; remarked that gentleman,
      bitterly, when Tommy paused.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know a sight more than you, if that's what you mean,&rdquo;
      retorted Tom. &ldquo;It stands to reason I do. You're not a man of any
      education; you've been all your life at sea or in the islands; you don't
      suppose you can give points to a man like me?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here's your health, Tommy,&rdquo; returned Bostock. &ldquo;You'll
      make an A-one bake in the New Hebrides.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's what I call talking,&rdquo; cried Tom, not perhaps grasping
      the spirit of this doubtful compliment. &ldquo;Now you give me your
      attention. We have the money and the enterprise, and I have the
      experience: what we want is a cheap, smart boat, a good captain, and an
      introduction to some house that will give us credit for the trade.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I'll tell you,&rdquo; said Captain Bostock. &ldquo;I have
      seen men like you baked and eaten, and complained of afterwards. Some was
      tough, and some hadn't no flaviour,&rdquo; he added grimly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you mean by that?&rdquo; cried Tom.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I mean I don't care,&rdquo; cried Bostock. &ldquo;It ain't any of
      my interests. I haven't underwrote your life. Only I'm blest if I'm not
      sorry for the cannibal as tries to eat your head. And what I recommend is
      a cheap, smart coffin and a good undertaker. See if you can find a house
      to give you credit for a coffin! Look at your friend there; HE'S got some
      sense; he's laughing at you so as he can't stand.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The exact degree of ill-feeling in Mr. Bostock's mind was difficult to
      gauge; perhaps there was not much, perhaps he regarded his remarks as a
      form of courtly badinage. But there is little doubt that Hadden resented
      them. He had even risen from his place, and the conference was on the
      point of breaking up, when a new voice joined suddenly in the
      conversation.
    </p>
    <p>
      The cabman sat with his back turned upon the party, smoking a meerschaum
      pipe. Not a word of Tommy's eloquence had missed him, and he now faced
      suddenly about with these amazing words:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Excuse me, gentlemen; if you'll buy me the ship I want, I'll get
      you the trade on credit.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a pause.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, what do YOU, mean?&rdquo; gasped Tommy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Better tell 'em who I am, Billy,&rdquo; said the cabman.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Think it safe, Joe?&rdquo; inquired Mr. Bostock.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll take my risk of it,&rdquo; returned the cabman.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gentlemen,&rdquo; said Bostock, rising solemnly, &ldquo;let me make
      you acquainted with Captain Wicks of the Grace Darling.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, gentlemen, that is what I am,&rdquo; said the cabman. &ldquo;You
      know I've been in trouble; and I don't deny but what I struck the blow,
      and where was I to get evidence of my provocation? So I turned to and took
      a cab, and I've driven one for three year now and nobody the wiser.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I beg your pardon,&rdquo; said Carthew, joining almost for the
      first time; &ldquo;I'm a new chum. What was the charge?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Murder,&rdquo; said Captain Wicks, &ldquo;and I don't deny but what
      I struck the blow. And there's no sense in my trying to deny I was afraid
      to go to trial, or why would I be here? But it's a fact it was flat
      mutiny. Ask Billy here. He knows how it was.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Carthew breathed long; he had a strange, half-pleasurable sense of wading
      deeper in the tide of life. &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;you were
      going on to say?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was going on to say this,&rdquo; said the captain sturdily.
      &ldquo;I've overheard what Mr. Hadden has been saying, and I think he
      talks good sense. I like some of his ideas first chop. He's sound on
      traderooms; he's all there on the traderoom, and I see that he and I would
      pull together. Then you're both gentlemen, and I like that,&rdquo;
      observed Captain Wicks. &ldquo;And then I'll tell you I'm tired of this
      cabbing cruise, and I want to get to work again. Now, here's my offer.
      I've a little money I can stake up,&mdash;all of a hundred anyway. Then my
      old firm will give me trade, and jump at the chance; they never lost by
      me; they know what I'm worth as supercargo. And, last of all, you want a
      good captain to sail your ship for you. Well, here I am. I've sailed
      schooners for ten years. Ask Billy if I can handle a schooner.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No man better,&rdquo; said Billy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And as for my character as a shipmate,&rdquo; concluded Wicks,
      &ldquo;go and ask my old firm.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But look here!&rdquo; cried Hadden, &ldquo;how do you mean to
      manage? You can whisk round in a hansom, and no questions asked. But if
      you try to come on a quarter-deck, my boy, you'll get nabbed.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll have to keep back till the last,&rdquo; replied Wicks, &ldquo;and
      take another name.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But how about clearing? what other name?&rdquo; asked Tommy, a
      little bewildered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know yet,&rdquo; returned the captain, with a grin. &ldquo;I'll
      see what the name is on my new certificate, and that'll be good enough for
      me. If I can't get one to buy, though I never heard of such a thing,
      there's old Kirkup, he's turned some sort of farmer down Bondi way; he'll
      hire me his.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You seemed to speak as if you had a ship in view,&rdquo; said
      Carthew.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So I have, too,&rdquo; said Captain Wicks, &ldquo;and a beauty.
      Schooner yacht Dream; got lines you never saw the beat of; and a witch to
      go. She passed me once off Thursday Island, doing two knots to my one and
      laying a point and a half better; and the Grace Darling was a ship that I
      was proud of. I took and tore my hair. The Dream's been MY dream ever
      since. That was in her old days, when she carried a blue ens'n. Grant
      Sanderson was the party as owned her; he was rich and mad, and got a fever
      at last somewhere about the Fly River, and took and died. The captain
      brought the body back to Sydney, and paid off. Well, it turned out Grant
      Sanderson had left any quantity of wills and any quantity of widows, and
      no fellow could make out which was the genuine article. All the widows
      brought lawsuits against all the rest, and every will had a firm of
      lawyers on the quarterdeck as long as your arm. They tell me it was one of
      the biggest turns-to that ever was seen, bar Tichborne; the Lord
      Chamberlain himself was floored, and so was the Lord Chancellor; and all
      that time the Dream lay rotting up by Glebe Point. Well, it's done now;
      they've picked out a widow and a will; tossed up for it, as like as not;
      and the Dream's for sale. She'll go cheap; she's had a long turn-to at
      rotting.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What size is she?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, big enough. We don't want her bigger. A hundred and ninety,
      going two hundred,&rdquo; replied the captain. &ldquo;She's fully big for
      us three; it would be all the better if we had another hand, though it's a
      pity too, when you can pick up natives for half nothing. Then we must have
      a cook. I can fix raw sailor-men, but there's no going to sea with a
      new-chum cook. I can lay hands on the man we want for that: a Highway boy,
      an old shipmate of mine, of the name of Amalu. Cooks first rate, and it's
      always better to have a native; he aint fly, you can turn him to as you
      please, and he don't know enough to stand out for his rights.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      From the moment that Captain Wicks joined in the conversation, Carthew
      recovered interest and confidence; the man (whatever he might have done)
      was plainly good-natured, and plainly capable; if he thought well of the
      enterprise, offered to contribute money, brought experience, and could
      thus solve at a word the problem of the trade, Carthew was content to go
      ahead. As for Hadden, his cup was full; he and Bostock forgave each other
      in champagne; toast followed toast; it was proposed and carried amid
      acclamation to change the name of the schooner (when she should be bought)
      to the Currency Lass; and the Currency Lass Island Trading Company was
      practically founded before dusk.
    </p>
    <p>
      Three days later, Carthew stood before the lawyer, still in his jean suit,
      received his hundred and fifty pounds, and proceeded rather timidly to ask
      for more indulgence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have a chance to get on in the world,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;By
      to-morrow evening I expect to be part owner of a ship.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dangerous property, Mr. Carthew,&rdquo; said the lawyer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not if the partners work her themselves and stand to go down along
      with her,&rdquo; was the reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I conceive it possible you might make something of it in that way,&rdquo;
      returned the other. &ldquo;But are you a seaman? I thought you had been in
      the diplomatic service.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am an old yachtsman,&rdquo; said Norris. &ldquo;And I must do the
      best I can. A fellow can't live in New South Wales upon diplomacy. But the
      point I wish to prepare you for is this. It will be impossible I should
      present myself here next quarter-day; we expect to make a six months'
      cruise of it among the islands.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sorry, Mr. Carthew: I can't hear of that,&rdquo; replied the
      lawyer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I mean upon the same conditions as the last,&rdquo; said Carthew.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The conditions are exactly opposite,&rdquo; said the lawyer.
      &ldquo;Last time I had reason to know you were in the colony; and even
      then I stretched a point. This time, by your own confession, you are
      contemplating a breach of the agreement; and I give you warning if you
      carry it out and I receive proof of it (for I will agree to regard this
      conversation as confidential) I shall have no choice but to do my duty. Be
      here on quarter-day, or your allowance ceases.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is very hard and, I think, rather silly,&rdquo; returned
      Carthew.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is not of my doing. I have my instructions,&rdquo; said the
      lawyer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you so read these instructions, that I am to be prohibited from
      making an honest livelihood?&rdquo; asked Carthew.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let us be frank,&rdquo; said the lawyer. &ldquo;I find nothing in
      these instructions about an honest livelihood. I have no reason to suppose
      my clients care anything about that. I have reason to suppose only one
      thing,&mdash;that they mean you shall stay in this colony, and to guess
      another, Mr. Carthew. And to guess another.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you mean by that?&rdquo; asked Norris.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I mean that I imagine, on very strong grounds, that your family
      desire to see no more of you,&rdquo; said the lawyer. &ldquo;O, they may
      be very wrong; but that is the impression conveyed, that is what I suppose
      I am paid to bring about, and I have no choice but to try and earn my
      hire.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would scorn to deceive you,&rdquo; said Norris, with a strong
      flush, &ldquo;you have guessed rightly. My family refuse to see me; but I
      am not going to England, I am going to the islands. How does that affect
      the islands?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, but I don't know that you are going to the islands,&rdquo; said
      the lawyer, looking down, and spearing the blotting-paper with a pencil.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I beg your pardon. I have the pleasure of informing you,&rdquo;
      said Norris.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am afraid, Mr. Carthew, that I cannot regard that communication
      as official,&rdquo; was the slow reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am not accustomed to have my word doubted!&rdquo; cried Norris.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush! I allow no one to raise his voice in my office,&rdquo; said
      the lawyer. &ldquo;And for that matter&mdash;you seem to be a young
      gentleman of sense&mdash;consider what I know of you. You are a discarded
      son; your family pays money to be shut of you. What have you done? I don't
      know. But do you not see how foolish I should be, if I exposed my business
      reputation on the safeguard of the honour of a gentleman of whom I know
      just so much and no more? This interview is very disagreeable. Why prolong
      it? Write home, get my instructions changed, and I will change my
      behaviour. Not otherwise.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am very fond of three hundred a year,&rdquo; said Norris, &ldquo;but
      I cannot pay the price required. I shall not have the pleasure of seeing
      you again.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must please yourself,&rdquo; said the lawyer. &ldquo;Fail to be
      here next quarter-day, and the thing stops. But I warn you, and I mean the
      warning in a friendly spirit. Three months later you will be here begging,
      and I shall have no choice but to show you in the street.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wish you a good-evening,&rdquo; said Norris.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The same to you, Mr. Carthew,&rdquo; retorted the lawyer, and rang
      for his clerk.
    </p>
    <p>
      So it befell that Norris during what remained to him of arduous days in
      Sydney, saw not again the face of his legal adviser; and he was already at
      sea, and land was out of sight, when Hadden brought him a Sydney paper,
      over which he had been dozing in the shadow of the galley, and showed him
      an advertisement.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Norris Carthew is earnestly entreated to call without delay at
      the office of Mr. &mdash;&mdash;, where important intelligence awaits him.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It must manage to wait for me six months,&rdquo; said Norris,
      lightly enough, but yet conscious of a pang of curiosity.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023">
       <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXIII. THE BUDGET OF THE &ldquo;CURRENCY LASS.&rdquo;
    </h2>
    <p>
      Before noon on the 26th November, there cleared from the port of Sydney
      the schooner, Currency Lass. The owner, Norris Carthew, was on board in
      the somewhat unusual position of mate; the master's name purported to be
      William Kirkup; the cook was a Hawaiian boy, Joseph Amalu; and there were
      two hands before the mast, Thomas Hadden and Richard Hemstead, the latter
      chosen partly because of his humble character, partly because he had an
      odd-job-man's handiness with tools. The Currency Lass was bound for the
      South Sea Islands, and first of all for Butaritari in the Gilberts, on a
      register; but it was understood about the harbour that her cruise was more
      than half a pleasure trip. A friend of the late Grant Sanderson (of
      Auchentroon and Kilclarty) might have recognised in that tall-masted ship,
      the transformed and rechristened Dream; and the Lloyd's surveyor, had the
      services of such a one been called in requisition, must have found
      abundant subject of remark.
    </p>
    <p>
      For time, during her three years' inaction, had eaten deep into the Dream
      and her fittings; she had sold in consequence a shade above her value as
      old junk; and the three adventurers had scarce been able to afford even
      the most vital repairs. The rigging, indeed, had been partly renewed, and
      the rest set up; all Grant Sanderson's old canvas had been patched
      together into one decently serviceable suit of sails; Grant Sanderson's
      masts still stood, and might have wondered at themselves. &ldquo;I haven't
      the heart to tap them,&rdquo; Captain Wicks used to observe, as he
      squinted up their height or patted their rotundity; and &ldquo;as rotten
      as our foremast&rdquo; was an accepted metaphor in the ship's company. The
      sequel rather suggests it may have been sounder than was thought; but no
      one knew for certain, just as no one except the captain appreciated the
      dangers of the cruise. The captain, indeed, saw with clear eyes and spoke
      his mind aloud; and though a man of an astonishing hot-blooded courage,
      following life and taking its dangers in the spirit of a hound upon the
      slot, he had made a point of a big whaleboat. &ldquo;Take your choice,&rdquo;
      he had said; &ldquo;either new masts and rigging or that boat. I simply
      ain't going to sea without the one or the other. Chicken coops are good
      enough, no doubt, and so is a dinghy; but they ain't for Joe.&rdquo; And
      his partners had been forced to consent, and saw six and thirty pounds of
      their small capital vanish in the turn of a hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      All four had toiled the best part of six weeks getting ready; and though
      Captain Wicks was of course not seen or heard of, a fifth was there to
      help them, a fellow in a bushy red beard, which he would sometimes lay
      aside when he was below, and who strikingly resembled Captain Wicks in
      voice and character. As for Captain Kirkup, he did not appear till the
      last moment, when he proved to be a burly mariner, bearded like Abou Ben
      Adhem. All the way down the harbour and through the Heads, his milk-white
      whiskers blew in the wind and were conspicuous from shore; but the
      Currency Lass had no sooner turned her back upon the lighthouse, than he
      went below for the inside of five seconds and reappeared clean shaven. So
      many doublings and devices were required to get to sea with an unseaworthy
      ship and a captain that was &ldquo;wanted.&rdquo; Nor might even these
      have sufficed, but for the fact that Hadden was a public character, and
      the whole cruise regarded with an eye of indulgence as one of Tom's
      engaging eccentricities. The ship, besides, had been a yacht before; and
      it came the more natural to allow her still some of the dangerous
      liberties of her old employment.
    </p>
    <p>
      A strange ship they had made of it, her lofty spars disfigured with
      patched canvas, her panelled cabin fitted for a traderoom with rude
      shelves. And the life they led in that anomalous schooner was no less
      curious than herself. Amalu alone berthed forward; the rest occupied
      staterooms, camped upon the satin divans, and sat down in Grant
      Sanderson's parquetry smoking-room to meals of junk and potatoes, bad of
      their kind and often scant in quantity. Hemstead grumbled; Tommy had
      occasional moments of revolt and increased the ordinary by a few haphazard
      tins or a bottle of his own brown sherry. But Hemstead grumbled from
      habit, Tommy revolted only for the moment, and there was underneath a real
      and general acquiescence in these hardships. For besides onions and
      potatoes, the Currency Lass may be said to have gone to sea without
      stores. She carried two thousand pounds' worth of assorted trade, advanced
      on credit, their whole hope and fortune. It was upon this that they
      subsisted&mdash;mice in their own granary. They dined upon their future
      profits; and every scanty meal was so much in the savings bank.
