Part 21 (1/2)

”You'll pay for 'em this night--now, if you calc'late to get 'em. An'

if you've no cash, tain't any use talkin'. What d'ye think we keep a tavern for? 'Twould soon be to let--bar, beds, and all--if we'd only such customers as you. So, the sooner you slope, the better the landlord 'll like it. He's jest gin me orders to tell ye to clar out.”

”It's gallows hard, master,” says Harry, heaving a sigh; ”the more so, as I've got the promise o' a good berth 'board a s.h.i.+p that's down in the harbour. The gentlemen you seed have just been to tell me about it.”

”Then why didn't they give you the money to clar your kit?”

”They'd have done that--no doubt of it--if I'd only thought o' askin'

them. I forgot all about it.”

”Ah, that's all very fine--a likely tale; but I don't believe a word of it. If they cared to have you in their s.h.i.+p, they'd have given you the wherewithal to git there. But, come! it's no use s.h.i.+lly-shallyin' any longer. The landlord won't like it. He's gin his orders sharp: Pay or go.”

”Well, I suppose I must go.”

”You must; an', as I have already said, the sooner you're off the better.”

After delivering this stern ultimatum, the bar-keeper jauntily returns behind his bar, to look more blandly on two guests who have presented themselves at it, called for ”brandy smashes,” and tossed down a couple of dollars to pay for them.

Harry Blew turns towards the door; and, without saying another word, steps out of the room.

Once on the street, he does not stop or stand hesitating. The hospitality of the so-called ”home” has proved a sorry sham; and, indignant at the shabby treatment received, he is but too glad to get away from the place. All his life used to snug quarters in a fine s.h.i.+p's forecastle, with everything found for him, he has never before experienced the pang of having no place to lay his head. He not only feels it now, in all its unpleasantness, but fancies the pa.s.sers-by can tell all about the humiliating position he is placed in.

Haunted by this fancy--urged on by it--he quickens his steps; nor stays them till out of sight of the ”Sailor's Home,” out of the street in which the detestable tavern stands. He even dislikes the idea of having to go back for his chest; which, however, he must some time do.

Meanwhile what is to become of him for the remainder of that night?

Where is he to obtain supper, and a bed? About the latter he cares the least; and having had no dinner and but a spare breakfast he is hungry-- half-famished--and could eat a pound or two of the saltest and toughest junk ever drawn out of a s.h.i.+p's cask.

In this unhappy frame of body as of mind he strays on along the street.

There is no lack of food before his eyes, almost within reach of his hand; but only to tantalise, and still further whet the edge of his appet.i.te. Eating-houses are open all around him; and under their blazing gas-jets he can see steaming dishes, and savoury joints, in the act of being set upon tables surrounded by guests seeming hungry as himself, but otherwise better off. He, too, might enter there without fear of being challenged as an intruder; for among the men inside are many in coa.r.s.e garb, some of them not so respectably apparelled as himself. But what would be the use of his going into a restaurant without even a penny in his pockets? He could only gaze at dishes he may not eat, and dare not call for. He remembers his late discomfiture too keenly to risk having it repeated.

Thus reflecting, he turns his back upon the tables so temptingly spread, and keeps on along the street.

Again the double question recurs: Where is he to get supper, and where sleep?

And again he regrets not having given his confidence to the young gentlemen, and told them of the ”fix” he was in. Either would have relieved him on the instant, without a word. But it is too late now to think of it, or hope seeing them in the streets. By this time, in all likelihood, they have started back to their s.h.i.+p.

How he wishes himself aboard the _Crusader_! How happy he would feel in her forecastle, among his old s.h.i.+pmates! It cannot be; and therefore it is idle to ponder upon it.

What on earth is he to do?

A thought strikes him.

It is of the s.h.i.+p-agent whose card Crozier left with him, and which he has thrust into his coat-pocket. He draws the bit of pasteboard out, and holds it up to a street-lamp, to make himself acquainted with the s.h.i.+p-agent's address. The name he remembers, and needs not that.

Though but a common sailor, Harry is not altogether illiterate. The seaport town where he first saw the light had a public school for the poorer people, in which he was taught to read and write. By the former of these elementary branches--supplemented by a smattering of Spanish, picked up in South American ports--he is enabled to decipher the writing upon the card--for it is in writing--and so gets the correct address, both the street and number.

Having returned it to his pocket, he b.u.t.tons up his dreadnought; and, taking a fresh hitch at his duck trousers, starts off again--this time with fixed intent: to find Don Tomas Silvestre.

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

THE ”h.e.l.l” EL DORADO.