The Flag of Distress Part 25

"There!" cries Crozier, flinging down a five hundred dollar bill. "Let that settle it. You can keep the change for yourself."

"Thank ye," dryly responds the Californian dispenser of drinks, taking the ten dollar tip with less show of grat.i.tude than a London waiter would give for a fourpenny piece--little as that may be.

Turning to take departure, the young officers again look across the saloon, to learn how the hostile party has disposed itself. To their surprise, the gamblers are gone; having disappeared while the account was being paid.

"I don't like the look of it," says Crozier, in a whisper. "Less now than ever. No doubt we'll find them outside. Well; we can't stay here all night. If they attack us, we must do our best. Take a firm grip of your pistol, with your finger close to the trigger; and if any of them shows sign of shooting, see that you fire first. Follow me; and keep close!"

On the instant of delivering these injunctions, he starts towards the door, Cadwallader following as directed.

Both step out, and for a short while stand gazing interrogatively around them. People they see in numbers, some lounging by the hotel porch, others pa.s.sing along the street. But none in cloaks or _serapes_. The gamblers must have gone clear away.

"After all, we may have been wronging them," remarks Urozier, as in his nature, giving way to a generous impulse. "I can hardly think that a fellow who's shown such courage would play the a.s.sa.s.sin. Maybe they were but putting their heads together about challenging us? If that's it, we may expect to hear from them in the morning. It looks all right.

Anyhow, we can't stay dallying here. If we're not aboard by eight bells, old Bracebridge 'll masthead us. Let's heave along, my hearty!"

So saying, he leads off, Cadwallader close on his quarter--both a little unsteady in their steps, partly from being loaded with the spoils of "El Dorado," and partly from the effects of the _Parker House_ wines, and punches _a la Romaine_.

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE.

HARRY BLEW HOMELESS.

While the exciting scene described as taking place in the saloon "El Dorado" was at its height, Harry Blew went past the door. Could the sailor have seen through walls, he would have entered the h.e.l.l. The sight of His former officers would have attracted him inside; there to remain, for more reasons than one.

Of one he had already thought. Conjecturing that the young gentleman might be going on a bit of spree, and knowing the dangers of such in San Francisco, it had occurred to him to accompany, or keep close after them--in order that he might be at hand, should they come into collision with any of the roughs and rowdies thick upon the street.

Unfortunately, this idea, like that of asking them for a cash loan, had come too late; and they were out of sight ere he could take any steps towards its execution. A glance into the gambling-saloon would have brought both opportunities back again; and, instead of continuing to wander hungry through the streets, he would have had a splendid supper, and after it a bed, either in some respectable hostelry, or his old bunk aboard the _Crusader_.

It was not to be. While pa.s.sing the "El Dorado," he could know nothing of the friends that were so near; and thus unconscious, he leaves the glittering saloon behind, and a half-score others lighted with like brilliancy.

For a while longer he saunters slowly about, in the hope of yet encountering the officers. Several times he sees men in uniform, and makes after them, only to find they are not English.

At length giving it up, he quickens his pace, and strikes for the office of Silvestre, which he knows to be in the street fronting the water.

As San Francisco is not like an old seaport, where house-room is cheap and abundant, but every foot of roof-shelter utilised by day as by night, there is a chance the office may still be open. In all probability, the shipping-agent sleeps by the side of his ledger; or, if not, likely enough one of his clerks. In which case he, Harry Blew, may be allowed to lie along the floor, or get a shake-down in some adjoining shed. He would be but too glad to stretch himself on an old sack, a naked bench, or, for that matter, sit upright in a chair. For he is now fairly f.a.gged out perambulating the unpaved streets of that inhospitable town.

Tacking from corner to corner, now and then hitching up his trousers, to give freer play to his feet, he at length comes out upon the street which fronts upon the bay. In his week's cruising about the town he has acquired some knowledge of its topography, and knows well enough where he is; but not the office of the shipping-agent. It, therefore, takes him a considerable time to find it. Along the water's edge the houses are irregularly placed, and numbered with like irregularity. Besides, there is scarce any light; the night has become dark, with a sky densely clouded, and the street-lamps burning whale-oil are dim, and at long distances apart. It is with difficulty he can make out the figures upon the doors. However, he is at length successful, and deciphers on one the number he is in search of--as also the name "Silvestre," painted on a piece of tin attached to to the side-post, A survey of the house-- indeed, a single glance at it--convinces him he has come thither to no purpose. It is a small wooden structure, not much bigger than a sentry-box, evidently only an office, with no capability of conversion to a bed-chamber. Still it has room enough to admit of a man's lying at full length along its floor; and, as already said, he would be glad of so disposing himself for the night. There may be some one inside, though the one window--in size corresponding to the shanty itself--looks black and forbidding.

With no very sanguine hope, he lays hold of the door-handle, and gives it a twist. Locked, as he might have expected!

The test not satisfying him, he knocks. At first timidly; then a little bolder and louder; finally, giving a good round rap with his knuckles-- hard as horn. At the same time he hails sailor-fashion:

"Ahoy, there; be there any one within?"