    </p>
    <p>
      Republican as were their manners, there was no practical, at least no
      dangerous, lack of discipline. Wicks was the only sailor on board, there
      was none to criticise; and besides, he was so easy-going, and so
      merry-minded, that none could bear to disappoint him. Carthew did his
      best, partly for the love of doing it, partly for love of the captain;
      Amalu was a willing drudge, and even Hemstead and Hadden turned to upon
      occasion with a will. Tommy's department was the trade and traderoom; he
      would work down in the hold or over the shelves of the cabin, till the
      Sydney dandy was unrecognizable; come up at last, draw a bucket of
      sea-water, bathe, change, and lie down on deck over a big sheaf of Sydney
      <i>Heralds</i> and <i>Dead Birds</i>, or perhaps with a volume of Buckle's
      <i>History of Civilisation</i>, the standard work selected for that
      cruise. In the latter case, a smile went round the ship, for Buckle almost
      invariably laid his student out, and when Tom awoke again he was almost
      always in the humour for brown sherry. The connection was so well
      established that &ldquo;a glass of Buckle&rdquo; or &ldquo;a bottle of
      civilisation&rdquo; became current pleasantries on board the Currency
      Lass.
    </p>
    <p>
      Hemstead's province was that of the repairs, and he had his hands full.
      Nothing on board but was decayed in a proportion; the lamps leaked; so did
      the decks; door-knobs came off in the hand, mouldings parted company with
      the panels, the pump declined to suck, and the defective bathroom came
      near to swamp the ship. Wicks insisted that all the nails were long ago
      consumed, and that she was only glued together by the rust. &ldquo;You
      shouldn't make me laugh so much, Tommy,&rdquo; he would say. &ldquo;I'm
      afraid I'll shake the sternpost out of her.&rdquo; And, as Hemstead went
      to and fro with his tool basket on an endless round of tinkering, Wicks
      lost no opportunity of chaffing him upon his duties. &ldquo;If you'd turn
      to at sailoring or washing paint or something useful, now,&rdquo; he would
      say, &ldquo;I could see the fun of it. But to be mending things that
      haven't no insides to them appears to me the height of foolishness.&rdquo;
      And doubtless these continual pleasantries helped to reassure the
      landsmen, who went to and fro unmoved, under circumstances that might have
      daunted Nelson.
    </p>
    <p>
      The weather was from the outset splendid, and the wind fair and steady.
      The ship sailed like a witch. &ldquo;This Currency Lass is a powerful old
      girl, and has more complaints than I would care to put a name on,&rdquo;
      the captain would say, as he pricked the chart; &ldquo;but she could show
      her blooming heels to anything of her size in the Western Pacific.&rdquo;
      To wash decks, relieve the wheel, do the day's work after dinner on the
      smoking-room table, and take in kites at night,&mdash;such was the easy
      routine of their life. In the evening&mdash;above all, if Tommy had
      produced some of his civilisation&mdash;yarns and music were the rule.
      Amalu had a sweet Hawaiian voice; and Hemstead, a great hand upon the
      banjo, accompanied his own quavering tenor with effect. There was a sense
      in which the little man could sing. It was great to hear him deliver <i>My
      Boy Tammie</i> in Austrylian; and the words (some of the worst of the
      ruffian Macneil's) were hailed in his version with inextinguishable mirth.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Where hye ye been a' dye?
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     he would ask, and answer himself:&mdash;

     I've been by burn and flowery brye,
     Meadow green an' mountain grye,
     Courtin' o' this young thing,
     Just come frye her mammie.
</pre>
    <p>
      It was the accepted jest for all hands to greet the conclusion of this
      song with the simultaneous cry: &ldquo;My word!&rdquo; thus winging the
      arrow of ridicule with a feather from the singer's wing. But he had his
      revenge with <i>Home, Sweet Home,</i> and <i>Where is my Wandering Boy
      To-night?</i>&mdash;ditties into which he threw the most intolerable
      pathos. It appeared he had no home, nor had ever had one, nor yet any
      vestige of a family, except a truculent uncle, a baker in Newcastle,
      N.S.W. His domestic sentiment was therefore wholly in the air, and
      expressed an unrealised ideal. Or perhaps, of all his experiences, this of
      the Currency Lass, with its kindly, playful, and tolerant society,
      approached it the most nearly.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is perhaps because I know the sequel, but I can never think upon this
      voyage without a profound sense of pity and mystery; of the ship (once the
      whim of a rich blackguard) faring with her battered fineries and upon her
      homely errand, across the plains of ocean, and past the gorgeous scenery
      of dawn and sunset; and the ship's company, so strangely assembled, so
      Britishly chuckle-headed, filling their days with chaff in place of
      conversation; no human book on board with them except Hadden's Buckle, and
      not a creature fit either to read or to understand it; and the one mark of
      any civilised interest, being when Carthew filled in his spare hours with
      the pencil and the brush: the whole unconscious crew of them posting in
      the meanwhile towards so tragic a disaster.
    </p>
    <p>
      Twenty-eight days out of Sydney, on Christmas eve, they fetched up to the
      entrance of the lagoon, and plied all that night outside, keeping their
      position by the lights of fishers on the reef and the outlines of the
      palms against the cloudy sky. With the break of day, the schooner was hove
      to, and the signal for a pilot shown. But it was plain her lights must
      have been observed in the darkness by the native fishermen, and word
      carried to the settlement, for a boat was already under weigh. She came
      towards them across the lagoon under a great press of sail, lying
      dangerously down, so that at times, in the heavier puffs, they thought she
      would turn turtle; covered the distance in fine style, luffed up smartly
      alongside, and emitted a haggard looking white man in pyjamas.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good-mornin', Cap'n,&rdquo; said he, when he had made good his
      entrance. &ldquo;I was taking you for a Fiji man-of-war, what with your
      flush decks and them spars. Well, gen'lemen all, here's wishing you a
      Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year,&rdquo; he added, and lurched against
      a stay.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, you're never the pilot?&rdquo; exclaimed Wicks, studying him
      with a profound disfavour. &ldquo;You've never taken a ship in&mdash;don't
      tell me!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I should guess I have,&rdquo; returned the pilot. &ldquo;I'm
      Captain Dobbs, I am; and when I take charge, the captain of that ship can
      go below and shave.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, man alive! you're drunk, man!&rdquo; cried the captain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Drunk!&rdquo; repeated Dobbs. &ldquo;You can't have seen much life
      if you call me drunk. I'm only just beginning. Come night, I won't say; I
      guess I'll be properly full by then. But now I'm the soberest man in all
      Big Muggin.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It won't do,&rdquo; retorted Wicks. &ldquo;Not for Joseph, sir. I
      can't have you piling up my schooner.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All right,&rdquo; said Dobbs, &ldquo;lay and rot where you are, or
      take and go in and pile her up for yourself like the captain of the
      Leslie. That's business, I guess; grudged me twenty dollars' pilotage, and
      lost twenty thousand in trade and a brand new schooner; ripped the keel
      right off of her, and she went down in the inside of four minutes, and
      lies in twenty fathom, trade and all.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What's all this?&rdquo; cried Wicks. &ldquo;Trade? What vessel was
      this Leslie, anyhow?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Consigned to Cohen and Co., from 'Frisco,&rdquo; returned the
      pilot, &ldquo;and badly wanted. There's a barque inside filling up for
      Hamburg&mdash;you see her spars over there; and there's two more ships
      due, all the way from Germany, one in two months, they say, and one in
      three; Cohen and Co.'s agent (that's Mr. Topelius) has taken and lain down
      with the jaundice on the strength of it. I guess most people would, in his
      shoes; no trade, no copra, and twenty hundred ton of shipping due. If
      you've any copra on board, cap'n, here's your chance. Topelius will buy,
      gold down, and give three cents. It's all found money to him, the way it
      is, whatever he pays for it. And that's what come of going back on the
      pilot.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Excuse me one moment, Captain Dobbs. I wish to speak with my mate,&rdquo;
      said the captain, whose face had begun to shine and his eyes to sparkle.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Please yourself,&rdquo; replied the pilot. &ldquo;You couldn't
      think of offering a man a nip, could you? just to brace him up. This kind
      of thing looks damned inhospitable, and gives a schooner a bad name.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll talk about that after the anchor's down,&rdquo; returned
      Wicks, and he drew Carthew forward. &ldquo;I say,&rdquo; he whispered,
      &ldquo;here's a fortune.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How much do you call that?&rdquo; asked Carthew.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can't put a figure on it yet&mdash;I daren't!&rdquo; said the
      captain. &ldquo;We might cruise twenty years and not find the match of it.
      And suppose another ship came in to-night? Everything's possible! And the
      difficulty is this Dobbs. He's as drunk as a marine. How can we trust him?
      We ain't insured&mdash;worse luck!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Suppose you took him aloft and got him to point out the channel?&rdquo;
      suggested Carthew. &ldquo;If he tallied at all with the chart, and didn't
      fall out of the rigging, perhaps we might risk it.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, all's risk here,&rdquo; returned the captain. &ldquo;Take the
      wheel yourself, and stand by. Mind, if there's two orders, follow mine,
      not his. Set the cook for'ard with the heads'ls, and the two others at the
      main sheet, and see they don't sit on it.&rdquo; With that he called the
      pilot; they swarmed aloft in the fore rigging, and presently after there
      was bawled down the welcome order to ease sheets and fill away.
    </p>
    <p>
      At a quarter before nine o'clock on Christmas morning the anchor was let
      go.
    </p>
    <p>
      The first cruise of the Currency Lass had thus ended in a stroke of
      fortune almost beyond hope. She had brought two thousand pounds' worth of
      trade, straight as a homing pigeon, to the place where it was most
      required. And Captain Wicks (or, rather, Captain Kirkup) showed himself
      the man to make the best of his advantage. For hard upon two days he
      walked a verandah with Topelius, for hard upon two days his partners
      watched from the neighbouring public house the field of battle; and the
      lamps were not yet lighted on the evening of the second before the enemy
      surrendered. Wicks came across to the Sans Souci, as the saloon was
      called, his face nigh black, his eyes almost closed and all bloodshot, and
      yet bright as lighted matches.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come out here, boys,&rdquo; he said; and when they were some way
      off among the palms, &ldquo;I hold twenty-four,&rdquo; he added in a voice
      scarcely recognizable, and doubtless referring to the venerable game of
      cribbage.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you mean?&rdquo; asked Tommy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I've sold the trade,&rdquo; answered Wicks; &ldquo;or, rather, I've
      sold only some of it, for I've kept back all the mess beef and half the
      flour and biscuit; and, by God, we're still provisioned for four months!
      By God, it's as good as stolen!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My word!&rdquo; cried Hemstead.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what have you sold it for?&rdquo; gasped Carthew, the captain's
      almost insane excitement shaking his nerve.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let me tell it my own way,&rdquo; cried Wicks, loosening his neck.
      &ldquo;Let me get at it gradual, or I'll explode. I've not only sold it,
      boys, I've wrung out a charter on my own terms to 'Frisco and back; on my
      own terms. I made a point of it. I fooled him first by making believe I
      wanted copra, which of course I knew he wouldn't hear of&mdash;couldn't,
      in fact; and whenever he showed fight, I trotted out the copra, and that
      man dived! I would take nothing but copra, you see; and so I've got the
      blooming lot in specie&mdash;all but two short bills on 'Frisco. And the
      sum? Well, this whole adventure, including two thousand pounds of credit,
      cost us two thousand seven hundred and some odd. That's all paid back; in
      thirty days' cruise we've paid for the schooner and the trade. Heard ever
      any man the match of that? And it's not all! For besides that,&rdquo; said
      the captain, hammering his words, &ldquo;we've got Thirteen Blooming
      Hundred Pounds of profit to divide. I bled him in four Thou.!&rdquo; he
      cried, in a voice that broke like a schoolboy's.
    </p>
    <p>
      For a moment the partners looked upon their chief with stupefaction,
      incredulous surprise their only feeling. Tommy was the first to grasp the
      consequences.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here,&rdquo; he said, in a hard, business tone. &ldquo;Come back to
      that saloon. I've got to get drunk.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must please excuse me, boys,&rdquo; said the captain,
      earnestly. &ldquo;I daren't taste nothing. If I was to drink one glass of
      beer, it's my belief I'd have the apoplexy. The last scrimmage, and the
      blooming triumph, pretty nigh hand done me.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, three cheers for the captain,&rdquo; proposed Tommy.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Wicks held up a shaking hand. &ldquo;Not that either, boys,&rdquo; he
      pleaded. &ldquo;Think of the other buffer, and let him down easy. If I'm
      like this, just fancy what Topelius is! If he heard us singing out, he'd
      have the staggers.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      As a matter of fact, Topelius accepted his defeat with a good grace; but
      the crew of the wrecked Leslie, who were in the same employment and loyal
      to their firm, took the thing more bitterly. Rough words and ugly looks
      were common. Once even they hooted Captain Wicks from the saloon verandah;
      the Currency Lasses drew out on the other side; for some minutes there had
      like to have been a battle in Butaritari; and though the occasion passed
      off without blows, it left on either side an increase of ill-feeling.
    </p>
    <p>
      No such small matter could affect the happiness of the successful traders.
      Five days more the ship lay in the lagoon, with little employment for any
      one but Tommy and the captain, for Topelius's natives discharged cargo and
      brought ballast; the time passed like a pleasant dream; the adventurers
      sat up half the night debating and praising their good fortune, or strayed
      by day in the narrow isle, gaping like Cockney tourists; and on the first
      of the new year, the Currency Lass weighed anchor for the second time and
      set sail for 'Frisco, attended by the same fine weather and good luck. She
      crossed the doldrums with but small delay; on a wind and in ballast of
      broken coral, she outdid expectations; and, what added to the happiness of
      the ship's company, the small amount of work that fell on them to do, was
      now lessened by the presence of another hand. This was the boatswain of
      the Leslie; he had been on bad terms with his own captain, had already
      spent his wages in the saloons of Butaritari, had wearied of the place,
      and while all his shipmates coldly refused to set foot on board the
      Currency Lass, he had offered to work his passage to the coast. He was a
      north of Ireland man, between Scotch and Irish, rough, loud, humorous, and
      emotional, not without sterling qualities, and an expert and careful
      sailor. His frame of mind was different indeed from that of his new
      shipmates; instead of making an unexpected fortune, he had lost a berth;
      and he was besides disgusted with the rations, and really appalled at the
      condition of the schooner. A stateroom door had stuck, the first day at
      sea, and Mac (as they called him) laid his strength to it and plucked it
      from the hinges.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Glory!&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;this ship's rotten.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I believe you, my boy,&rdquo; said Captain Wicks.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next day the sailor was observed with his nose aloft.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't you get looking at these sticks,&rdquo; the captain said,
      &ldquo;or you'll have a fit and fall overboard.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Mac turned towards the speaker with rather a wild eye. &ldquo;Why, I see
      what looks like a patch of dry rot up yonder, that I bet I could stick my
      fist into,&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Looks as if a fellow could stick his head into it, don't it?&rdquo;
      returned Wicks. &ldquo;But there's no good prying into things that can't
      be mended.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think I was a Currency Ass to come on board of her!&rdquo;
      reflected Mac.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I never said she was seaworthy,&rdquo; replied the captain:
      &ldquo;I only said she could show her blooming heels to anything afloat.
      And besides, I don't know that it's dry rot; I kind of sometimes hope it
      isn't. Here; turn to and heave the log; that'll cheer you up.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, there's no denying it, you're a holy captain,&rdquo; said
      Mac.
    </p>
    <p>
      And from that day on, he made but the one reference to the ship's
      condition; and that was whenever Tommy drew upon his cellar. &ldquo;Here's
      to the junk trade!&rdquo; he would say, as he held out his can of sherry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why do you always say that?&rdquo; asked Tommy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I had an uncle in the business,&rdquo; replied Mac, and launched at
      once into a yarn, in which an incredible number of the characters were
      &ldquo;laid out as nice as you would want to see,&rdquo; and the oaths
      made up about two-fifths of every conversation.
