Part 18 (1/2)

Scraggsy, old fanciful, we're square. Forget it and come to breakfast with us at seven to-morrow at the Marigold Cafe. I'll order deviled lam kidneys for three. It's alright with Bart also.

Yours, GIB.

This note, delivered to Captain Scraggs by the messenger boy, lifted the gloom from the latter's miserable soul and sent him home with a light heart to Mrs. Scraggs. At the Marigold Cafe next morning he was almost touched to observe that both Gibney and McGuffey showed up arrayed in dungarees, wherefore Scraggs knew his late enemies purposed proceeding to the _Maggie_ immediately after breakfast and working in the engine room all day Sunday. Such action, when he knew both gentlemen to be the possessors of wealth far beyond the dreams of avarice, bordered so closely on the miraculous that Scraggs made a mental resolve to play fair in the future--at least as fair as the limits of his cross-grained nature would permit. He was so cheerful and happy that McGuffey, taking advantage of the situation, argued him into some minor repairs to the engine. The work was so far advanced by midnight Sunday that Scraggs realized he would get to sea by Tuesday noon, so he dismissed Gibney and McGuffey and ordered them home for some needed sleep. McGuffey's heart was with the _Maggie's_ internal economy, however, and on Monday morning he was up betimes, leaving Mr. Gibney to snore blissfully until eight o'clock.

About nine o'clock, as Mr. Gibney was on his way to the Marigold Cafe for breakfast, he was mildly interested, while pa.s.sing the Embarcadero warehouse, to note the presence of fully a dozen seedy-looking gentlemen of undoubted Hebraic antecedents, congregated in a circle just outside the warehouse door. There was an air of suppressed excitement about this group of Jews that aroused Mr. Gibney's curiosity; so he decided to cross over and investigate, being of the opinion that possibly one of their number had fallen in a fit. He had once had an epileptic s.h.i.+pmate and was peculiarly expert in the handling of such cases.

Now, if the greater portion of Mr. Gibney's eventful career had not been spent at sea, he would have known, by the red flag that floated over the door, that a public auction was about to take place, and that the group of Hebrew gentlemen const.i.tuted an organization known as the Forty Thieves, whose business it was to dominate the bidding at all auctions, frighten off, or buy off, or outbid all compet.i.tors, and eventually gather unto themselves, at their own figures, all goods offered for sale.

In the centre of the group Mr. Gibney noticed a tall, lanky individual, evidently the leader, who was issuing instructions in a low voice to his henchmen. This individual, though Mr. Gibney did not know it, was the King of the Forty Thieves. As Mr. Gibney luffed into view the king eyed him with suspicion. Observing this, Mr. Gibney threw out his magnificent chest, scowled at the king, and stepped into the warehouse for all the world as if he owned it.

An oldish man with gla.s.ses--the auctioneer--was seated on a box making figures in a notebook. Him Mr. Gibney addressed.

”What's all this here?” he inquired, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at the group.

”It's an old horse sale,” replied the auctioneer, without looking up.

Mr. Gibney brightened. He glanced around for the stock in trade, but observing none concluded that the old horses would be led in, one at a time, through a small door in the rear of the warehouse.

Like most sailors, Mr. Gibney had a pa.s.sion for horseback riding, and in a spirit of adventure he resolved to acquaint himself with the ins and outs of an old horse sale.

”How much might a man have to give for one of the critters?” he asked. ”And are they worth a whoop after you get them?”

”Twenty-five cents up,” was the answer. ”You go it blind at an old horse sale, as a rule. Perhaps you get something that's worthless, and then again you may get something that has heaps of value, and perhaps you only pay half a dollar for it. It all depends on the bidding. I once sold an old horse to a chap and he took it home and opened it up, and what d'ye suppose he found inside?”

”Bots,” replied Mr. Gibney, who prided himself on being something of a veterinarian, having spent a few months of his youth around a livery stable.

”A million dollars in Confederate greenbacks,” replied the auctioneer. ”Of course they didn't have any value, but just suppose they'd been U.S.?”

”That's right,” agreed Mr. Gibney. ”I suppose the swab that owned the horse starved him until the poor animal figgered that all's gra.s.s that's green. As the feller says, 'Truth is sometimes stranger than fiction.' If you throw in a saddle and bridle cheap, I might be induced to invest in one of your old horses, s.h.i.+pmate.”

The auctioneer glanced quickly at Mr. Gibney, but noticing that worthy's face free from guile, he burst out laughing.

”My sea-faring friend,” he said presently, ”when we use the term 'old horse,' we use it figuratively. See all this freight stored here? Well, that's old horses. It's freight from the S.P.

railroad that's never been called for by the consignees, and after it's in the warehouse a year and isn't called for, we have an old horse sale and auction it off to the highest bidder.

Savey?”

Mr. Gibney took refuge in a lie. ”Of course I do. I was just kiddin' you, my hearty.” (Here Mr. Gibney's glance rested on two long heavy sugar-pine boxes, or s.h.i.+pping cases. Their joints at all four corners were cunningly dove-tailed and wire-strapped.) ”I was a bit interested in them two boxes, an' seein' as this is a free country, I thought I'd just step in an' make a bid on them,”

and with the words, Mr. Gibney walked over and busied himself in an inspection of the two crates in question.

The fact of the matter was that so embarra.s.sed was Mr. Gibney at the exposition of his ignorance that he desired to hide the confusion evident in his sun-tanned face. So he stooped over the crates and pretended to be exceedingly interested in them, hauling and pus.h.i.+ng them about and reading the address of the consignee who had failed to call for his goods. The crates were both consigned to the Gin Seng Company, 714 Dupont Street, San Francisco. There were several Chinese characters scrawled on the top of each crate, together with the words, in English: ”Oriental Goods.”

As he ceased from his fake inspection of the two boxes, the King of the Forty Thieves approached and surveyed the sailor with an even greater amount of distrust and suspicion than ever. Mr.

Gibney was annoyed. He disliked being stared at, so he said:

”h.e.l.lo, Blumenthal, my bully boy. What's aggravatin' _you_?”

Blumenthal (since Mr. Gibney, in the sheer riot of his imagination elected to christen him Blumenthal, the name will probably suit him as well as any other) came close to Mr. Gibney and drew him aside. In a hoa.r.s.e whisper he desired to know if Mr.

Gibney attended the auction with the expectation of bidding on any of the packages offered for sale. Seeking to justify his presence, Mr. Gibney advised that it was his intention to bid in everything in sight; whereupon Blumenthal proceeded to explain to Mr. Gibney how impossible it would be for him, arrayed against the Forty Thieves, to buy any article at a reasonable price.

Further: Blumenthal desired to inform Mr. Gibney that his (Mr.