# Great Days

San Francisco—they couldn't fight, but neither would they quit.
GREAT DAYS
by GORDON YOUNG
Author of “Pearl-Hunger,” “Standish of the Star Y,” etc.
“THE DUKE,” Dick Webster and 'Arry Coy, three sailormen without a ship, sat one forenoon at a square table far back in the barn like dimness of the Rest Easy Saloon.
The Rest Easy was one of those large and nearly barren joints of the old waterfront, with thirty feet of bar up near the door, so that the thirsty traveler would not suffer from further fatigue after he had pushed back the swinging shutters; and the rest of the hundred feet toward the rear was given over to a half dozen small square tables beside the wall. Also near the wall, between the first table and the bar, was a tall pot-bellied stove on a sheet-iron mat—but a fire was never built. If anybody wanted to get warm he drank whisky or got into a fight. The black floor was lightly sprinkled with sawdust, and once or twice a week if somebody happened to think about it this was swept up, and fresh scattered about.
At the rear was a door opening in from the alley. Occasionally this was used as an entrance, but mostly as an exit. Moucher, noisy fellows with empty pockets, bums that wanted to use a table for a bed, were pitched out of this rear door into the cobblestone alley, usually head first.
There was plenty of room for fighting in the Rest Easy, and anything went just as long as nobody tried to break up the furniture to get a club.
The three sailors were at the table nearest the alley.
A thin frothy glazing on the inside of the nearly emptied mugs showed the depth of each thirsty gulp that had drawn off the steam beer; and this low water mark, or beer mark, was in a way symbolic of their fortunes.
It was a spring morning, a May morning, but there was no cheery balminess about. The moist wind off the bay was as chilling as the air out of a mausoleum; a gray fog hovered outside, full of needle-pointed chill; and the streets seemed packed with crowds of ghosts, oppressive, cold, clammy, their swarm of shapeless bodies trailing in from a purgatorial ocean.
“Well, I'm glad we're broke,” said Dick Webster, a burly, good-natured, but reckless rough-house sailorman, heavy of body, long of arm, with the blow of a ramming bow sprit in each fist. “I'm blastedly well sick of the town, of mud and noise and people, of walkin' around on solid ground—like walkin' on something dead. I want a ship!”
'Arry Coy paused to empty his mug, then clapped it heavily to the table.
“Now yer talkin', Dick. But a 'ome. One wiv soft mates on 'er. No —— use in sober men like us gettin' on a mankiller. Let them as 'asn't done their bit sail wiv bluenoses. Me, Hi wants a 'ome!”
“No hungry ship,” said Webster, eying the bottom of his mug and debating whether to take the last gulp now or wait; but he took it, bottom to ceiling.
“Hi hear as the Clarendon gives yer molasses three times a day. Hi like that.”
“Where's she bound for?” asked Webster.
“Yes, where, Duke? Hi don't go round no 'Orn. Not if Hi signs on when Hi'm sober. Hi fell hoverboard last time round the 'Orn. Where's she bound for?”
“Melbourne,” said the Duke, who read the shipping news.
“And she's short handed I hear Johnny Smith say.”
“Le's try 'er?” said 'Arry Coy.
Feeling that they had discussed the matter thoroughly they set out for Johnny Smith's boarding house.
“A fine ship,” said Johnny Smith, who had them down on his books. “A regular home, you bet. One family. The two mates—nice boys, them mates—are brothers. Their uncle's the Old Man.”
“Old Man” had no reference whatever to age. It means Captain.
BY THE middle of the afternoon they were out spending what the crimp had left them of their advance, all eager to get rid of the last copper of the three months' wage, as yet unearned, before the following morning when they were due on board.
It was chilly weather and they wouldn't be ashore again for a long, long time, so they stepped pretty lively; and even the Duke, who was suspected of being a social scapegrace with some tragedy behind him, grew cheerful and almost light hearted. A few hot whiskies with steam-beer chasers, great platters of steaming free lunch, sauerkraut with weenies nestling in it, shrimps, bologna, celery, green olives, potato chips, deep bowls of clam chowder, with hot red slices of roast beef, pumpernickel and pretzels, crisp crackers heavily salted—all fine thirst producers—helped to make them feel that this was a pretty good old world, San Francisco a great little town after all, and that the Clarendon would be a home.
Everything was going fine. Webster, as usual, got into a crap game but his friends got him out again before he lost all his money.