    </p>
    <p>
      Only once he gave them a taste of his violence; he talked of it, indeed,
      often; &ldquo;I'm rather a voilent man,&rdquo; he would say, not without
      pride; but this was the only specimen. Of a sudden, he turned on Hemstead
      in the ship's waist, knocked him against the foresail boom, then knocked
      him under it, and had set him up and knocked him down once more, before
      any one had drawn a breath.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here! Belay that!&rdquo; roared Wicks, leaping to his feet. &ldquo;I
      won't have none of this.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Mac turned to the captain with ready civility. &ldquo;I only want to learn
      him manners,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;He took and called me Irishman.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did he?&rdquo; said Wicks. &ldquo;O, that's a different story! What
      made you do it, you tomfool? You ain't big enough to call any man that.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I didn't call him it,&rdquo; spluttered Hemstead, through his blood
      and tears. &ldquo;I only mentioned-like he was.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, let's have no more of it,&rdquo; said Wicks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you ARE Irish, ain't you?&rdquo; Carthew asked of his new
      shipmate shortly after.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I may be,&rdquo; replied Mac, &ldquo;but I'll allow no Sydney duck
      to call me so. No,&rdquo; he added, with a sudden heated countenance,
      &ldquo;nor any Britisher that walks! Why, look here,&rdquo; he went on,
      &ldquo;you're a young swell, aren't you? Suppose I called you that! 'I'll
      show you,' you would say, and turn to and take it out of me straight.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      On the 28th of January, when in lat. 27 degrees 20' N., long. 177 degrees
      W., the wind chopped suddenly into the west, not very strong, but puffy
      and with flaws of rain. The captain, eager for easting, made a fair wind
      of it and guyed the booms out wing and wing. It was Tommy's trick at the
      wheel, and as it was within half an hour of the relief (seven thirty in
      the morning), the captain judged it not worth while to change him.
    </p>
    <p>
      The puffs were heavy but short; there was nothing to be called a squall,
      no danger to the ship, and scarce more than usual to the doubtful spars.
      All hands were on deck in their oilskins, expecting breakfast; the galley
      smoked, the ship smelt of coffee, all were in good humour to be speeding
      eastward a full nine; when the rotten foresail tore suddenly between two
      cloths and then split to either hand. It was for all the world as though
      some archangel with a huge sword had slashed it with the figure of a
      cross; all hands ran to secure the slatting canvas; and in the sudden
      uproar and alert, Tommy Hadden lost his head. Many of his days have been
      passed since then in explaining how the thing happened; of these
      explanations it will be sufficient to say that they were all different and
      none satisfactory; and the gross fact remains that the main boom gybed,
      carried away the tackle, broke the mainmast some three feet above the deck
      and whipped it overboard. For near a minute the suspected foremast
      gallantly resisted; then followed its companion; and by the time the wreck
      was cleared, of the whole beautiful fabric that enabled them to skim the
      seas, two ragged stumps remained.
    </p>
    <p>
      In these vast and solitary waters, to be dismasted is perhaps the worst
      calamity. Let the ship turn turtle and go down, and at least the pang is
      over. But men chained on a hulk may pass months scanning the empty sea
      line and counting the steps of death's invisible approach. There is no
      help but in the boats, and what a help is that! There heaved the Currency
      Lass, for instance, a wingless lump, and the nearest human coast (that of
      Kauai in the Sandwiches) lay about a thousand miles to south and east of
      her. Over the way there, to men contemplating that passage in an open
      boat, all kinds of misery, and the fear of death and of madness, brooded.
    </p>
    <p>
      A serious company sat down to breakfast; but the captain helped his
      neighbours with a smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, boys,&rdquo; he said, after a pull at the hot coffee, &ldquo;we're
      done with this Currency Lass, and no mistake. One good job: we made her
      pay while she lasted, and she paid first rate; and if we were to try our
      hand again, we can try in style. Another good job: we have a fine, stiff,
      roomy boat, and you know who you have to thank for that. We've got six
      lives to save, and a pot of money; and the point is, where are we to take
      'em?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's all two thousand miles to the nearest of the Sandwiches, I
      fancy,&rdquo; observed Mac.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, not so bad as that,&rdquo; returned the captain. &ldquo;But
      it's bad enough: rather better'n a thousand.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know a man who once did twelve hundred in a boat,&rdquo; said
      Mac, &ldquo;and he had all he wanted. He fetched ashore in the Marquesas,
      and never set a foot on anything floating from that day to this. He said
      he would rather put a pistol to his head and knock his brains out.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, ay!&rdquo; said Wicks. &ldquo;Well I remember a boat's crew
      that made this very island of Kauai, and from just about where we lie, or
      a bit further. When they got up with the land, they were clean crazy.
      There was an iron-bound coast and an Old Bob Ridley of a surf on. The
      natives hailed 'em from fishing-boats, and sung out it couldn't be done at
      the money. Much they cared! there was the land, that was all they knew;
      and they turned to and drove the boat slap ashore in the thick of it, and
      was all drowned but one. No; boat trips are my eye,&rdquo; concluded the
      captain, gloomily.
    </p>
    <p>
      The tone was surprising in a man of his indomitable temper. &ldquo;Come,
      Captain,&rdquo; said Carthew, &ldquo;you have something else up your
      sleeve; out with it!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's a fact,&rdquo; admitted Wicks. &ldquo;You see there's a raft
      of little bally reefs about here, kind of chicken-pox on the chart. Well,
      I looked 'em all up, and there's one&mdash;Midway or Brooks they call it,
      not forty mile from our assigned position&mdash;that I got news of. It
      turns out it's a coaling station of the Pacific Mail,&rdquo; he said,
      simply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, and I know it ain't no such a thing,&rdquo; said Mac. &ldquo;I
      been quartermaster in that line myself.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All right,&rdquo; returned Wicks. &ldquo;There's the book. Read
      what Hoyt says&mdash;read it aloud and let the others hear.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Hoyt's falsehood (as readers know) was explicit; incredulity was
      impossible, and the news itself delightful beyond hope. Each saw in his
      mind's eye the boat draw in to a trim island with a wharf, coal-sheds,
      gardens, the Stars and Stripes and the white cottage of the keeper; saw
      themselves idle a few weeks in tolerable quarters, and then step on board
      the China mail, romantic waifs, and yet with pocketsful of money, calling
      for champagne, and waited on by troops of stewards. Breakfast, that had
      begun so dully, ended amid sober jubilation, and all hands turned
      immediately to prepare the boat.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now that all spars were gone, it was no easy job to get her launched. Some
      of the necessary cargo was first stowed on board; the specie, in
      particular, being packed in a strong chest and secured with lashings to
      the afterthwart in case of a capsize. Then a piece of the bulwark was
      razed to the level of the deck, and the boat swung thwart-ship, made fast
      with a slack line to either stump, and successfully run out. For a voyage
      of forty miles to hospitable quarters, not much food or water was
      required; but they took both in superfluity. Amalu and Mac, both ingrained
      sailor-men, had chests which were the headquarters of their lives; two
      more chests with handbags, oilskins, and blankets supplied the others;
      Hadden, amid general applause, added the last case of the brown sherry;
      the captain brought the log, instruments, and chronometer; nor did
      Hemstead forget the banjo or a pinned handkerchief of Butaritari shells.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was about three P.M. when they pushed off, and (the wind being still
      westerly) fell to the oars. &ldquo;Well, we've got the guts out of YOU!&rdquo;
      was the captain's nodded farewell to the hulk of the Currency Lass, which
      presently shrank and faded in the sea. A little after a calm succeeded,
      with much rain; and the first meal was eaten, and the watch below lay down
      to their uneasy slumber on the bilge under a roaring shower-bath. The
      twenty-ninth dawned overhead from out of ragged clouds; there is no moment
      when a boat at sea appears so trenchantly black and so conspicuously
      little; and the crew looked about them at the sky and water with a thrill
      of loneliness and fear. With sunrise the trade set in, lusty and true to
      the point; sail was made; the boat flew; and by about four in the
      afternoon, they were well up with the closed part of the reef, and the
      captain standing on the thwart, and holding by the mast, was studying the
      island through the binoculars.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, and where's your station?&rdquo; cried Mac.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't someway pick it up,&rdquo; replied the captain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, nor never will!&rdquo; retorted Mac, with a clang of despair
      and triumph in his tones.
    </p>
    <p>
      The truth was soon plain to all. No buoys, no beacons, no lights, no coal,
      no station; the castaways pulled through a lagoon and landed on an isle,
      where was no mark of man but wreckwood, and no sound but of the sea. For
      the seafowl that harboured and lived there at the epoch of my visit were
      then scattered into the uttermost parts of the ocean, and had left no
      traces of their sojourn besides dropped feathers and addled eggs. It was
      to this they had been sent, for this they had stooped all night over the
      dripping oars, hourly moving further from relief. The boat, for as small
      as it was, was yet eloquent of the hands of men, a thing alone indeed upon
      the sea but yet in itself all human; and the isle, for which they had
      exchanged it, was ingloriously savage, a place of distress, solitude, and
      hunger unrelieved. There was a strong glare and shadow of the evening over
      all; in which they sat or lay, not speaking, careless even to eat, men
      swindled out of life and riches by a lying book. In the great good nature
      of the whole party, no word of reproach had been addressed to Hadden, the
      author of these disasters. But the new blow was less magnanimously borne,
      and many angry glances rested on the captain.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yet it was himself who roused them from their lethargy. Grudgingly they
      obeyed, drew the boat beyond tidemark, and followed him to the top of the
      miserable islet, whence a view was commanded of the whole wheel of the
      horizon, then part darkened under the coming night, part dyed with the
      hues of the sunset and populous with the sunset clouds. Here the camp was
      pitched and a tent run up with the oars, sails, and mast. And here Amalu,
      at no man's bidding, from the mere instinct of habitual service, built a
      fire and cooked a meal. Night was come, and the stars and the silver
      sickle of new moon beamed overhead, before the meal was ready. The cold
      sea shone about them, and the fire glowed in their faces, as they ate.
      Tommy had opened his case, and the brown sherry went the round; but it was
      long before they came to conversation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, is it to be Kauai after all?&rdquo; asked Mac suddenly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is bad enough for me,&rdquo; said Tommy. &ldquo;Let's stick it
      out where we are.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I can tell ye one thing,&rdquo; said Mac, &ldquo;if ye care
      to hear it. When I was in the China mail, we once made this island. It's
      in the course from Honolulu.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Deuce it is!&rdquo; cried Carthew. &ldquo;That settles it, then.
      Let's stay. We must keep good fires going; and there's plenty wreck.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lashings of wreck!&rdquo; said the Irishman. &ldquo;There's nothing
      here but wreck and coffin boards.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But we'll have to make a proper blyze,&rdquo; objected Hemstead.
      &ldquo;You can't see a fire like this, not any wye awye, I mean.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can't you?&rdquo; said Carthew. &ldquo;Look round.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      They did, and saw the hollow of the night, the bare, bright face of the
      sea, and the stars regarding them; and the voices died in their bosoms at
      the spectacle. In that huge isolation, it seemed they must be visible from
      China on the one hand and California on the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My God, it's dreary!&rdquo; whispered Hemstead.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dreary?&rdquo; cried Mac, and fell suddenly silent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's better than a boat, anyway,&rdquo; said Hadden. &ldquo;I've
      had my bellyful of boat.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What kills me is that specie!&rdquo; the captain broke out. &ldquo;Think
      of all that riches,&mdash;four thousand in gold, bad silver, and short
      bills&mdash;all found money, too!&mdash;and no more use than that much
      dung!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll tell you one thing,&rdquo; said Tommy. &ldquo;I don't like it
      being in the boat&mdash;I don't care to have it so far away.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, who's to take it?&rdquo; cried Mac, with a guffaw of evil
      laughter.
    </p>
    <p>
      But this was not at all the feeling of the partners, who rose, clambered
      down the isle, brought back the inestimable treasure-chest slung upon two
      oars, and set it conspicuous in the shining of the fire.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There's my beauty!&rdquo; cried Wicks, viewing it with a cocked
      head. &ldquo;That's better than a bonfire. What! we have a chest here, and
      bills for close upon two thousand pounds; there's no show to that,&mdash;it
      would go in your vest-pocket,&mdash;but the rest! upwards of forty pounds
      avoirdupois of coined gold, and close on two hundredweight of Chile
      silver! What! ain't that good enough to fetch a fleet? Do you mean to say
      that won't affect a ship's compass? Do you mean to tell me that the
      lookout won't turn to and SMELL it?&rdquo; he cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mac, who had no part nor lot in the bills, the forty pounds of gold, or
      the two hundredweight of silver, heard this with impatience, and fell into
      a bitter, choking laughter. &ldquo;You'll see!&rdquo; he said harshly.
      &ldquo;You'll be glad to feed them bills into the fire before you're
      through with ut!&rdquo; And he turned, passed by himself out of the ring
      of the firelight, and stood gazing seaward.
    </p>
    <p>
      His speech and his departure extinguished instantly those sparks of better
      humour kindled by the dinner and the chest. The group fell again to an
      ill-favoured silence, and Hemstead began to touch the banjo, as was his
      habit of an evening. His repertory was small: the chords of <i>Home, Sweet
      Home</i> fell under his fingers; and when he had played the symphony, he
      instinctively raised up his voice. &ldquo;Be it never so 'umble, there's
      no plyce like 'ome,&rdquo; he sang. The last word was still upon his lips,
      when the instrument was snatched from him and dashed into the fire; and he
      turned with a cry to look into the furious countenance of Mac.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll be damned if I stand this!&rdquo; cried the captain, leaping
      up belligerent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I told ye I was a voilent man,&rdquo; said Mac, with a movement of
      deprecation very surprising in one of his character. &ldquo;Why don't he
      give me a chance then? Haven't we enough to bear the way we are?&rdquo;
      And to the wonder and dismay of all, the man choked upon a sob. &ldquo;It's
      ashamed of meself I am,&rdquo; he said presently, his Irish accent
      twenty-fold increased. &ldquo;I ask all your pardons for me voilence; and
      especially the little man's, who is a harmless crayture, and here's me
      hand to'm, if he'll condescind to take me by 't.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      So this scene of barbarity and sentimentalism passed off, leaving behind
      strange and incongruous impressions. True, every one was perhaps glad when
      silence succeeded that all too appropriate music; true, Mac's apology and
      subsequent behaviour rather raised him in the opinion of his
      fellow-castaways. But the discordant note had been struck, and its
      harmonics tingled in the brain. In that savage, houseless isle, the
      passions of man had sounded, if only for the moment, and all men trembled
      at the possibilities of horror.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was determined to stand watch and watch in case of passing vessels; and
      Tommy, on fire with an idea, volunteered to stand the first. The rest
      crawled under the tent, and were soon enjoying that comfortable gift of
      sleep, which comes everywhere and to all men, quenching anxieties and
      speeding time. And no sooner were all settled, no sooner had the drone of
      many snorers begun to mingle with and overcome the surf, than Tommy stole
      from his post with the case of sherry, and dropped it in a quiet cove in a
      fathom of water. But the stormy inconstancy of Mac's behaviour had no
      connection with a gill or two of wine; his passions, angry and otherwise,
      were on a different sail plan from his neighbours'; and there were
      possibilities of good and evil in that hybrid Celt beyond their prophecy.
    </p>
    <p>
      About two in the morning, the starry sky&mdash;or so it seemed, for the
      drowsy watchman had not observed the approach of any cloud&mdash;brimmed
      over in a deluge; and for three days it rained without remission. The
      islet was a sponge, the castaways sops; the view all gone, even the reef
      concealed behind the curtain of the falling water. The fire was soon
      drowned out; after a couple of boxes of matches had been scratched in
      vain, it was decided to wait for better weather; and the party lived in
      wretchedness on raw tins and a ration of hard bread.
    </p>
    <p>
      By the 2nd February, in the dark hours of the morning watch, the clouds
      were all blown by; the sun rose glorious; and once more the castaways sat
      by a quick fire, and drank hot coffee with the greed of brutes and
      sufferers. Thenceforward their affairs moved in a routine. A fire was
      constantly maintained; and this occupied one hand continuously, and the
      others for an hour or so in the day. Twice a day, all hands bathed in the
      lagoon, their chief, almost their only pleasure. Often they fished in the
      lagoon with good success. And the rest was passed in lolling, strolling,
      yarns, and disputation. The time of the China steamers was calculated to a
      nicety; which done, the thought was rejected and ignored. It was one that
      would not bear consideration. The boat voyage having been tacitly set
      aside, the desperate part chosen to wait there for the coming of help or
      of starvation, no man had courage left to look his bargain in the face,
      far less to discuss it with his neighbours. But the unuttered terror
      haunted them; in every hour of idleness, at every moment of silence, it
      returned, and breathed a chill about the circle, and carried men's eyes to
      the horizon. Then, in a panic of self-defence, they would rally to some
      other subject. And, in that lone spot, what else was to be found to speak
      of but the treasure?
