The Voice in the Fog - Page 18/93

Iambic and hexameter, farewell! In that moment the poet died in

Thomas; I mean, the poet who had to dig his expressions of life out of

ink-pots. Things boil up quickly and unexpectedly in the soul;

century-old impulses, undreamed of by the inheritor; and when these

bubble and spill over the kettle's lip, watch out. There is an island

in the South Seas where small mud-geysers burst forth under the

pressure of the foot. Fate had stepped on Thomas.

As he sprang out of his bunk he was a reversion: the outlaw in

Lincoln-green, the Yeoman of the Guard, the bandannaed smuggler of the

southeast coast. Quickly he got into his uniform. He went about this

affair the right way, with foresight and prudence; for he realized that

he must act instantly. He sought the purser, who was cordial.

"I'm not feeling well," began Thomas; "and the doctor is ashore.

Where's there an apothecary's shop?"

"Two blocks straight out from the pier entrance. You'll see red and

blue lights in the windows. Tummy?"

"I'm subject to dizzy spells. Where's Jameson?" Jameson was the surly

cabin-mate.

"Quit. Gone over to the Cunard. Fool. Like a little money advanced?

Here's a bill, five dollars."

"Thank you, sir." Twenty shillings, ten pence. "Doesn't Jameson take

his peg a little too often, sir?"

"He's a blighter. Glad to get rid of him. Hurry back. And don't stop

at Mike's or Johnny's,"--smiling.

"I never touch anything heavier than ale, sir." Mike's or Johnny's; it

saved him the trouble of asking. Tippling pubs where stewards

foregathered.

His uniform was his passport. Nobody questioned him as he passed the

barrier at a dog-trot. Outside the smelly pier (sugar, coffee and

spices, shipments from Killigrew and Company) he paused to send a short

prayer to heaven. Then he approached a snoozing stevedore.

"Where's Mike's?"

"Lead y' there, ol' scout!"

"No; tell me where it is. Here's a shilling."

Explicit directions followed; and away went Thomas at a dog-trot again:

the lust to punish, maim or kill in his heart. He was not a university

man; he had not played cricket at Lord's or stroked the crew from

Leander; but he was island-born, a chap for cold tubbings, calisthenics

and long tramps into the country on pleasant Sundays. Thomas was

slender, but sound and hard.

Jameson was not at Mike's nor at Johnny's; but there were dozens of

other saloons. He did not ask questions. He went in, searched, and

strode out. In the lowest kind of a drinking dive he found his man. A

great wave of dizziness swept over Thomas. When it passed, only the

bandannaed smuggler remained, cautious, cunning, patient.