A Galahad Of The Creeks; The Widow Lamport Part 16

"Yes."

"Well, you are a m.u.f.f. I never get caught that way."

"Oh, but you're a boy!"

"Yes; when I'm a man I'm going to marry you--do you hear that?"

Florry nodded. "All right," she said. "What did Jimmee say about Lizzie?"

"Oh! he gave me--a--hm--no--he gave me a letter for Lizzie, and I promised to give it to you to give to her, y'know."

"Where's the letter?--give it to me."

Eddy pulled out of his pocket the envelope, now soiled and grimy from contact with a peg-top, a bit of native sweetmeat, and the leather pouch of his catapult.

"Here 'tis," he said; "you'll give it to Lizzie?"

Florry took the letter carefully. "It's very dirty," she said, as she slipped it into her pocket. There was a silence of about a minute, during which time Eddy finished the remainder of his sandwiches.

"Well," he said, "I'm off to bowl a little; you girls are no use--can't do anything."

"Stop a minute, Eddy. Lizzie _is_ a cat. She don't like you neither.

Wouldn't it be fun to give this letter to paw?"

"Urn," reflected Eddy, "Lizzie pinched you. I won't have anybody pinching you, y'know. I'm going to marry you when I grow up. Serve Jimmy Sarkies right, too," he added, suddenly brightening up--"awful sneak. Yes, leave it on your paw's table, and say nothing. I'm off now, only ten minutes left."

"Look here, Eddy."

"Oh, bother! what's it now?"

"Only this. I might like to marry some one else, you know, when I grow up. Ta--ta." She blew a kiss at him, and was gone.

Eddy thrust his hands into his pockets and looked moodily after her.

Suddenly an idea seemed to strike him. "It's Billy Bunder," he said, striking his clenched fist into his open palm--"only wait till I catch him----"

Clang, clang, went the school bell. The recess was over.

CHAPTER VII.

DUNGAREE'S BELT.

Digby Street, so named after a former governor of the presidency, is not more than three miles from the tabernacle. Probably in no part of the world does vice cover itself with so hideous a garb as here. An atmosphere of evil hangs over the dingy houses, packed closely to each other, whose inhabitants follow nameless occupations. When the night comes the street lamps shine on strange scenes. In the day all is silent as the grave. At the corner of the street is a small house. A faded sign-board, with the words "Hotel Metropole" in yellow letters on a blue field, explains its character. The landlord is a Pa.r.s.ee, or fire-worshipper, who has added an English word to his Eastern name, and is known to his customers, and to the police, as Kavasji Pain-killer. Mine host stands at the open entrance to his house. A misshapen figure, with dull eyes and bloated features, he reminds one of the strange bird-eating spiders of the forests of the East and West Indies.

As this man gazes aimlessly down the road, he sees a few dim figures flitting in front of him. They move on rapidly for a few yards and stop. Suddenly there is a flash of light above them, and as each street lamp is lit, a small halo is formed in the evil night haze now beginning to envelop the street. It is not yet time, however, for the inhabitants to awaken from their drunken slumbers. It is later on that the lost legion rises.

As the figures disappeared from view the landlord turned slowly and moved into the bar-room, where there was a thick odour of stale liquor and staler tobacco. The room was empty, save for the figure of a man lying asleep at a small marble-topped table, his head resting on his arms. From a smaller room beyond, the door of which was closed, came the sound of voices, and now and then an oath, or a hoa.r.s.e laugh.

Kavasji made a movement as if to approach the door, but changing his mind pa.s.sed behind the bar, and settling himself into a cane chair, dozed off comfortably.

In the meantime the conversation in the next room grew louder, and apparently more mirthful. There were two men there, sitting at a table, over which a well-thumbed pack of cards was scattered in some confusion. The room was littered with the _debris_ from empty pipes and the remains of half-burnt matches. A reflecting lamp, glaring from the wall, exactly opposite the door, threw out the figures in strong relief.

"And so, messmate, I scooped in the dust--every dollar of it."

And the speaker, a tall, powerful man, whose shirt-sleeves, pulled up to the elbow, showed the tattoo marks on his arms, brought his fists on the table with a crash that made the gla.s.ses clink.

"It was h.e.l.lish cute," said his companion, as he leaned back and laughed heartily, showing an even row of strong white teeth through the ma.s.ses of red hair with which the lower portion of his face was covered. "I don't know a man, Dungaree," he added, "who could have done it save yourself."

The giant grinned in response to the compliment, and, pulling out a jack-knife, began to pare some tobacco from a twist lying on the table beside him.

"That," said he, nodding his head at the knife as he finished the operation, "was the tickler."

"Rayther light for the work," said the red-haired man, as he picked the knife up and poised it in his hand.

"There's the weight behind it," answered Dungaree Bill, puffing away at his short pipe.

"True, but I prefer a brace and bit. I did something like that myself, 'bout--let me see--six years ago, I think; but it don't matter. Whole shipload went down. No time to lower boats, except captain's gig.

Lord, how I did laugh! You know the old trick--_sabe?_"

"And blowed the oof after," laughed his companion.

"Not much," was the reply. "Some shad-belly of a lawyer began to ask questions--curse him!--and the work--well done, too--went for nothing."

"And you?"

"Went under."

"And serve you right for a chowder-headed clam. I was wise enough to take my share in advance--and stick to it, too." The giant tapped his hand over his waist as he spoke, and reaching for the bottle began to pour out another drink for himself.

"G.o.d's curse," said he, "there's nothing in here."

The red-haired man's small eyes were twinkling under the skull-cap pulled well over his brows.

"I'll play you for another," he said.

"Done with you; but let us have the drink first."

"All right; what shall it be?"

"Monkeys," replied Dungaree, "and let their tails be curled. After this I'm off--we sail with the tide."

The red-haired man rose from his chair, and, opening the door, pa.s.sed into the bar-room. A hanging lamp was burning in the centre, and Kavasji slept peacefully. Walking with a slightly unsteady gait he reached the bar, and, leaning with both hands on it, shouted out:

"Two monkeys; and mind you, Kavasji, lift up your elbow."

Kavasji scrambled from his chair, and, placing two tumblers on the table, half filled them with rum. He then turned to a rack where there were a number of bottles of aerated water. As his back was turned the man at the bar pulled out a small phial containing a colourless liquid, and emptied it into one of the tumblers. He had just time to replace the phial in his pocket when Kavasji turned and filled the gla.s.ses with what he called tonic water.