    </p>
    <p>
      That was indeed the chief singularity, the one thing conspicuous in their
      island life; the presence of that chest of bills and specie dominated the
      mind like a cathedral; and there were besides connected with it, certain
      irking problems well fitted to occupy the idle. Two thousand pounds were
      due to the Sydney firm: two thousand pounds were clear profit, and fell to
      be divided in varying proportions among six. It had been agreed how the
      partners were to range; every pound of capital subscribed, every pound
      that fell due in wages, was to count for one &ldquo;lay.&rdquo; Of these,
      Tommy could claim five hundred and ten, Carthew one hundred and seventy,
      Wicks one hundred and forty, and Hemstead and Amalu ten apiece: eight
      hundred and forty &ldquo;lays&rdquo; in all. What was the value of a lay?
      This was at first debated in the air and chiefly by the strength of
      Tommy's lungs. Then followed a series of incorrect calculations; from
      which they issued, arithmetically foiled, but agreed from weariness upon
      an approximate value of 2 pounds, 7 shillings 7 1/4 pence. The figures
      were admittedly incorrect; the sum of the shares came not to 2000 pounds,
      but to 1996 pounds, 6 shillings: 3 pounds, 14 shillings being thus left
      unclaimed. But it was the nearest they had yet found, and the highest as
      well, so that the partners were made the less critical by the
      contemplation of their splendid dividends. Wicks put in 100 pounds and
      stood to draw captain's wages for two months; his taking was 333 pounds 3
      shillings 6 1/2 pence. Carthew had put in 150 pounds: he was to take out
      401 pounds, 18 shillings 6 1/2 pence. Tommy's 500 pounds had grown to be
      1213 pounds 12 shillings 9 3/4 pence; and Amalu and Hemstead, ranking for
      wages only, had 22 pounds, 16 shillings 1/2 pence, each.
    </p>
    <p>
      From talking and brooding on these figures, it was but a step to opening
      the chest; and once the chest open, the glamour of the cash was
      irresistible. Each felt that he must see his treasure separate with the
      eye of flesh, handle it in the hard coin, mark it for his own, and stand
      forth to himself the approved owner. And here an insurmountable difficulty
      barred the way. There were some seventeen shillings in English silver: the
      rest was Chile; and the Chile dollar, which had been taken at the rate of
      six to the pound sterling, was practically their smallest coin. It was
      decided, therefore, to divide the pounds only, and to throw the shillings,
      pence, and fractions in a common fund. This, with the three pound fourteen
      already in the heel, made a total of seven pounds one shilling.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll tell you,&rdquo; said Wicks. &ldquo;Let Carthew and Tommy and
      me take one pound apiece, and Hemstead and Amalu split the other four, and
      toss up for the odd bob.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, rot!&rdquo; said Carthew. &ldquo;Tommy and I are bursting
      already. We can take half a sov' each, and let the other three have forty
      shillings.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll tell you now&mdash;it's not worth splitting,&rdquo; broke in
      Mac. &ldquo;I've cards in my chest. Why don't you play for the slump sum?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      In that idle place, the proposal was accepted with delight. Mac, as the
      owner of the cards, was given a stake; the sum was played for in five
      games of cribbage; and when Amalu, the last survivor in the tournament,
      was beaten by Mac, it was found the dinner hour was past. After a hasty
      meal, they fell again immediately to cards, this time (on Carthew's
      proposal) to Van John. It was then probably two P.M. of the 9th February;
      and they played with varying chances for twelve hours, slept heavily, and
      rose late on the morrow to resume the game. All day of the 10th, with
      grudging intervals for food, and with one long absence on the part of
      Tommy from which he returned dripping with the case of sherry, they
      continued to deal and stake. Night fell: they drew the closer to the fire.
      It was maybe two in the morning, and Tommy was selling his deal by
      auction, as usual with that timid player; when Carthew, who didn't intend
      to bid, had a moment of leisure and looked round him. He beheld the
      moonlight on the sea, the money piled and scattered in that incongruous
      place, the perturbed faces of the players; he felt in his own breast the
      familiar tumult; and it seemed as if there rose in his ears a sound of
      music, and the moon seemed still to shine upon a sea, but the sea was
      changed, and the Casino towered from among lamplit gardens, and the money
      clinked on the green board. &ldquo;Good God!&rdquo; he thought, &ldquo;am
      I gambling again?&rdquo; He looked the more curiously about the sandy
      table. He and Mac had played and won like gamblers; the mingled gold and
      silver lay by their places in the heap. Amalu and Hemstead had each more
      than held their own, but Tommy was cruel far to leeward, and the captain
      was reduced to perhaps fifty pounds.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I say, let's knock off,&rdquo; said Carthew.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give that man a glass of Buckle,&rdquo; said some one, and a fresh
      bottle was opened, and the game went inexorably on.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carthew was himself too heavy a winner to withdraw or to say more; and all
      the rest of the night he must look on at the progress of this folly, and
      make gallant attempts to lose with the not uncommon consequence of winning
      more. The first dawn of the 11th February found him well-nigh desperate.
      It chanced he was then dealer, and still winning. He had just dealt a
      round of many tens; every one had staked heavily; the captain had put up
      all that remained to him, twelve pounds in gold and a few dollars; and
      Carthew, looking privately at his cards before he showed them, found he
      held a natural.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;See here, you fellows,&rdquo; he broke out, &ldquo;this is a
      sickening business, and I'm done with it for one.&rdquo; So saying, he
      showed his cards, tore them across, and rose from the ground.
    </p>
    <p>
      The company stared and murmured in mere amazement; but Mac stepped
      gallantly to his support.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We've had enough of it, I do believe,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;But of
      course it was all fun, and here's my counters back. All counters in, boys!&rdquo;
      and he began to pour his winnings into the chest, which stood fortunately
      near him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carthew stepped across and wrung him by the hand. &ldquo;I'll never forget
      this,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what are ye going to do with the Highway boy and the plumber?&rdquo;
      inquired Mac, in a low tone of voice. &ldquo;They've both wan, ye see.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's true!&rdquo; said Carthew aloud. &ldquo;Amalu and Hemstead,
      count your winnings; Tommy and I pay that.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      It was carried without speech: the pair glad enough to receive their
      winnings, it mattered not from whence; and Tommy, who had lost about five
      hundred pounds, delighted with the compromise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And how about Mac?&rdquo; asked Hemstead. &ldquo;Is he to lose all?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I beg your pardon, plumber. I'm sure ye mean well,&rdquo; returned
      the Irishman, &ldquo;but you'd better shut your face, for I'm not that
      kind of a man. If I t'ought I had wan that money fair, there's never a
      soul here could get it from me. But I t'ought it was in fun; that was my
      mistake, ye see; and there's no man big enough upon this island to give a
      present to my mother's son. So there's my opinion to ye, plumber, and you
      can put it in your pockut till required.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I will say, Mac, you're a gentleman,&rdquo; said Carthew, as
      he helped him to shovel back his winnings into the treasure chest.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Divil a fear of it, sir! a drunken sailor-man,&rdquo; said Mac.
    </p>
    <p>
      The captain had sat somewhile with his face in his hands: now he rose
      mechanically, shaking and stumbling like a drunkard after a debauch. But
      as he rose, his face was altered, and his voice rang out over the isle,
      &ldquo;Sail, ho!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      All turned at the cry, and there, in the wild light of the morning,
      heading straight for Midway Reef, was the brig Flying Scud of Hull.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024">
       <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXIV. A HARD BARGAIN.
    </h2>
    <p>
      The ship which thus appeared before the castaways had long &ldquo;tramped&rdquo;
      the ocean, wandering from one port to another as freights offered. She was
      two years out from London, by the Cape of Good Hope, India, and the
      Archipelago; and was now bound for San Francisco in the hope of working
      homeward round the Horn. Her captain was one Jacob Trent. He had retired
      some five years before to a suburban cottage, a patch of cabbages, a gig,
      and the conduct of what he called a Bank. The name appears to have been
      misleading. Borrowers were accustomed to choose works of art and utility
      in the front shop; loaves of sugar and bolts of broadcloth were deposited
      in pledge; and it was a part of the manager's duty to dash in his gig on
      Saturday evenings from one small retailer's to another, and to annex in
      each the bulk of the week's takings. His was thus an active life, and to a
      man of the type of a rat, filled with recondite joys. An unexpected loss,
      a law suit, and the unintelligent commentary of the judge upon the bench,
      combined to disgust him of the business. I was so extraordinarily
      fortunate as to find, in an old newspaper, a report of the proceedings in
      Lyall v. The Cardiff Mutual Accommodation Banking Co. &ldquo;I confess I
      fail entirely to understand the nature of the business,&rdquo; the judge
      had remarked, while Trent was being examined in chief; a little after, on
      fuller information&mdash;&ldquo;They call it a bank,&rdquo; he had opined,
      &ldquo;but it seems to me to be an unlicensed pawnshop&rdquo;; and he
      wound up with this appalling allocution: &ldquo;Mr. Trent, I must put you
      on your guard; you must be very careful, or we shall see you here again.&rdquo;
      In the inside of a week the captain disposed of the bank, the cottage, and
      the gig and horse; and to sea again in the Flying Scud, where he did well
      and gave high satisfaction to his owners. But the glory clung to him; he
      was a plain sailor-man, he said, but he could never long allow you to
      forget that he had been a banker.
    </p>
    <p>
      His mate, Elias Goddedaal, was a huge viking of a man, six feet three and
      of proportionate mass, strong, sober, industrious, musical, and
      sentimental. He ran continually over into Swedish melodies, chiefly in the
      minor. He had paid nine dollars to hear Patti; to hear Nilsson, he had
      deserted a ship and two months' wages; and he was ready at any time to
      walk ten miles for a good concert, or seven to a reasonable play. On board
      he had three treasures: a canary bird, a concertina, and a blinding copy
      of the works of Shakespeare. He had a gift, peculiarly Scandinavian, of
      making friends at sight: an elemental innocence commended him; he was
      without fear, without reproach, and without money or the hope of making
      it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Holdorsen was second mate, and berthed aft, but messed usually with the
      hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      Of one more of the crew, some image lives. This was a foremast hand out of
      the Clyde, of the name of Brown. A small, dark, thickset creature, with
      dog's eyes, of a disposition incomparably mild and harmless, he knocked
      about seas and cities, the uncomplaining whiptop of one vice. &ldquo;The
      drink is my trouble, ye see,&rdquo; he said to Carthew shyly; &ldquo;and
      it's the more shame to me because I'm come of very good people at Bowling,
      down the wa'er.&rdquo; The letter that so much affected Nares, in case the
      reader should remember it, was addressed to this man Brown.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such was the ship that now carried joy into the bosoms of the castaways.
      After the fatigue and the bestial emotions of their night of play, the
      approach of salvation shook them from all self-control. Their hands
      trembled, their eyes shone, they laughed and shouted like children as they
      cleared their camp: and some one beginning to whistle <i>Marching Through
      Georgia,</i> the remainder of the packing was conducted, amidst a thousand
      interruptions, to these martial strains. But the strong head of Wicks was
      only partly turned.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Boys,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;easy all! We're going aboard of a ship
      of which we don't know nothing; we've got a chest of specie, and seeing
      the weight, we can't turn to and deny it. Now, suppose she was fishy;
      suppose it was some kind of a Bully Hayes business! It's my opinion we'd
      better be on hand with the pistols.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Every man of the party but Hemstead had some kind of a revolver; these
      were accordingly loaded and disposed about the persons of the castaways,
      and the packing was resumed and finished in the same rapturous spirit as
      it was begun. The sun was not yet ten degrees above the eastern sea, but
      the brig was already close in and hove to, before they had launched the
      boat and sped, shouting at the oars, towards the passage.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was blowing fresh outside, with a strong send of sea. The spray flew in
      the oarsmen's faces. They saw the Union Jack blow abroad from the Flying
      Scud, the men clustered at the rail, the cook in the galley door, the
      captain on the quarter-deck with a pith helmet and binoculars. And the
      whole familiar business, the comfort, company, and safety of a ship,
      heaving nearer at each stroke, maddened them with joy.
    </p>
    <p>
      Wicks was the first to catch the line, and swarm on board, helping hands
      grabbing him as he came and hauling him across the rail.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Captain, sir, I suppose?&rdquo; he said, turning to the hard old
      man in the pith helmet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Captain Trent, sir,&rdquo; returned the old gentleman.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I'm Captain Kirkup, and this is the crew of the Sydney
      schooner Currency Lass, dismasted at sea January 28th.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, ay,&rdquo; said Trent. &ldquo;Well, you're all right now. Lucky
      for you I saw your signal. I didn't know I was so near this beastly
      island, there must be a drift to the south'ard here; and when I came on
      deck this morning at eight bells, I thought it was a ship afire.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      It had been agreed that, while Wicks was to board the ship and do the
      civil, the rest were to remain in the whaleboat and see the treasure safe.
      A tackle was passed down to them; to this they made fast the invaluable
      chest, and gave the word to heave. But the unexpected weight brought the
      hand at the tackle to a stand; two others ran to tail on and help him, and
      the thing caught the eye of Trent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'Vast heaving!&rdquo; he cried sharply; and then to Wicks: &ldquo;What's
      that? I don't ever remember to have seen a chest weigh like that.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's money,&rdquo; said Wicks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's what?&rdquo; cried Trent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Specie,&rdquo; said Wicks; &ldquo;saved from the wreck.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Trent looked at him sharply. &ldquo;Here, let go that chest again, Mr.
      Goddedaal,&rdquo; he commanded, &ldquo;shove the boat off, and stream her
      with a line astern.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, ay, sir!&rdquo; from Goddedaal.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What the devil's wrong?&rdquo; asked Wicks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing, I daresay,&rdquo; returned Trent. &ldquo;But you'll allow
      it's a queer thing when a boat turns up in mid-ocean with half a ton of
      specie,&mdash;and everybody armed,&rdquo; he added, pointing to Wicks's
      pocket. &ldquo;Your boat will lay comfortably astern, while you come below
      and make yourself satisfactory.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, if that's all!&rdquo; said Wicks. &ldquo;My log and papers are
      as right as the mail; nothing fishy about us.&rdquo; And he hailed his
      friends in the boat, bidding them have patience, and turned to follow
      Captain Trent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This way, Captain Kirkup,&rdquo; said the latter. &ldquo;And don't
      blame a man for too much caution; no offence intended; and these China
      rivers shake a fellow's nerve. All I want is just to see you're what you
      say you are; it's only my duty, sir, and what you would do yourself in the
      circumstances. I've not always been a ship-captain: I was a banker once,
      and I tell you that's the trade to learn caution in. You have to keep your
      weather-eye lifting Saturday nights.&rdquo; And with a dry, business-like
      cordiality, he produced a bottle of gin.
    </p>
    <p>
      The captains pledged each other; the papers were overhauled; the tale of
      Topelius and the trade was told in appreciative ears and cemented their
      acquaintance. Trent's suspicions, thus finally disposed of, were succeeded
      by a fit of profound thought, during which he sat lethargic and stern,
      looking at and drumming on the table.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Anything more?&rdquo; asked Wicks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What sort of a place is it inside?&rdquo; inquired Trent, sudden as
      though Wicks had touched a spring.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's a good enough lagoon&mdash;a few horses' heads, but nothing to
      mention,&rdquo; answered Wicks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I've a good mind to go in,&rdquo; said Trent. &ldquo;I was new
      rigged in China; it's given very bad, and I'm getting frightened for my
      sticks. We could set it up as good as new in a day. For I daresay your lot
      would turn to and give us a hand?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You see if we don't!&rdquo; said Wicks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So be it, then,&rdquo; concluded Trent. &ldquo;A stitch in time
      saves nine.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      They returned on deck; Wicks cried the news to the Currency Lasses; the
      foretopsail was filled again, and the brig ran into the lagoon lively, the
      whaleboat dancing in her wake, and came to single anchor off Middle Brooks
      Island before eight. She was boarded by the castaways, breakfast was
      served, the baggage slung on board and piled in the waist, and all hands
      turned to upon the rigging. All day the work continued, the two crews
      rivalling each other in expense of strength. Dinner was served on deck,
      the officers messing aft under the slack of the spanker, the men
      fraternising forward. Trent appeared in excellent spirits, served out grog
      to all hands, opened a bottle of Cape wine for the after-table, and
      obliged his guests with many details of the life of a financier in
      Cardiff. He had been forty years at sea, had five times suffered
      shipwreck, was once nine months the prisoner of a pepper rajah, and had
      seen service under fire in Chinese rivers; but the only thing he cared to
      talk of, the only thing of which he was vain, or with which he thought it
      possible to interest a stranger, was his career as a money-lender in the
      slums of a seaport town.
