Part 4 (1/2)
The crowd dissolved. We pa.s.sed into the quiet of the inner bar, the Red Marine zealously leading the way.
”And what do you drink, Mr. Pyecroft?” I said.
”Only water. Warm water, with a little whisky an' sugar an' per'aps a lemon.”
”Mine's beer,” said the Marine. ”It always was.”
”Look 'ere, Gla.s.s. You take an' go to sleep. The picket'll be comin' for you in a little time, an' per'aps you'll 'ave slep' it off by then. What's your s.h.i.+p, now?” said Mr. Wessels.
”The s.h.i.+p o' State--most important?” said the Red Marine magnificently, and shut his eyes.
”That's right,” said Mr. Pyecroft. ”He's safest where he is. An' now-- here's santy to us all!--what d'you want o' me?”
”I want to read you something.”
”Tracts, again!” said the Marine, never opening his eyes. ”Well. I'm game.... A little more 'ead to it, miss, please.”
”He thinks 'e's drinkin'--lucky beggar!” said Mr. Pyecroft. ”I'm agreeable to be read to. 'Twon't alter my convictions. I may as well tell you beforehand I'm a Plymouth Brother.”
He composed his face with the air of one in the dentist's chair, and I began at the third page of ”M. de C.”
”'_At the moment of asphyxiation, for I had hidden myself under the boat's cover, I heard footsteps upon the superstructure and coughed with empress_'--coughed loudly, Mr. Pyecroft. '_By this time I judged the vessel to be sufficiently far from land. A number of sailors extricated me amid language appropriate to their national brutality. I responded that I named myself Antonio, and that I sought to save myself from the Portuguese conscription_.'
”Ho!” said Mr. Pyecroft, and the fas.h.i.+on of his countenance changed. Then pensively: ”Ther beggar! What might you have in your hand there?”
”It's the story of Antonio--a stowaway in the _Archimandrite's_ cutter. A French spy when he's at home, I fancy. What do _you_ know about it?”
”An' I thought it was tracts! An' yet some'ow I didn't.” Mr. Pyecroft nodded his head wonderingly. ”Our old man was quite right--so was 'Op--so was I. 'Ere, Gla.s.s!” He kicked the Marine. ”Here's our Antonio 'as written a impromptu book! He _was_ a spy all right.”
The Red Marine turned slightly, speaking with the awful precision of the half-drunk. ”'As 'e got any-thin' in about my 'orrible death an'
execution? Ex_cuse_ me, but if I open my eyes, I shan't be well. That's where I'm different from _all_ other men. Ahem!”
”What about Gla.s.s's execution?” demanded Pyecroft.
”The book's in French,” I replied.
”Then it's no good to me.”
”Precisely. Now I want you to tell your story just as it happened. I'll check it by this book. Take a cigar. I know about his being dragged out of the cutter. What I want to know is what was the meaning of all the other things, because they're unusual.”
”They were,” said Mr. Pyecroft with emphasis. ”Lookin' back on it as I set here more an' more I see what an 'ighly unusual affair it was. But it happened. It transpired in the _Archimandrite_--the s.h.i.+p you can trust...
Antonio! Ther beggar!”
”Take your time, Mr. Pyecroft.”
In a few moments we came to it thus--
”The old man was displeased. I don't deny he was quite a little displeased. With the mail-boats trottin' into Madeira every twenty minutes, he didn't see why a lop-eared Portugee had to take liberties with a man-o'-war's first cutter. Any'ow, we couldn't turn s.h.i.+p round for him.
We drew him out and took him out to Number One. 'Drown 'im,' 'e says.
'Drown 'im before 'e dirties my fine new decks.' But our owner was tenderhearted. 'Take him to the galley,' 'e says. 'Boil 'im! Skin 'im!
Cook 'im! Cut 'is bloomin' hair? Take 'is bloomin' number! We'll have him executed at Ascension.'