'Arry Coy, who had a weakness for beauty, danced until he had enough in one of the toughest dumps on the Coast; and though his pockets were picked he didn't care, for there was nothing in 'em. Made wise by experience, he had stowed his money in his sock.
The Duke had spotted an ancient stone bottle of yellow Chartreuse on the shelf of a dive that had as many calls for soothing syrup as for cordials. He gave two-fifty for bottle and all, and the bartender thought him crazy because he sipped a thimbleful a drop at a time with a far away blissful light in his eyes.
At about ten o'clock that evening they drifted into a little all-night restaurant for something to eat, something substantial, like steaks two inches thick, fried onions and mushrooms with a couple of poached eggs and an order all round of French fried.
They were hardly at the table before a down-at-the-heels man, with a big wart on his cheek, near the nose, and eyes that were a bit cocked, came in from the street and said right off—
“Mates, I'm no moucher—look at them hands——”
He held them out, and showed the black streaks of tar in the salt water cracks of his hard hands.
“—I'm no moucher; but I've ducked off the worst heller that ever carried rotten grub to sea. I'm a stranger in this town and they're lookin' for me. I laid all day yesterday along the wharf waiting for the blankety-blank double-blanked mate to come ashore. But the captain come first. He was bad as the mate, so I heaved my rock alongside his head and—well, I got away. I didn't stop to explain to nobody that the old blankety-blank and his doubly blanked sons of two blanks had made a little ocean madhouse for us crew ever since we left Liverpool. I jumped across the street, through the front door of a saloon and out the back. Here I am, and hungry, mates. I took a good look at you out there as you went by—you're sailors. I'd like two bits for a meal and a bed. It's a cold night, mates.”
The Duke suspected that the modesty of his request was due to a bit of cunning knowledge as to the generosity of sailormen, but he made no comment.
“Set down!” said Webster, heartily, pulling out the chair beside him.
“Two bits, ——,” cried 'Arry Coy, digging down in his sock. “'Ere's two iron men, an Hi'll pay for wot yer can swallow now, Hi will!”
“Make yourself at home,” said Duke, continuing to give the fellow a close scrutiny.
The man sat down readily.
The Duke drew his stone bottle from a coat pocket and with ceremonial deliberation held it up to view.
“We have here something rare, very rare. How it ever got on a Barbary Coast shelf is beyond my feeble powers of conjecture. But you see here the far-famed liquor of the Carthusian monks, who, being forbidden the use of grape or grain, interceded with Heaven for some relief from their fate; and Heaven, hearing their prayer, bestowed upon them the gift of brewing from a weed, a mere weed, this most exalted of cordials.”
Having properly prepared them for an appreciation of his treasure, the Duke proceeded to serve it.
His guests were all set for a drink, and eyed with distrust the bare tablespoonful of yellow fluid that he watchfully poured into each of the four beer glasses the waiter had brought.
'Arry Coy gave his spoonful a critical inspection; Webster moistened his lips thirstily; the stranger lifted his to his nose sniffing audibly. It did look more like a smell than a drink.
Then with outraged feelings the Duke saw his three companions tip their glasses and at one swallow suck down the thick liquor; after which they looked blankly at one another.
“Now we'll 'ave some beer,” said 'Arry Coy, beating the table with a knife handle and looking for the waiter.
“Aye,” said Webster. “Steam beer.”
“Mates,” said the stranger, “I only hope as how I'll never have the chanct to do as much for you as you're doin' for me, 'cause before that could be, you'd have to put in five months of double-dyed damnation on board the rotten old tub of a Clarendon!”
If their guest had hit them with a three-spiked club the momentary silence would not have been more complete.
'Arry Coy was able to speak first. He gasped—
“Wot!”
Webster's deep voice came in with—
“What's that!”
The Duke, who had been reflectively touching the edge of his glass to get the flavor without diminishing the liquor, said:
“Will you please repeat that name? It seems to have a familiar sound.”
The runaway sailor obligingly repeated all he had said, adding elaborate variations that affirmed the Clarendon to be a leaky craft where good men were chained to the pumps. Aye, she was so blastingly bad that he'd known it to be watch and watch at the pump, with the watch below getting its rest by working ship, and sleeping as it could about the deck. The food was rotten. The pork was hunks of dried salt dipped in grease; the beef so rank that they used to drive away sharks by heaving chunks of it overboard. And the skipper and mates drew their pay from the forfeited wage of runaway sailors.