    </p>
    <p>
      The afternoon spell told cruelly on the Currency Lasses. Already exhausted
      as they were with sleeplessness and excitement, they did the last hours of
      this violent employment on bare nerves; and when Trent was at last
      satisfied with the condition of his rigging, expected eagerly the word to
      put to sea. But the captain seemed in no hurry. He went and walked by
      himself softly, like a man in thought. Presently he hailed Wicks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You're a kind of company, ain't you, Captain Kirkup?&rdquo; he
      inquired.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, we're all on board on lays,&rdquo; was the reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, you won't mind if I ask the lot of you down to tea in
      the cabin?&rdquo; asked Trent.
    </p>
    <p>
      Wicks was amazed, but he naturally ventured no remark; and a little after,
      the six Currency Lasses sat down with Trent and Goddedaal to a spread of
      marmalade, butter, toast, sardines, tinned tongue, and steaming tea. The
      food was not very good, and I have no doubt Nares would have reviled it,
      but it was manna to the castaways. Goddedaal waited on them with a
      kindness far before courtesy, a kindness like that of some old, honest
      countrywoman in her farm. It was remembered afterwards that Trent took
      little share in these attentions, but sat much absorbed in thought, and
      seemed to remember and forget the presence of his guests alternately.
    </p>
    <p>
      Presently he addressed the Chinaman.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Clear out!&rdquo; said he, and watched him till he had disappeared
      in the stair. &ldquo;Now, gentlemen,&rdquo; he went on, &ldquo;I
      understand you're a joint-stock sort of crew, and that's why I've had you
      all down; for there's a point I want made clear. You see what sort of a
      ship this is&mdash;a good ship, though I say it, and you see what the
      rations are&mdash;good enough for sailor-men.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a hurried murmur of approval, but curiosity for what was coming
      next prevented an articulate reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; continued Trent, making bread pills and looking hard
      at the middle of the table, &ldquo;I'm glad of course to be able to give
      you a passage to 'Frisco; one sailor-man should help another, that's my
      motto. But when you want a thing in this world, you generally always have
      to pay for it.&rdquo; He laughed a brief, joyless laugh. &ldquo;I have no
      idea of losing by my kindness.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We have no idea you should, captain,&rdquo; said Wicks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We are ready to pay anything in reason,&rdquo; added Carthew.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the words, Goddedaal, who sat next to him, touched him with his elbow,
      and the two mates exchanged a significant look. The character of Captain
      Trent was given and taken in that silent second.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In reason?&rdquo; repeated the captain of the brig. &ldquo;I was
      waiting for that. Reason's between two people, and there's only one here.
      I'm the judge; I'm reason. If you want an advance you have to pay for it&rdquo;&mdash;he
      hastily corrected himself&mdash;&ldquo;If you want a passage in my ship,
      you have to pay my price,&rdquo; he substituted. &ldquo;That's business, I
      believe. I don't want you; you want me.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, sir,&rdquo; said Carthew, &ldquo;and what IS your price?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The captain made bread pills. &ldquo;If I were like you,&rdquo; he said,
      &ldquo;when you got hold of that merchant in the Gilberts, I might
      surprise you. You had your chance then; seems to me it's mine now. Turn
      about's fair play. What kind of mercy did you have on that Gilbert
      merchant?&rdquo; he cried, with a sudden stridency. &ldquo;Not that I
      blame you. All's fair in love and business,&rdquo; and he laughed again, a
      little frosty giggle.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, sir?&rdquo; said Carthew, gravely.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, this ship's mine, I think?&rdquo; he asked sharply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I'm of that way of thinking meself,&rdquo; observed Mac.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I say it's mine, sir!&rdquo; reiterated Trent, like a man trying to
      be angry. &ldquo;And I tell you all, if I was a driver like what you are,
      I would take the lot. But there's two thousand pounds there that don't
      belong to you, and I'm an honest man. Give me the two thousand that's
      yours, and I'll give you a passage to the coast, and land every man-jack
      of you in 'Frisco with fifteen pounds in his pocket, and the captain here
      with twenty-five.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Goddedaal laid down his head on the table like a man ashamed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You're joking,&rdquo; said Wicks, purple in the face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Am I?&rdquo; said Trent. &ldquo;Please yourselves. You're under no
      compulsion. This ship's mine, but there's that Brooks Island don't belong
      to me, and you can lay there till you die for what I care.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's more than your blooming brig's worth!&rdquo; cried Wicks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's my price anyway,&rdquo; returned Trent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And do you mean to say you would land us there to starve?&rdquo;
      cried Tommy.
    </p>
    <p>
      Captain Trent laughed the third time. &ldquo;Starve? I defy you to,&rdquo;
      said he. &ldquo;I'll sell you all the provisions you want at a fair
      profit.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I beg your pardon, sir,&rdquo; said Mac, &ldquo;but my case is by
      itself I'm working me passage; I got no share in that two thousand pounds
      nor nothing in my pockut; and I'll be glad to know what you have to say to
      me?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I ain't a hard man,&rdquo; said Trent. &ldquo;That shall make no
      difference. I'll take you with the rest, only of course you get no fifteen
      pound.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The impudence was so extreme and startling, that all breathed deep, and
      Goddedaal raised up his face and looked his superior sternly in the eye.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Mac was more articulate. &ldquo;And you're what ye call a British
      sayman, I suppose? the sorrow in your guts!&rdquo; he cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One more such word, and I clap you in irons!&rdquo; said Trent,
      rising gleefully at the face of opposition.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And where would I be the while you were doin' ut?&rdquo; asked Mac.
      &ldquo;After you and your rigging, too! Ye ould puggy, ye haven't the
      civility of a bug, and I'll learn ye some.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      His voice did not even rise as he uttered the threat; no man present,
      Trent least of all, expected that which followed. The Irishman's hand rose
      suddenly from below the table, an open clasp-knife balanced on the palm;
      there was a movement swift as conjuring; Trent started half to his feet,
      turning a little as he rose so as to escape the table, and the movement
      was his bane. The missile struck him in the jugular; he fell forward, and
      his blood flowed among the dishes on the cloth.
    </p>
    <p>
      The suddenness of the attack and the catastrophe, the instant change from
      peace to war and from life to death, held all men spellbound. Yet a moment
      they sat about the table staring open-mouthed upon the prostrate captain
      and the flowing blood. The next, Goddedaal had leaped to his feet, caught
      up the stool on which he had been sitting, and swung it high in air, a man
      transfigured, roaring (as he stood) so that men's ears were stunned with
      it. There was no thought of battle in the Currency Lasses; none drew his
      weapon; all huddled helplessly from before the face of the baresark
      Scandinavian. His first blow sent Mac to ground with a broken arm. His
      second bashed out the brains of Hemstead. He turned from one to another,
      menacing and trumpeting like a wounded elephant, exulting in his rage. But
      there was no counsel, no light of reason, in that ecstasy of battle; and
      he shied from the pursuit of victory to hail fresh blows upon the supine
      Hemstead, so that the stool was shattered and the cabin rang with their
      violence. The sight of that post-mortem cruelty recalled Carthew to the
      life of instinct, and his revolver was in hand and he had aimed and fired
      before he knew. The ear-bursting sound of the report was accompanied by a
      yell of pain; the colossus paused, swayed, tottered, and fell headlong on
      the body of his victim.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the instant silence that succeeded, the sound of feet pounding on the
      deck and in the companion leaped into hearing; and a face, that of the
      sailor Holdorsen, appeared below the bulkheads in the cabin doorway.
      Carthew shattered it with a second shot, for he was a marksman.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pistols!&rdquo; he cried, and charged at the companion, Wicks at
      his heels, Tommy and Amalu following. They trod the body of Holdorsen
      underfoot, and flew up-stairs and forth into the dusky blaze of a sunset
      red as blood. The numbers were still equal, but the Flying Scuds dreamed
      not of defence, and fled with one accord for the forecastle scuttle. Brown
      was first in flight; he disappeared below unscathed; the Chinaman followed
      head-foremost with a ball in his side; and the others shinned into the
      rigging.
    </p>
    <p>
      A fierce composure settled upon Wicks and Carthew, their fighting second
      wind. They posted Tommy at the fore and Amalu at the main to guard the
      masts and shrouds, and going themselves into the waist, poured out a box
      of cartridges on deck and filled the chambers. The poor devils aloft
      bleated aloud for mercy. But the hour of any mercy was gone by; the cup
      was brewed and must be drunken to the dregs; since so many had fallen all
      must fall. The light was bad, the cheap revolvers fouled and carried wild,
      the screaming wretches were swift to flatten themselves against the masts
      and yards or find a momentary refuge in the hanging sails. The fell
      business took long, but it was done at last. Hardy the Londoner was shot
      on the foreroyal yard, and hung horribly suspended in the brails. Wallen,
      the other, had his jaw broken on the maintop-gallant crosstrees, and
      exposed himself, shrieking, till a second shot dropped him on the deck.
    </p>
    <p>
      This had been bad enough, but worse remained behind. There was still Brown
      in the forepeak. Tommy, with a sudden clamour of weeping, begged for his
      life. &ldquo;One man can't hurt us,&rdquo; he sobbed. &ldquo;We can't go
      on with this. I spoke to him at dinner. He's an awful decent little cad.
      It can't be done. Nobody can go into that place and murder him. It's too
      damned wicked.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The sound of his supplications was perhaps audible to the unfortunate
      below.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One left, and we all hang,&rdquo; said Wicks. &ldquo;Brown must go
      the same road.&rdquo; The big man was deadly white and trembled like an
      aspen; and he had no sooner finished speaking, than he went to the ship's
      side and vomited.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We can never do it if we wait,&rdquo; said Carthew. &ldquo;Now or
      never,&rdquo; and he marched towards the scuttle.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no, no!&rdquo; wailed Tommy, clutching at his jacket.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Carthew flung him off, and stepped down the ladder, his heart rising
      with disgust and shame. The Chinaman lay on the floor, still groaning; the
      place was pitch dark.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Brown!&rdquo; cried Carthew, &ldquo;Brown, where are you?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      His heart smote him for the treacherous apostrophe, but no answer came.
    </p>
    <p>
      He groped in the bunks: they were all empty. Then he moved towards the
      forepeak, which was hampered with coils of rope and spare chandlery in
      general.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Brown!&rdquo; he said again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here, sir,&rdquo; answered a shaking voice; and the poor invisible
      caitiff called on him by name, and poured forth out of the darkness an
      endless, garrulous appeal for mercy. A sense of danger, of daring, had
      alone nerved Carthew to enter the forecastle; and here was the enemy
      crying and pleading like a frightened child. His obsequious &ldquo;Here,
      sir,&rdquo; his horrid fluency of obtestation, made the murder tenfold
      more revolting. Twice Carthew raised the pistol, once he pressed the
      trigger (or thought he did) with all his might, but no explosion followed;
      and with that the lees of his courage ran quite out, and he turned and
      fled from before his victim.
    </p>
    <p>
      Wicks sat on the fore hatch, raised the face of a man of seventy, and
      looked a wordless question. Carthew shook his head. With such composure as
      a man displays marching towards the gallows, Wicks arose, walked to the
      scuttle, and went down. Brown thought it was Carthew returning, and
      discovered himself, half crawling from his shelter, with another
      incoherent burst of pleading. Wicks emptied his revolver at the voice,
      which broke into mouse-like whimperings and groans. Silence succeeded, and
      the murderer ran on deck like one possessed.
    </p>
    <p>
      The other three were now all gathered on the fore hatch, and Wicks took
      his place beside them without question asked or answered. They sat close,
      like children in the dark, and shook each other with their shaking. The
      dusk continued to fall; and there was no sound but the beating of the surf
      and the occasional hiccup of a sob from Tommy Hadden.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God, if there was another ship!&rdquo; cried Carthew of a sudden.
    </p>
    <p>
      Wicks started and looked aloft with the trick of all seamen, and shuddered
      as he saw the hanging figure on the royal yard.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I went aloft, I'd fall,&rdquo; he said simply. &ldquo;I'm done
      up.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      It was Amalu who volunteered, climbed to the very truck, swept the fading
      horizon, and announced nothing within sight.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No odds,&rdquo; said Wicks. &ldquo;We can't sleep ...&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sleep!&rdquo; echoed Carthew; and it seemed as if the whole of
      Shakespeare's <i>Macbeth</i> thundered at the gallop through his mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, we can't sit and chitter here,&rdquo; said Wicks,
      &ldquo;till we've cleaned ship; and I can't turn to till I've had gin, and
      the gin's in the cabin, and who's to fetch it?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will,&rdquo; said Carthew, &ldquo;if any one has matches.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Amalu passed him a box, and he went aft and down the companion and into
      the cabin, stumbling upon bodies. Then he struck a match, and his looks
      fell upon two living eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well?&rdquo; asked Mac, for it was he who still survived in that
      shambles of a cabin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's done; they're all dead,&rdquo; answered Carthew.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Christ!&rdquo; said the Irishman, and fainted.
    </p>
    <p>
      The gin was found in the dead captain's cabin; it was brought on deck, and
      all hands had a dram, and attacked their farther task. The night was come,
      the moon would not be up for hours; a lamp was set on the main hatch to
      light Amalu as he washed down decks; and the galley lantern was taken to
      guide the others in their graveyard business. Holdorsen, Hemstead, Trent,
      and Goddedaal were first disposed of, the last still breathing as he went
      over the side; Wallen followed; and then Wicks, steadied by the gin, went
      aloft with a boathook and succeeded in dislodging Hardy. The Chinaman was
      their last task; he seemed to be light-headed, talked aloud in his unknown
      language as they brought him up, and it was only with the splash of his
      sinking body that the gibberish ceased. Brown, by common consent, was left
      alone. Flesh and blood could go no further.
    </p>
    <p>
      All this time they had been drinking undiluted gin like water; three
      bottles stood broached in different quarters; and none passed without a
      gulp. Tommy collapsed against the mainmast; Wicks fell on his face on the
      poop ladder and moved no more; Amalu had vanished unobserved. Carthew was
      the last afoot: he stood swaying at the break of the poop, and the
      lantern, which he still carried, swung with his movement. His head hummed;
      it swarmed with broken thoughts; memory of that day's abominations flared
      up and died down within him like the light of a lamp in a strong draught.
      And then he had a drunkard's inspiration.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There must be no more of this,&rdquo; he thought, and stumbled once
      more below.
    </p>
    <p>
      The absence of Holdorsen's body brought him to a stand. He stood and
      stared at the empty floor, and then remembered and smiled. From the
      captain's room he took the open case with one dozen and three bottles of
      gin, put the lantern inside, and walked precariously forth. Mac was once
      more conscious, his eyes haggard, his face drawn with pain and flushed
      with fever; and Carthew remembered he had never been seen to, had lain
      there helpless, and was so to lie all night, injured, perhaps dying. But
      it was now too late; reason had now fled from that silent ship. If Carthew
      could get on deck again, it was as much as he could hope; and casting on
      the unfortunate a glance of pity, the tragic drunkard shouldered his way
      up the companion, dropped the case overboard, and fell in the scuppers
      helpless.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025">
       <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXV. A BAD BARGAIN.
    </h2>
    <p>
      With the first colour in the east, Carthew awoke and sat up. A while he
      gazed at the scroll of the morning bank and the spars and hanging canvas
      of the brig, like a man who wakes in a strange bed, with a child's
      simplicity of wonder. He wondered above all what ailed him, what he had
      lost, what disfavour had been done him, which he knew he should resent,
      yet had forgotten. And then, like a river bursting through a dam, the
      truth rolled on him its instantaneous volume: his memory teemed with
      speech and pictures that he should never again forget; and he sprang to
      his feet, stood a moment hand to brow, and began to walk violently to and
      fro by the companion. As he walked, he wrung his hands. &ldquo;God&mdash;God&mdash;God,&rdquo;
      he kept saying, with no thought of prayer, uttering a mere voice of agony.