This in English; but, remembering that the ship-agent is a Spaniard, he follows his first hail with another in the Spanish tongue, adding the usual formulary:

"_Abre la puerta_!"

Neither to question, nor demand is there any response. Only the echo of his own voice reverberated along the line of houses, and dying away in the distance, as it mingles with the sough of the sea.

No use speaking, or knocking again. Undoubtedly, Silvestre's office is closed for the night; and his clerks, if there be any, have their sleeping-quarters elsewhere.

Forced to this conclusion, though sadly dissatisfied with it, the ex-man-o'-war's man turns away from the door, and once more goes cruising along the streets. But now, having no definite point to steer for, he makes short tacks and turns, like a ship sailing under an unfavourable wind--or as one disregarding the guidance of the compa.s.s, without steersman at the wheel.

After beating about for nearly another hour, he discovers himself contiguous to the water's edge. His instincts have conducted him thither--as the seal, after a short inland excursion, finds its way back to the beach. Ah! if he could only swim like a seal!

This thought occurs to him as he stands looking over the sea in the direction of the _Crusader_. Were it possible to reach the frigate, all his troubles would soon be forgotten in the cheerful companionship of his old chums of the forepeak.

It can't be. The man-of-war is anch.o.r.ed more than two miles off.

Strong swimmer though he knows himself, it is too far. Besides, a fog has suddenly sprung up, overspreading the bay, so that the frigate is hidden from his sight. Even ships lying close in sh.o.r.e can be but faintly discerned through its film, and only the larger spars; the smaller ones, with the rigging-ropes, looking like the threads of a spider's web.

Downhearted, almost despairing, Harry Blew halts upon the beach. What is he to do? Lie down on the sand, and there go to sleep? There are times when on the sh.o.r.es of San Francis...o...b..y this would not be much of a hardship. But now, it is the season of winter, when the Pacific current, coming from lat.i.tudes farther north, rolls in through the Golden Gate, bringing with it fogs that spread themselves over the great estuary inside. Although not frosty, these are cold enough to be uncomfortable, and the haze now is accompanied by a chill drizzling rain.

Standing under it, Harry Blew feels he is fast getting wet. If he do not obtain shelter, he will soon be soaked to the skin.

Looking inquiringly around, his eye rests upon a boat, which lies bottom upward on the beach, appearing through the thick rain like the carapace of a gigantic turtle. It is an old ship's launch that has bilged, and either been abandoned as useless, or upturned to receive repairs. No matter what its history, it offers the hospitality so scurvily refused him at the "Sailor's Home." If it cannot give him supper, or bed, it will be some protection against the rain that has now commenced coming down in big clouting drops.

This deciding him, he creeps under the capsized launch, and lays himself at full length along the shingle.

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR.

IN DANGEROUS PROXIMITY.

The spot upon which the ex-man-o'-war's man has stretched himself is soft as a feather-bed. Still he does not fall asleep. The rain, filtering through the sand, soon finds its way under the boat; and, saturating his couch, makes it uncomfortable. This, with the cold night-air, keeps him awake.

He lies listening to the sough of the sea, and the big drops pattering upon the planks above.

Not long before other sounds salute his ear, distinguishable as human voices--men engaged in conversation.

As he continues to listen, the voices grow louder, those who converse evidently drawing nearer.

In a few seconds they are by the boat's side, where they come to a stand. But though they have paused in their steps, they continue to talk in excited, earnest tones. And so loud, that he can hear every word they say; though the speakers are invisible to him. The capsized boat is not so flush with the sand as to prevent him from seeing the lower part of their legs, from the knees downward. Of these there are four pairs, two of them in trousers of the ordinary kind; the other two in _calzoneras_ of velveteen, bordered at the bottoms with black stamped leather. But, that all four men are Californians, or Spaniards, he can tell by the language in which they are conversing--Spanish. A lucky chance that he understands something of this--if not for himself, for the friends who are dear to him.

The first intelligible speech that reaches his ear is an interrogatory:

"You're sure, Calderon, they'll come this way?"

"Quite sure, De Lara. When I stood by them at the hotel-bar, I heard the younger of the two tell one of the American officers that their boat was to meet them at the wooden _muello_--the new pier, as you know. To reach that they must pa.s.s by here; there's no other way. And it can't be long before they make appearance. They were leaving the hotel at the time we did, and where else should they go?"

"Not knowing,"--this from the voice of a third individual. "They may stay to take another _copita_, or half-a-dozen. These Inglese can drink like fish, and don't seem to feel it."

"The more they drink the better for us," remarks a fourth. "Our work will be the easier."

"It may not be so easy, Don Manuel," puts in De Lara. "Young as they are, they're very devils both. Besides, they're well armed, and will battle like grizzly bears. I tell you, _camarados_, we'll have work to do before we get back our money."

"But do you intend killing them, De Lara?" asks he who has been called Calderon.