'Arry began to talk to his empty beer glass, calling it “Ol' Pal,” and telling it what an unlucky world this was and how after taking the greatest care in the world to pick a 'ome they had signed on a 'eller. He demanded to know why anyhow were sailormen ever born?
Webster grinned in a silly way, looking just about as he would have looked if a friend, too much of a friend to fight, had dropped an oyster down the back of his neck.
“My friend,” said the Duke, eying the stranger in a cool appraising way, “you are passing remarks about our ship.”
The fellow stared blankly.
“Your ship? What you givin' me? You fellers ain't off the Clarendon.”
“Tomorrow morning we'll be on her. We signed today.”
“Then the —— help you. He owns her from truck to keelson!”
II
SOMEWHERE near midnight the three sailors were back in the Rest Easy Saloon, at the table nearest the rear door, through which an occasional patron who knew his way in the alley entered.
A lot of night owls and barflies were gathered up at the bar around a party of slummers who thought they were seeing life because they drank with soaks and spongers that had been accompanying them from waterfront saloon to saloon, showing them about. Some of them already called the fattest and loudest of these spenders by his first name, which was George, and patted him on the back; and he liked it.
The Duke, 'Arry and Webster had stood at the bar until this mob drifted in; then, being respectable sailormen, they had gone as far off as they could without leaving the Rest Easy, for they liked the size of its beer mugs.
So again they sat moodily staring at empty mugs. Their money was about gone, long before free lunch, or bought, had lost its flavor, beer its glow, whisky its warmth.
They had made inquiries here and there and found that, if anything, the runaway sailor seemed to have somewhat understated the conditions on the Clarendon. Lots of people appeared to have heard about her. Hearsay gave her a bad name. She was a madhouse, right. The mates were reported to be holy terrors. The report of molasses three times a day was scornfully dismissed as more unfounded than the report that ice cream is served for breakfast in the lower regions.
“But look here,” said Webster to his mates as they sat unhappily eying one another. “I been on the worst hookers that float. No matter how bad they come, if you do your work, step lively, keep gaskets on your tongue, you get along.”
“Wise words,” said the Duke. “Ought to be written on a little sign and tacked to the scuttle butt—with your name as author.”
Webster went on, ignoring the Duke's opinion—
“And there's always something that comes your way. No matter how bad a mess you're in, something turns up.”
“Turns up and knocks you off your feet,” added the Duke, who had relapsed into one of his morose moods.
“Yer right, Dick, ol' son. Yer right, that time Hi went hoverboard off Cape 'Orn, the water it was full of hice. But Hi said, ' 'Arry, ol' dear, it's something to 'ave the water cold. Yer know there's no sharks habout.' An' when they fished me hout they give me 'ot whisky, they did. That was something, too—off the 'Orn.”
Said the Duke:
“I'm really ¦ getting interested in this Clarendon. Everybody hates her so. Besides, I didn't like that fellow off of her. He smelt suspiciously of the Chartreuse before he swallowed it. And his eyes didn't match.”
It hadn't even occurred to them not to go aboard the Clarendon. They had put their names to her papers, they had taken her advance, spent it, and sail with her they would though she cleared for the Sulphur Lake.
“Besides,” said Webster, “I hate a ship where the crew grows fat. Makes 'em snore nights, being fat. Spoils your sleep.”
“Right-ho!” cried 'Arry. “Who would pick a heasy ship? Ol' men an' farmers. Give me the 'ellers ever'time. Hi'm a sailor, Hi am!”
And 'Arry banged his mug defiantly.
A moment before 'Arry's boastful words would have been safe enough, and have passed into thin air along with the filmy wisp of smoke that rose from the cigaret between his pipe-stem fingers.
But two men had just entered through the alley door. One of these men was broad shouldered, short in the neck, with a thick head and a square face; he had a short hooked nose and bushy brows overhanging hard blue eyes. There was something masterful about him and contemptuous.
The other was younger, but cut from the same timber; there was a slight sameness in the mold of features, the short thick neck, the hard eyes, the ——-take-the-world swing of his shoulders.
“Hi'm a sailor, Hi am!” 'Arry had shouted and they heard him.
THE big man stopped short and laughed, contemptuous, and amusedly regarded the mosquito-like form of the little Cockney.