    </p>
    <p>
      The time may have been long or short, it was perhaps minutes, perhaps only
      seconds, ere he awoke to find himself observed, and saw the captain
      sitting up and watching him over the break of the poop, a strange
      blindness as of fever in his eyes, a haggard knot of corrugations on his
      brow. Cain saw himself in a mirror. For a flash they looked upon each
      other, and then glanced guiltily aside; and Carthew fled from the eye of
      his accomplice, and stood leaning on the taffrail.
    </p>
    <p>
      An hour went by, while the day came brighter, and the sun rose and drank
      up the clouds: an hour of silence in the ship, an hour of agony beyond
      narration for the sufferers. Brown's gabbling prayers, the cries of the
      sailors in the rigging, strains of the dead Hemstead's minstrelsy, ran
      together in Carthew's mind, with sickening iteration. He neither acquitted
      nor condemned himself: he did not think, he suffered. In the bright water
      into which he stared, the pictures changed and were repeated: the baresark
      rage of Goddedaal; the blood-red light of the sunset into which they had
      run forth; the face of the babbling Chinaman as they cast him over; the
      face of the captain, seen a moment since, as he awoke from drunkenness
      into remorse. And time passed, and the sun swam higher, and his torment
      was not abated.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then were fulfilled many sayings, and the weakest of these condemned
      brought relief and healing to the others. Amalu the drudge awoke (like the
      rest) to sickness of body and distress of mind; but the habit of obedience
      ruled in that simple spirit, and appalled to be so late, he went direct
      into the galley, kindled the fire, and began to get breakfast. At the
      rattle of dishes, the snapping of the fire, and the thin smoke that went
      up straight into the air, the spell was lifted. The condemned felt once
      more the good dry land of habit under foot; they touched again the
      familiar guide-ropes of sanity; they were restored to a sense of the
      blessed revolution and return of all things earthly. The captain drew a
      bucket of water and began to bathe. Tommy sat up, watched him awhile, and
      slowly followed his example; and Carthew, remembering his last thoughts of
      the night before, hastened to the cabin.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mac was awake; perhaps had not slept. Over his head Goddedaal's canary
      twittered shrilly from its cage.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How are you?&rdquo; asked Carthew.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Me arrum's broke,&rdquo; returned Mac; &ldquo;but I can stand that.
      It's this place I can't abide. I was coming on deck anyway.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stay where you are, though,&rdquo; said Carthew. &ldquo;It's deadly
      hot above, and there's no wind. I'll wash out this&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
      and he paused, seeking a word and not finding one for the grisly foulness
      of the cabin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Faith, I'll be obliged to ye, then,&rdquo; replied the Irishman. He
      spoke mild and meek, like a sick child with its mother. There was now no
      violence in the violent man; and as Carthew fetched a bucket and swab and
      the steward's sponge, and began to cleanse the field of battle, he
      alternately watched him or shut his eyes and sighed like a man near
      fainting. &ldquo;I have to ask all your pardons,&rdquo; he began again
      presently, &ldquo;and the more shame to me as I got ye into trouble and
      couldn't do nothing when it came. Ye saved me life, sir; ye're a clane
      shot.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For God's sake, don't talk of it!&rdquo; cried Carthew. &ldquo;It
      can't be talked of; you don't know what it was. It was nothing down here;
      they fought. On deck&mdash;O, my God!&rdquo; And Carthew, with the bloody
      sponge pressed to his face, struggled a moment with hysteria.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Kape cool, Mr. Cart'ew. It's done now,&rdquo; said Mac; &ldquo;and
      ye may bless God ye're not in pain and helpless in the bargain.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      There was no more said by one or other, and the cabin was pretty well
      cleansed when a stroke on the ship's bell summoned Carthew to breakfast.
      Tommy had been busy in the meanwhile; he had hauled the whaleboat close
      aboard, and already lowered into it a small keg of beef that he found
      ready broached beside the galley door; it was plain he had but the one
      idea&mdash;to escape.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We have a shipful of stores to draw upon,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Well,
      what are we staying for? Let's get off at once for Hawaii. I've begun
      preparing already.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mac has his arm broken,&rdquo; observed Carthew; &ldquo;how would
      he stand the voyage?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A broken arm?&rdquo; repeated the captain. &ldquo;That all? I'll
      set it after breakfast. I thought he was dead like the rest. That madman
      hit out like&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; and there, at the evocation of the
      battle, his voice ceased and the talk died with it.
    </p>
    <p>
      After breakfast, the three white men went down into the cabin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I've come to set your arm,&rdquo; said the captain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I beg your pardon, captain,&rdquo; replied Mac; &ldquo;but the
      firrst thing ye got to do is to get this ship to sea. We'll talk of me
      arrum after that.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, there's no such blooming hurry,&rdquo; returned Wicks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When the next ship sails in, ye'll tell me stories!&rdquo; retorted
      Mac.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But there's nothing so unlikely in the world,&rdquo; objected
      Carthew.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't be deceivin' yourself,&rdquo; said Mac. &ldquo;If ye want a
      ship, divil a one'll look near ye in six year; but if ye don't, ye may
      take my word for ut, we'll have a squadron layin' here.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's what I say,&rdquo; cried Tommy; &ldquo;that's what I call
      sense! Let's stock that whaleboat and be off.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what will Captain Wicks be thinking of the whaleboat?&rdquo;
      asked the Irishman.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't think of it at all,&rdquo; said Wicks. &ldquo;We've a
      smart-looking brig under foot; that's all the whaleboat I want.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Excuse me!&rdquo; cried Tommy. &ldquo;That's childish talk. You've
      got a brig, to be sure, and what use is she? You daren't go anywhere in
      her. What port are you to sail for?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For the port of Davy Jones's Locker, my son,&rdquo; replied the
      captain. &ldquo;This brig's going to be lost at sea. I'll tell you where,
      too, and that's about forty miles to windward of Kauai. We're going to
      stay by her till she's down; and once the masts are under, she's the
      Flying Scud no more, and we never heard of such a brig; and it's the crew
      of the schooner Currency Lass that comes ashore in the boat, and takes the
      first chance to Sydney.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Captain dear, that's the first Christian word I've heard of ut!&rdquo;
      cried Mac. &ldquo;And now, just let me arrum be, jewel, and get the brig
      outside.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm as anxious as yourself, Mac,&rdquo; returned Wicks; &ldquo;but
      there's not wind enough to swear by. So let's see your arm, and no more
      talk.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The arm was set and splinted; the body of Brown fetched from the forepeak,
      where it lay still and cold, and committed to the waters of the lagoon;
      and the washing of the cabin rudely finished. All these were done ere
      midday; and it was past three when the first cat's-paw ruffled the lagoon,
      and the wind came in a dry squall, which presently sobered to a steady
      breeze.
    </p>
    <p>
      The interval was passed by all in feverish impatience, and by one of the
      party in secret and extreme concern of mind. Captain Wicks was a
      fore-and-aft sailor; he could take a schooner through a Scotch reel, felt
      her mouth and divined her temper like a rider with a horse; she, on her
      side, recognising her master and following his wishes like a dog. But by a
      not very unusual train of circumstance, the man's dexterity was partial
      and circumscribed. On a schooner's deck he was Rembrandt or (at the least)
      Mr. Whistler; on board a brig he was Pierre Grassou. Again and again in
      the course of the morning, he had reasoned out his policy and rehearsed
      his orders; and ever with the same depression and weariness. It was
      guess-work; it was chance; the ship might behave as he expected, and might
      not; suppose she failed him, he stood there helpless, beggared of all the
      proved resources of experience. Had not all hands been so weary, had he
      not feared to communicate his own misgivings, he could have towed her out.
      But these reasons sufficed, and the most he could do was to take all
      possible precautions. Accordingly he had Carthew aft, explained what was
      to be done with anxious patience, and visited along with him the various
      sheets and braces.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hope I'll remember,&rdquo; said Carthew. &ldquo;It seems awfully
      muddled.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's the rottenest kind of rig,&rdquo; the captain admitted:
      &ldquo;all blooming pocket handkerchiefs! And not one sailor-man on deck!
      Ah, if she'd only been a brigantine, now! But it's lucky the passage is so
      plain; there's no manoeuvring to mention. We get under way before the
      wind, and run right so till we begin to get foul of the island; then we
      haul our wind and lie as near south-east as may be till we're on that
      line; 'bout ship there and stand straight out on the port tack. Catch the
      idea?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I see the idea,&rdquo; replied Carthew, rather dismally, and
      the two incompetents studied for a long time in silence the complicated
      gear above their heads.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the time came when these rehearsals must be put in practice. The sails
      were lowered, and all hands heaved the anchor short. The whaleboat was
      then cut adrift, the upper topsails and the spanker set, the yards braced
      up, and the spanker sheet hauled out to starboard.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Heave away on your anchor, Mr. Carthew.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Anchor's gone, sir.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Set jibs.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      It was done, and the brig still hung enchanted. Wicks, his head full of a
      schooner's mainsail, turned his mind to the spanker. First he hauled in
      the sheet, and then he hauled it out, with no result.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Brail the damned thing up!&rdquo; he bawled at last, with a red
      face. &ldquo;There ain't no sense in it.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      It was the last stroke of bewilderment for the poor captain, that he had
      no sooner brailed up the spanker than the vessel came before the wind. The
      laws of nature seemed to him to be suspended; he was like a man in a world
      of pantomime tricks; the cause of any result, and the probable result of
      any action, equally concealed from him. He was the more careful not to
      shake the nerve of his amateur assistants. He stood there with a face like
      a torch; but he gave his orders with aplomb; and indeed, now the ship was
      under weigh, supposed his difficulties over.
    </p>
    <p>
      The lower topsails and courses were then set, and the brig began to walk
      the water like a thing of life, her forefoot discoursing music, the birds
      flying and crying over her spars. Bit by bit the passage began to open and
      the blue sea to show between the flanking breakers on the reef; bit by
      bit, on the starboard bow, the low land of the islet began to heave closer
      aboard. The yards were braced up, the spanker sheet hauled aft again; the
      brig was close hauled, lay down to her work like a thing in earnest, and
      had soon drawn near to the point of advantage, where she might stay and
      lie out of the lagoon in a single tack.
    </p>
    <p>
      Wicks took the wheel himself, swelling with success. He kept the brig full
      to give her heels, and began to bark his orders: &ldquo;Ready about.
      Helm's a-lee. Tacks and sheets. Mainsail haul.&rdquo; And then the fatal
      words: &ldquo;That'll do your mainsail; jump forrard and haul round your
      foreyards.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      To stay a square-rigged ship is an affair of knowledge and swift sight;
      and a man used to the succinct evolutions of a schooner will always tend
      to be too hasty with a brig. It was so now. The order came too soon; the
      topsails set flat aback; the ship was in irons. Even yet, had the helm
      been reversed, they might have saved her. But to think of a stern-board at
      all, far more to think of profiting by one, were foreign to the
      schooner-sailor's mind. Wicks made haste instead to wear ship, a manoeuvre
      for which room was wanting, and the Flying Scud took ground on a bank of
      sand and coral about twenty minutes before five.
    </p>
    <p>
      Wicks was no hand with a square-rigger, and he had shown it. But he was a
      sailor and a born captain of men for all homely purposes, where intellect
      is not required and an eye in a man's head and a heart under his jacket
      will suffice. Before the others had time to understand the misfortune, he
      was bawling fresh orders, and had the sails clewed up, and took soundings
      round the ship.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She lies lovely,&rdquo; he remarked, and ordered out a boat with
      the starboard anchor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here! steady!&rdquo; cried Tommy. &ldquo;You ain't going to turn us
      to, to warp her off?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am though,&rdquo; replied Wicks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I won't set a hand to such tomfoolery for one,&rdquo; replied
      Tommy. &ldquo;I'm dead beat.&rdquo; He went and sat down doggedly on the
      main hatch. &ldquo;You got us on; get us off again,&rdquo; he added.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carthew and Wicks turned to each other.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps you don't know how tired we are,&rdquo; said Carthew.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The tide's flowing!&rdquo; cried the captain. &ldquo;You wouldn't
      have me miss a rising tide?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, gammon! there's tides to-morrow!&rdquo; retorted Tommy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I'll tell you what,&rdquo; added Carthew, &ldquo;the breeze is
      failing fast, and the sun will soon be down. We may get into all kinds of
      fresh mess in the dark and with nothing but light airs.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't deny it,&rdquo; answered Wicks, and stood awhile as if in
      thought. &ldquo;But what I can't make out,&rdquo; he began again, with
      agitation, &ldquo;what I can't make out is what you're made of! To stay in
      this place is beyond me. There's the bloody sun going down&mdash;and to
      stay here is beyond me!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The others looked upon him with horrified surprise. This fall of their
      chief pillar&mdash;this irrational passion in the practical man, suddenly
      barred out of his true sphere, the sphere of action&mdash;shocked and
      daunted them. But it gave to another and unseen hearer the chance for
      which he had been waiting. Mac, on the striking of the brig, had crawled
      up the companion, and he now showed himself and spoke up.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Captain Wicks,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;it's me that brought this
      trouble on the lot of ye. I'm sorry for ut, I ask all your pardons, and if
      there's any one can say 'I forgive ye,' it'll make my soul the lighter.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Wicks stared upon the man in amaze; then his self-control returned to him.
      &ldquo;We're all in glass houses here,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;we ain't
      going to turn to and throw stones. I forgive you, sure enough; and much
      good may it do you!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The others spoke to the same purpose.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thank ye for ut, and 'tis done like gentlemen,&rdquo; said Mac.
      &ldquo;But there's another thing I have upon my mind. I hope we're all
      Prodestan's here?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      It appeared they were; it seemed a small thing for the Protestant religion
      to rejoice in!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, that's as it should be,&rdquo; continued Mac. &ldquo;And why
      shouldn't we say the Lord's Prayer? There can't be no hurt in ut.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      He had the same quiet, pleading, childlike way with him as in the morning;
      and the others accepted his proposal, and knelt down without a word.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Knale if ye like!&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;I'll stand.&rdquo; And he
      covered his eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      So the prayer was said to the accompaniment of the surf and seabirds, and
      all rose refreshed and felt lightened of a load. Up to then, they had
      cherished their guilty memories in private, or only referred to them in
      the heat of a moment and fallen immediately silent. Now they had faced
      their remorse in company, and the worst seemed over. Nor was it only that.
      But the petition &ldquo;Forgive us our trespasses,&rdquo; falling in so
      apposite after they had themselves forgiven the immediate author of their
      miseries, sounded like an absolution.
    </p>
    <p>
      Tea was taken on deck in the time of the sunset, and not long after the
      five castaways&mdash;castaways once more&mdash;lay down to sleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      Day dawned windless and hot. Their slumbers had been too profound to be
      refreshing, and they woke listless, and sat up, and stared about them with
      dull eyes. Only Wicks, smelling a hard day's work ahead, was more alert.
      He went first to the well, sounded it once and then a second time, and
      stood awhile with a grim look, so that all could see he was dissatisfied.
      Then he shook himself, stripped to the buff, clambered on the rail, drew
      himself up and raised his arms to plunge. The dive was never taken. He
      stood instead transfixed, his eyes on the horizon.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hand up that glass,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      In a trice they were all swarming aloft, the nude captain leading with the
      glass.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the northern horizon was a finger of grey smoke, straight in the
      windless air like a point of admiration.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you make it?&rdquo; they asked of Wicks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She's truck down,&rdquo; he replied; &ldquo;no telling yet. By the
      way the smoke builds, she must be heading right here.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What can she be?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She might be a China mail,&rdquo; returned Wicks, &ldquo;and she
      might be a blooming man-of-war, come to look for castaways. Here! This
      ain't the time to stand staring. On deck, boys!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      He was the first on deck, as he had been the first aloft, handed down the
      ensign, bent it again to the signal halliards, and ran it up union down.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now hear me,&rdquo; he said, jumping into his trousers, &ldquo;and
      everything I say you grip on to. If that's a man-of-war, she'll be in a
      tearing hurry; all these ships are what don't do nothing and have their
      expenses paid. That's our chance; for we'll go with them, and they won't
      take the time to look twice or to ask a question. I'm Captain Trent;
      Carthew, you're Goddedaal; Tommy, you're Hardy; Mac's Brown; Amalu&mdash;Hold
      hard! we can't make a Chinaman of him! Ah Wing must have deserted; Amalu
      stowed away; and I turned him to as cook, and was never at the bother to
      sign him. Catch the idea? Say your names.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And that pale company recited their lesson earnestly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What were the names of the other two?&rdquo; he asked. &ldquo;Him
      Carthew shot in the companion, and the one I caught in the jaw on the main
      top-gallant?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Holdorsen and Wallen,&rdquo; said some one.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, they're drowned,&rdquo; continued Wicks; &ldquo;drowned
      alongside trying to lower a boat. We had a bit of a squall last night:
      that's how we got ashore.&rdquo; He ran and squinted at the compass.
      &ldquo;Squall out of nor'-nor'-west-half-west; blew hard; every one in a
      mess, falls jammed, and Holdorsen and Wallen spilt overboard. See? Clear
      your blooming heads!&rdquo; He was in his jacket now, and spoke with a
      feverish impatience and contention that rang like anger.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But is it safe?&rdquo; asked Tommy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Safe?&rdquo; bellowed the captain. &ldquo;We're standing on the
      drop, you moon-calf! If that ship's bound for China (which she don't look
      to be), we're lost as soon as we arrive; if she's bound the other way, she
      comes from China, don't she? Well, if there's a man on board of her that
      ever clapped eyes on Trent or any blooming hand out of this brig, we'll
      all be in irons in two hours. Safe! no, it ain't safe; it's a beggarly
      last chance to shave the gallows, and that's what it is.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      At this convincing picture, fear took hold on all.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hadn't we a hundred times better stay by the brig?&rdquo; cried
      Carthew. &ldquo;They would give us a hand to float her off.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You'll make me waste this holy day in chattering!&rdquo; cried
      Wicks. &ldquo;Look here, when I sounded the well this morning, there was
      two foot of water there against eight inches last night. What's wrong? I
      don't know; might be nothing; might be the worst kind of smash. And then,
      there we are in for a thousand miles in an open boat, if that's your
      taste!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But it may be nothing, and anyway their carpenters are bound to
      help us repair her,&rdquo; argued Carthew.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Moses Murphy!&rdquo; cried the captain. &ldquo;How did she strike?
      Bows on, I believe. And she's down by the head now. If any carpenter comes
      tinkering here, where'll he go first? Down in the forepeak, I suppose! And
      then, how about all that blood among the chandlery? You would think you
      were a lot of members of Parliament discussing Plimsoll; and you're just a
      pack of murderers with the halter round your neck. Any other ass got any
      time to waste? No? Thank God for that! Now, all hands! I'm going below,
      and I leave you here on deck. You get the boat cover off that boat; then
      you turn to and open the specie chest. There are five of us; get five
      chests, and divide the specie equal among the five&mdash;put it at the
      bottom&mdash;and go at it like tigers. Get blankets, or canvas, or
      clothes, so it won't rattle. It'll make five pretty heavy chests, but we
      can't help that. You, Carthew&mdash;dash me!&mdash;You, Mr. Goddedaal,
      come below. We've our share before us.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And he cast another glance at the smoke, and hurried below with Carthew at
      his heels.
    </p>
    <p>
      The logs were found in the main cabin behind the canary's cage; two of
      them, one kept by Trent, one by Goddedaal. Wicks looked first at one, then
      at the other, and his lip stuck out.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can you forge hand of write?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said Carthew.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There's luck for you&mdash;no more can I!&rdquo; cried the captain.
      &ldquo;Hullo! here's worse yet, here's this Goddedaal up to date; he must
      have filled it in before supper. See for yourself: 'Smoke observed.&mdash;Captain
      Kirkup and five hands of the schooner Currency Lass.' Ah! this is better,&rdquo;
      he added, turning to the other log. &ldquo;The old man ain't written
      anything for a clear fortnight. We'll dispose of your log altogether, Mr.
      Goddedaal, and stick to the old man's&mdash;to mine, I mean; only I ain't
      going to write it up, for reasons of my own. You are. You're going to sit
      down right here and fill it in the way I tell you.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How to explain the loss of mine?&rdquo; asked Carthew.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You never kept one,&rdquo; replied the captain. &ldquo;Gross
      neglect of duty. You'll catch it.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And the change of writing?&rdquo; resumed Carthew. &ldquo;You
      began; why do you stop and why do I come in? And you'll have to sign
      anyway.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O! I've met with an accident and can't write,&rdquo; replied Wicks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;An accident?&rdquo; repeated Carthew. &ldquo;It don't sound
      natural. What kind of an accident?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Wicks spread his hand face-up on the table, and drove a knife through his
      palm.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That kind of an accident,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;There's a way to
      draw to windward of most difficulties, if you've a head on your shoulders.&rdquo;
      He began to bind up his hand with a handkerchief, glancing the while over
      Goddedaal's log. &ldquo;Hullo!&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;this'll never do for
      us&mdash;this is an impossible kind of a yarn. Here, to begin with, is
      this Captain Trent trying some fancy course, leastways he's a thousand
      miles to south'ard of the great circle. And here, it seems, he was close
      up with this island on the sixth, sails all these days, and is close up
      with it again by daylight on the eleventh.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Goddedaal said they had the deuce's luck,&rdquo; said Carthew.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, it don't look like real life&mdash;that's all I can say,&rdquo;
      returned Wicks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's the way it was, though,&rdquo; argued Carthew.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So it is; and what the better are we for that, if it don't look so?&rdquo;
      cried the captain, sounding unwonted depths of art criticism. &ldquo;Here!
      try and see if you can't tie this bandage; I'm bleeding like a pig.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      As Carthew sought to adjust the handkerchief, his patient seemed sunk in a
      deep muse, his eye veiled, his mouth partly open. The job was yet scarce
      done, when he sprang to his feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have it,&rdquo; he broke out, and ran on deck. &ldquo;Here, boys!&rdquo;
      he cried, &ldquo;we didn't come here on the eleventh; we came in here on
      the evening of the sixth, and lay here ever since becalmed. As soon as
      you've done with these chests,&rdquo; he added, &ldquo;you can turn to and
      roll out beef and water breakers; it'll look more shipshape&mdash;like as
      if we were getting ready for the boat voyage.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And he was back again in a moment, cooking the new log. Goddedaal's was
      then carefully destroyed, and a hunt began for the ship's papers. Of all
      the agonies of that breathless morning, this was perhaps the most
      poignant. Here and there the two men searched, cursing, cannoning
      together, streaming with heat, freezing with terror. News was bawled down
      to them that the ship was indeed a man-of-war, that she was close up, that
      she was lowering a boat; and still they sought in vain. By what accident
      they missed the iron box with the money and accounts, is hard to fancy;
      but they did. And the vital documents were found at last in the pocket of
      Trent's shore-going coat, where he had left them when last he came on
      board.
    </p>
    <p>
      Wicks smiled for the first time that morning. &ldquo;None too soon,&rdquo;
      said he. &ldquo;And now for it! Take these others for me; I'm afraid I'll
      get them mixed if I keep both.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What are they?&rdquo; Carthew asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They're the Kirkup and Currency Lass papers,&rdquo; he replied.
      &ldquo;Pray God we need 'em again!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Boat's inside the lagoon, sir,&rdquo; hailed down Mac, who sat by
      the skylight doing sentry while the others worked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Time we were on deck, then, Mr. Goddedaal,&rdquo; said Wicks.
    </p>
    <p>
      As they turned to leave the cabin, the canary burst into piercing song.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My God!&rdquo; cried Carthew, with a gulp, &ldquo;we can't leave
      that wretched bird to starve. It was poor Goddedaal's.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bring the bally thing along!&rdquo; cried the captain.
    </p>
    <p>
      And they went on deck.
    </p>
    <p>
      An ugly brute of a modern man-of-war lay just without the reef, now quite
      inert, now giving a flap or two with her propeller. Nearer hand, and just
      within, a big white boat came skimming to the stroke of many oars, her
      ensign blowing at the stern.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One word more,&rdquo; said Wicks, after he had taken in the scene.
      &ldquo;Mac, you've been in China ports? All right; then you can speak for
      yourself. The rest of you I kept on board all the time we were in
      Hongkong, hoping you would desert; but you fooled me and stuck to the
      brig. That'll make your lying come easier.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The boat was now close at hand; a boy in the stern sheets was the only
      officer, and a poor one plainly, for the men were talking as they pulled.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank God, they've only sent a kind of a middy!&rdquo; ejaculated
      Wicks. &ldquo;Here you, Hardy, stand for'ard! I'll have no deck hands on
      my quarter-deck,&rdquo; he cried, and the reproof braced the whole crew
      like a cold douche.
    </p>
    <p>
      The boat came alongside with perfect neatness, and the boy officer stepped
      on board, where he was respectfully greeted by Wicks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You the master of this ship?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, sir,&rdquo; said Wicks. &ldquo;Trent is my name, and this is
      the Flying Scud of Hull.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You seem to have got into a mess,&rdquo; said the officer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you'll step aft with me here, I'll tell you all there is of it,&rdquo;
      said Wicks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, man, you're shaking!&rdquo; cried the officer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So would you, perhaps, if you had been in the same berth,&rdquo;
      returned Wicks; and he told the whole story of the rotten water, the long
      calm, the squall, the seamen drowned; glibly and hotly; talking, with his
      head in the lion's mouth, like one pleading in the dock. I heard the same
      tale from the same narrator in the saloon in San Francisco; and even then
      his bearing filled me with suspicion. But the officer was no observer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, the captain is in no end of a hurry,&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;but
      I was instructed to give you all the assistance in my power, and signal
      back for another boat if more hands were necessary. What can I do for you?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, we won't keep you no time,&rdquo; replied Wicks cheerily.
      &ldquo;We're all ready, bless you&mdash;men's chests, chronometer, papers
      and all.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you mean to leave her?&rdquo; cried the officer. &ldquo;She
      seems to me to lie nicely; can't we get your ship off?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So we could, and no mistake; but how we're to keep her afloat's
      another question. Her bows is stove in,&rdquo; replied Wicks.
    </p>
    <p>
      The officer coloured to the eyes. He was incompetent and knew he was;
      thought he was already detected, and feared to expose himself again. There
      was nothing further from his mind than that the captain should deceive
      him; if the captain was pleased, why, so was he. &ldquo;All right,&rdquo;
      he said. &ldquo;Tell your men to get their chests aboard.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Goddedaal, turn the hands to to get the chests aboard,&rdquo;
      said Wicks.
    </p>
    <p>
      The four Currency Lasses had waited the while on tenter-hooks. This
      welcome news broke upon them like the sun at midnight; and Hadden burst
      into a storm of tears, sobbing aloud as he heaved upon the tackle. But the
      work went none the less briskly forward; chests, men, and bundles were got
      over the side with alacrity; the boat was shoved off; it moved out of the
      long shadow of the Flying Scud, and its bows were pointed at the passage.
    </p>
    <p>
      So much, then, was accomplished. The sham wreck had passed muster; they
      were clear of her, they were safe away; and the water widened between them
      and her damning evidences. On the other hand, they were drawing nearer to
      the ship of war, which might very well prove to be their prison and a
      hangman's cart to bear them to the gallows&mdash;of which they had not yet
      learned either whence she came or whither she was bound; and the doubt
      weighed upon their heart like mountains.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was Wicks who did the talking. The sound was small in Carthew's ears,
      like the voices of men miles away, but the meaning of each word struck
      home to him like a bullet. &ldquo;What did you say your ship was?&rdquo;
      inquired Wicks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tempest, don't you know?&rdquo; returned the officer.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don't you know? What could that mean? Perhaps nothing: perhaps that the
      ships had met already. Wicks took his courage in both hands. &ldquo;Where
      is she bound?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, we're just looking in at all these miserable islands here,&rdquo;
      said the officer. &ldquo;Then we bear up for San Francisco.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, yes, you're from China ways, like us?&rdquo; pursued Wicks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hong Kong,&rdquo; said the officer, and spat over the side.
    </p>
    <p>
      Hong Kong. Then the game was up; as soon as they set foot on board, they
      would be seized; the wreck would be examined, the blood found, the lagoon
      perhaps dredged, and the bodies of the dead would reappear to testify. An
      impulse almost incontrollable bade Carthew rise from the thwart, shriek
      out aloud, and leap overboard; it seemed so vain a thing to dissemble
      longer, to dally with the inevitable, to spin out some hundred seconds
      more of agonised suspense, with shame and death thus visibly approaching.
      But the indomitable Wicks persevered. His face was like a skull, his voice
      scarce recognisable; the dullest of men and officers (it seemed) must have
      remarked that telltale countenance and broken utterance. And still he
      persevered, bent upon certitude.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nice place, Hong Kong?&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm sure I don't know,&rdquo; said the officer. &ldquo;Only a day
      and a half there; called for orders and came straight on here. Never heard
      of such a beastly cruise.&rdquo; And he went on describing and lamenting
      the untoward fortunes of the Tempest.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Wicks and Carthew heeded him no longer. They lay back on the gunnel,
      breathing deep, sunk in a stupor of the body: the mind within still nimbly
      and agreeably at work, measuring the past danger, exulting in the present
      relief, numbering with ecstasy their ultimate chances of escape. For the
      voyage in the man-of-war they were now safe; yet a few more days of peril,
      activity, and presence of mind in San Francisco, and the whole horrid tale
      was blotted out; and Wicks again became Kirkup, and Goddedaal became
      Carthew&mdash;men beyond all shot of possible suspicion, men who had never
      heard of the Flying Scud, who had never been in sight of Midway Reef.
    </p>
    <p>
      So they came alongside, under many craning heads of seamen and projecting
      mouths of guns; so they climbed on board somnambulous, and looked blindly
      about them at the tall spars, the white decks, and the crowding ship's
      company, and heard men as from far away, and answered them at random.
    </p>
    <p>
      And then a hand fell softly on Carthew's shoulder.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Norrie, old chappie, where have you dropped from? All the
      world's been looking for you. Don't you know you've come into your
      kingdom?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      He turned, beheld the face of his old schoolmate Sebright, and fell
      unconscious at his feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      The doctor was attending him, a while later, in Lieutenant Sebright's
      cabin, when he came to himself. He opened his eyes, looked hard in the
      strange face, and spoke with a kind of solemn vigour.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Brown must go the same road,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;now or never.&rdquo;
      And then paused, and his reason coming to him with more clearness, spoke
      again: &ldquo;What was I saying? Where am I? Who are you?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am the doctor of the Tempest,&rdquo; was the reply. &ldquo;You
      are in Lieutenant Sebright's berth, and you may dismiss all concern from
      your mind. Your troubles are over, Mr. Carthew.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why do you call me that?&rdquo; he asked. &ldquo;Ah, I remember&mdash;Sebright
      knew me! O!&rdquo; and he groaned and shook. &ldquo;Send down Wicks to me;
      I must see Wicks at once!&rdquo; he cried, and seized the doctor's wrist
      with unconscious violence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All right,&rdquo; said the doctor. &ldquo;Let's make a bargain. You
      swallow down this draught, and I'll go and fetch Wicks.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And he gave the wretched man an opiate that laid him out within ten
      minutes and in all likelihood preserved his reason.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was the doctor's next business to attend to Mac; and he found occasion,
      while engaged upon his arm, to make the man repeat the names of the
      rescued crew. It was now the turn of the captain, and there is no doubt he
      was no longer the man that we have seen; sudden relief, the sense of
      perfect safety, a square meal and a good glass of grog, had all combined
      to relax his vigilance and depress his energy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When was this done?&rdquo; asked the doctor, looking at the wound.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;More than a week ago,&rdquo; replied Wicks, thinking singly of his
      log.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hey?&rdquo; cried the doctor, and he raised his hand and looked the
      captain in the eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't remember exactly,&rdquo; faltered Wicks.
    </p>
    <p>
      And at this remarkable falsehood, the suspicions of the doctor were at
      once quadrupled.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By the way, which of you is called Wicks?&rdquo; he asked easily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What's that?&rdquo; snapped the captain, falling white as paper.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wicks,&rdquo; repeated the doctor; &ldquo;which of you is he?
      that's surely a plain question.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Wicks stared upon his questioner in silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Which is Brown, then?&rdquo; pursued the doctor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What are you talking of? what do you mean by this?&rdquo; cried
      Wicks, snatching his half-bandaged hand away, so that the blood sprinkled
      in the surgeon's face.
    </p>
    <p>
      He did not trouble to remove it. Looking straight at his victim, he
      pursued his questions. &ldquo;Why must Brown go the same way?&rdquo; he
      asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      Wicks fell trembling on a locker. &ldquo;Carthew's told you,&rdquo; he
      cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; replied the doctor, &ldquo;he has not. But he and you
      between you have set me thinking, and I think there's something wrong.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give me some grog,&rdquo; said Wicks. &ldquo;I'd rather tell than
      have you find out. I'm damned if it's half as bad as what any one would
      think.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And with the help of a couple of strong grogs, the tragedy of the Flying
      Scud was told for the first time.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a fortunate series of accidents that brought the story to the
      doctor. He understood and pitied the position of these wretched men, and
      came whole-heartedly to their assistance. He and Wicks and Carthew (so
      soon as he was recovered) held a hundred councils and prepared a policy
      for San Francisco. It was he who certified &ldquo;Goddedaal&rdquo; unfit
      to be moved and smuggled Carthew ashore under cloud of night; it was he
      who kept Wicks's wound open that he might sign with his left hand; he who
      took all their Chile silver and (in the course of the first day) got it
      converted for them into portable gold. He used his influence in the
      wardroom to keep the tongues of the young officers in order, so that
      Carthew's identification was kept out of the papers. And he rendered
      another service yet more important. He had a friend in San Francisco, a
      millionaire; to this man he privately presented Carthew as a young
      gentleman come newly into a huge estate, but troubled with Jew debts which
      he was trying to settle on the quiet. The millionaire came readily to
      help; and it was with his money that the wrecker gang was to be fought.
      What was his name, out of a thousand guesses? It was Douglas Longhurst.
    </p>
    <p>
      As long as the Currency Lasses could all disappear under fresh names, it
      did not greatly matter if the brig were bought, or any small discrepancies
      should be discovered in the wrecking. The identification of one of their
      number had changed all that. The smallest scandal must now direct
      attention to the movements of Norris. It would be asked how he who had
      sailed in a schooner from Sydney, had turned up so shortly after in a brig
      out of Hong Kong; and from one question to another all his original
      shipmates were pretty sure to be involved. Hence arose naturally the idea
      of preventing danger, profiting by Carthew's new-found wealth, and buying
      the brig under an alias; and it was put in hand with equal energy and
      caution. Carthew took lodgings alone under a false name, picked up
      Bellairs at random, and commissioned him to buy the wreck.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What figure, if you please?&rdquo; the lawyer asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I want it bought,&rdquo; replied Carthew. &ldquo;I don't mind about
      the price.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Any price is no price,&rdquo; said Bellairs. &ldquo;Put a name upon
      it.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Call it ten thousand pounds then, if you like!&rdquo; said Carthew.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the meanwhile, the captain had to walk the streets, appear in the
      consulate, be cross-examined by Lloyd's agent, be badgered about his lost
      accounts, sign papers with his left hand, and repeat his lies to every
      skipper in San Francisco: not knowing at what moment he might run into the
      arms of some old friend who should hail him by the name of Wicks, or some
      new enemy who should be in a position to deny him that of Trent. And the
      latter incident did actually befall him, but was transformed by his stout
      countenance into an element of strength. It was in the consulate (of all
      untoward places) that he suddenly heard a big voice inquiring for Captain
      Trent. He turned with the customary sinking at his heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;YOU ain't Captain Trent!&rdquo; said the stranger, falling back.
      &ldquo;Why, what's all this? They tell me you're passing off as Captain
      Trent&mdash;Captain Jacob Trent&mdash;a man I knew since I was that high.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, you're thinking of my uncle as had the bank in Cardiff,&rdquo;
      replied Wicks, with desperate aplomb.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I declare I never knew he had a nevvy!&rdquo; said the stranger.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, you see he has!&rdquo; says Wicks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And how is the old man?&rdquo; asked the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fit as a fiddle,&rdquo; answered Wicks, and was opportunely
      summoned by the clerk.
    </p>
    <p>
      This alert was the only one until the morning of the sale, when he was
      once more alarmed by his interview with Jim; and it was with some anxiety
      that he attended the sale, knowing only that Carthew was to be
      represented, but neither who was to represent him nor what were the
      instructions given. I suppose Captain Wicks is a good life. In spite of
      his personal appearance and his own known uneasiness, I suppose he is
      secure from apoplexy, or it must have struck him there and then, as he
      looked on at the stages of that insane sale and saw the old brig and her
      not very valuable cargo knocked down at last to a total stranger for ten
      thousand pounds.
    </p>
    <p>
      It had been agreed that he was to avoid Carthew, and above all Carthew's
      lodging, so that no connexion might be traced between the crew and the
      pseudonymous purchaser. But the hour for caution was gone by, and he
      caught a tram and made all speed to Mission Street.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carthew met him in the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come away, come away from here,&rdquo; said Carthew; and when they
      were clear of the house, &ldquo;All's up!&rdquo; he added.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, you've heard of the sale, then?&rdquo; said Wicks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The sale!&rdquo; cried Carthew. &ldquo;I declare I had forgotten
      it.&rdquo; And he told of the voice in the telephone, and the maddening
      question: &ldquo;Why did you want to buy the Flying Scud?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      This circumstance, coming on the back of the monstrous improbabilities of
      the sale, was enough to have shaken the reason of Immanuel Kant. The earth
      seemed banded together to defeat them; the stones and the boys on the
      street appeared to be in possession of their guilty secret. Flight was
      their one thought. The treasure of the Currency Lass they packed in
      waist-belts, expressed their chests to an imaginary address in British
      Columbia, and left San Francisco the same afternoon, booked for Los
      Angeles.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next day they pursued their retreat by the Southern Pacific route,
      which Carthew followed on his way to England; but the other three branched
      off for Mexico.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_EPIL" id="link2H_EPIL">
       <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      EPILOGUE:
    </h2>
    <h3>
      TO WILL H. LOW.
    </h3>
    <p>
      DEAR LOW: The other day (at Manihiki of all places) I had the pleasure to
      meet Dodd. We sat some two hours in the neat, little, toy-like church, set
      with pews after the manner of Europe, and inlaid with mother-of-pearl in
      the style (I suppose) of the New Jerusalem. The natives, who are decidedly
      the most attractive inhabitants of this planet, crowded round us in the
      pew, and fawned upon and patted us; and here it was I put my questions,
      and Dodd answered me.
    </p>
    <p>
      I first carried him back to the night in Barbizon when Carthew told his
      story, and asked him what was done about Bellairs. It seemed he had put
      the matter to his friend at once, and that Carthew took it with an
      inimitable lightness. &ldquo;He's poor, and I'm rich,&rdquo; he had said.
      &ldquo;I can afford to smile at him. I go somewhere else, that's all&mdash;somewhere
      that's far away and dear to get to. Persia would be found to answer, I
      fancy. No end of a place, Persia. Why not come with me?&rdquo; And they
      had left the next afternoon for Constantinople, on their way to Teheran.
      Of the shyster, it is only known (by a newspaper paragraph) that he
      returned somehow to San Francisco and died in the hospital.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now there's another point,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;There you are off
      to Persia with a millionaire, and rich yourself. How come you here in the
      South Seas, running a trader?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      He said, with a smile, that I had not yet heard of Jim's last bankruptcy.
      &ldquo;I was about cleaned out once more,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;and then
      it was that Carthew had this schooner built, and put me in as supercargo.
      It's his yacht and it's my trader; and as nearly all the expenses go to
      the yacht, I do pretty well. As for Jim, he's right again: one of the best
      businesses, they say, in the West, fruit, cereals, and real estate; and he
      has a Tartar of a partner now&mdash;Nares, no less. Nares will keep him
      straight, Nares has a big head. They have their country-places next door
      at Saucelito, and I stayed with them time about, the last time I was on
      the coast. Jim had a paper of his own&mdash;I think he has a notion of
      being senator one of these days&mdash;and he wanted me to throw up the
      schooner and come and write his editorials. He holds strong views on the
      State Constitution, and so does Mamie.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what became of the other three Currency Lasses after they left
      Carthew?&rdquo; I inquired.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, it seems they had a huge spree in the city of Mexico,&rdquo;
      said Dodd; &ldquo;and then Hadden and the Irishman took a turn at the gold
      fields in Venezuela, and Wicks went on alone to Valparaiso. There's a
      Kirkup in the Chilean navy to this day, I saw the name in the papers about
      the Balmaceda war. Hadden soon wearied of the mines, and I met him the
      other day in Sydney. The last news he had from Venezuela, Mac had been
      knocked over in an attack on the gold train. So there's only the three of
      them left, for Amalu scarcely counts. He lives on his own land in Maui, at
      the side of Hale-a-ka-la, where he keeps Goddedaal's canary; and they say
      he sticks to his dollars, which is a wonder in a Kanaka. He had a
      considerable pile to start with, for not only Hemstead's share but
      Carthew's was divided equally among the other four&mdash;Mac being
      counted.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What did that make for him altogether?&rdquo; I could not help
      asking, for I had been diverted by the number of calculations in his
      narrative.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One hundred and twenty-eight pounds nineteen shillings and eleven
      pence halfpenny,&rdquo; he replied with composure. &ldquo;That's leaving
      out what little he won at Van John. It's something for a Kanaka, you know.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And about that time we were at last obliged to yield to the solicitations
      of our native admirers, and go to the pastor's house to drink green
      cocoanuts. The ship I was in was sailing the same night, for Dodd had been
      beforehand and got all the shell in the island; and though he pressed me
      to desert and return with him to Auckland (whither he was now bound to
      pick up Carthew) I was firm in my refusal.
    </p>
    <p>
      The truth is, since I have been mixed up with Havens and Dodd in the
      design to publish the latter's narrative, I seem to feel no want for
      Carthew's society. Of course I am wholly modern in sentiment, and think
      nothing more noble than to publish people's private affairs at so much a
      line. They like it, and if they don't, they ought to. But a still small
      voice keeps telling me they will not like it always, and perhaps not
      always stand it. Memory besides supplies me with the face of a pressman
      (in the sacred phrase) who proved altogether too modern for one of his
      neighbours, and
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Qui nunc it per iter tenebricosum
</pre>
    <p>
      as it were, marshalling us our way. I am in no haste to
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     &mdash;nos proecedens&mdash;
</pre>
    <p>
      be that man's successor. Carthew has a record as &ldquo;a clane shot,&rdquo;
      and for some years Samoa will be good enough for me.
    </p>
    <p>
      We agreed to separate, accordingly; but he took me on board in his own
      boat with the hard-wood fittings, and entertained me on the way with an
      account of his late visit to Butaritari, whither he had gone on an errand
      for Carthew, to see how Topelius was getting along, and, if necessary, to
      give him a helping hand. But Topelius was in great force, and had
      patronised and&mdash;well&mdash;out-manoeuvred him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Carthew will be pleased,&rdquo; said Dodd; &ldquo;for there's no
      doubt they oppressed the man abominably when they were in the Currency
      Lass. It's diamond cut diamond now.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      This, I think, was the most of the news I got from my friend Loudon; and I
      hope I was well inspired, and have put all the questions to which you
      would be curious to hear an answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      But there is one more that I daresay you are burning to put to myself; and
      that is, what your own name is doing in this place, cropping up (as it
      were uncalled-for) on the stern of our poor ship? If you were not born in
      Arcadia, you linger in fancy on its margin; your thoughts are busied with
      the flutes of antiquity, with daffodils, and the classic poplar, and the
      footsteps of the nymphs, and the elegant and moving aridity of ancient
      art. Why dedicate to you a tale of a caste so modern;&mdash;full of
      details of our barbaric manners and unstable morals;&mdash;full of the
      need and the lust of money, so that there is scarce a page in which the
      dollars do not jingle;&mdash;full of the unrest and movement of our
      century, so that the reader is hurried from place to place and sea to sea,
      and the book is less a romance than a panorama&mdash;in the end, as
      blood-bespattered as an epic?
    </p>
    <p>
      Well, you are a man interested in all problems of art, even the most
      vulgar; and it may amuse you to hear the genesis and growth of <i>The
      Wrecker</i>. On board the schooner Equator, almost within sight of the
      Johnstone Islands (if anybody knows where these are) and on a moonlit
      night when it was a joy to be alive, the authors were amused with several
      stories of the sale of wrecks. The subject tempted them; and they sat
      apart in the alley-way to discuss its possibilities. &ldquo;What a tangle
      it would make,&rdquo; suggested one, &ldquo;if the wrong crew were aboard.
      But how to get the wrong crew there?&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;I have it!&rdquo;
      cried the other; &ldquo;the so-and-so affair!&rdquo; For not so many
      months before, and not so many hundred miles from where we were then
      sailing, a proposition almost tantamount to that of Captain Trent had been
      made by a British skipper to some British castaways.
    </p>
    <p>
      Before we turned in, the scaffolding of the tale had been put together.
      But the question of treatment was as usual more obscure. We had long been
      at once attracted and repelled by that very modern form of the police
      novel or mystery story, which consists in beginning your yarn anywhere but
      at the beginning, and finishing it anywhere but at the end; attracted by
      its peculiar interest when done, and the peculiar difficulties that attend
      its execution; repelled by that appearance of insincerity and shallowness
      of tone, which seems its inevitable drawback. For the mind of the reader,
      always bent to pick up clews, receives no impression of reality or life,
      rather of an airless, elaborate mechanism; and the book remains
      enthralling, but insignificant, like a game of chess, not a work of human
      art. It seemed the cause might lie partly in the abrupt attack; and that
      if the tale were gradually approached, some of the characters introduced
      (as it were) beforehand, and the book started in the tone of a novel of
      manners and experience briefly treated, this defect might be lessened and
      our mystery seem to inhere in life. The tone of the age, its movement, the
      mingling of races and classes in the dollar hunt, the fiery and not quite
      unromantic struggle for existence with its changing trades and scenery,
      and two types in particular, that of the American handy-man of business
      and that of the Yankee merchant sailor&mdash;we agreed to dwell upon at
      some length, and make the woof to our not very precious warp. Hence Dodd's
      father, and Pinkerton, and Nares, and the Dromedary picnics, and the
      railway work in New South Wales&mdash;the last an unsolicited testimonial
      from the powers that be, for the tale was half written before I saw
      Carthew's squad toil in the rainy cutting at South Clifton, or heard from
      the engineer of his &ldquo;young swell.&rdquo; After we had invented at
      some expense of time this method of approaching and fortifying our police
      novel, it occurred to us it had been invented previously by some one else,
      and was in fact&mdash;however painfully different the results may seem&mdash;the
      method of Charles Dickens in his later work.
    </p>
    <p>
      I see you staring. Here, you will say, is a prodigious quantity of theory
      to our halfpenny worth of police novel; and withal not a shadow of an
      answer to your question.
    </p>
    <p>
      Well, some of us like theory. After so long a piece of practice, these may
      be indulged for a few pages. And the answer is at hand. It was plainly
      desirable, from every point of view of convenience and contrast, that our
      hero and narrator should partly stand aside from those with whom he
      mingles, and be but a pressed-man in the dollar hunt. Thus it was that
      Loudon Dodd became a student of the plastic arts, and that our
      globe-trotting story came to visit Paris and look in at Barbizon. And thus
      it is, dear Low, that your name appears in the address of this epilogue.
    </p>
    <p>
      For sure, if any person can here appreciate and read between the lines, it
      must be you&mdash;and one other, our friend. All the dominos will be
      transparent to your better knowledge; the statuary contract will be to you
      a piece of ancient history; and you will not have now heard for the first
      time of the dangers of Roussillon. Dead leaves from the Bas Breau, echoes
      from Lavenue's and the Rue Racine, memories of a common past, let these be
      your bookmarkers as you read. And if you care for naught else in the
      story, be a little pleased to breathe once more for a moment the airs of
      our youth.
    </p>
    <p>
      The End.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
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