“Sailor—you!”
“Hi am, so Hi ham!” snapped 'Arry, looking fierce.
“Here Frank, see what calls hisself a sailor! Ain't he cute? If be ever goes to sea I bet he takes along a doll to sleep with. Why, you little biscuit weevil, if I ever got you to sea I'd stick you in a cage with my parrot and let him teach you—”
'Arry's heavy mug flew up and struck the man in the face.
But the man took the terrific and unexpected blow as if the mug had been made of rubber. His head moved back a little, but the blow seemed hardly to jar him. It was as if every day of his life he was used to being walloped in the face with beer mugs; and the next instant with a sidelong swipe of open palm he had knocked 'Arry from his chair and far out on the floor.
“Sailor—O!” shouted the square-faced one, and laughed.
Webster got up, overturning his chair backwards in his haste, and shedding his coat as he rose.
“Buck—look out!” shouted the one called Frank, who then himself lunged forward at Webster with a fist balanced to swing.
But Webster spilled him with a right to the jaw, then ducked—but not low enough, and Buck's knuckles ripped the skin on the back of his head.
Webster straightened up with a haymaker to the jaw's tip, and Buck took two steps backward.
“I see we're going to put on a show,” he said as he dropped his coat behind him. “Begins to seem like home!”
With that he rushed.
Frank, coming to his feet, gathered himself to take Webster from the rear, for this was a bar-room row, and the Marquis of Queensbury never had a great deal of influence along the waterfront.
But before Frank got under weigh, the Duke was before him.
The Duke was tall, straight, with sensitive features and an ease of manner that was almost too graceful to be manly. The Duke knew the Marquis of Queensbury and respected him. He now held his hands like a boxer's, not to be tightly shut until the blow was on its way. But there was no crouch, no scowl of brow, no sneering twist of lips to the side of clenched jaw. The Duke was a good man with his fists, though in a fight to the finish Webster was the better. With the Duke, fighting was more than a science—it was an art.
For a moment Frank hesitated as one hesitates before something odd. But when he started he came headlong, with short neck shortened; and the Duke drove a right straight to his nose, starting the blood, then he stepped deftly aside as Frank's heavy fist whirled through the air.
Instantly, again, the Duke threw a right to the nose, following it with a lightning left that raised a bump on Frank's right eye.
Frank lunged, swinging right and left. The Duke moved his head three inches and the right missed, shifted his feet and the left went wild.
“What the ——!” Frank roared. “Why don't you stand still!”
The Duke stepped in, drove one knot of knuckles into Frank's stomach, another against the dripping nose and slid out again.
The Duke, being an artist and not caring to nurse broken hands, picked out soft spots for his knuckles.
Frank hit the air a mighty blow. The Duke ducked, rose, put one fist against the sore nose, reached to the short ribs with the other, then moved his head back two inches beyond the hurtling fist that d scribed a full half-circle in a sweeping reach to knock him through the wall.
The Duke then shifted his feet, feinted for the head, and as Frank raised his arms to guard the precious nose, the Duke crouched low, bent forward and whipped an overhand right into the pit of Frank's stomach.
Frank gasped as if suddenly stricken with asthma, clapped both hands to his stomach, half turned and sank to the floor, nearly unconscious, but huddling himself into a knot, in the midst of his helplessness protecting his head as much as he could, for he expected to be kicked all over the place.
Nothing happened. By trying hard he got a bit of air inside of him, then opened his eyes.
The Duke was standing by, hands at the side, waiting, watching.
“Get up,” said the Duke, “and we'll finish it.”
“I can't,” gasped Frank, writhing as he tried.
“Allow me to help you,” said the Duke, putting out his hand and stooping.
“Go to ——,” said Frank. “I know when I'm licked.”
He groaned, and twisted himself around to see what was going on there in the center of the room that shook the floor with heavy tread and stamping. The air was filled with the sound of smack and crack of fist to face.
But he could see nothing except a twinkling glimpse between the legs of onlookers that had circled round the fighters.
The slummers and their party of hangers-on were gathered there, having lost all interest in the other fight as soon as Frank hit the floor and stayed down. The big spender was a large-bellied man, with a heavy watch charm dangling over his stomach; he had flabby cheeks and a loose mouth, and a patronizing air of good fellowship. His two friends were much like him, well fed, with sleek cheeks, freshly scraped and perfumed by a barber. The sort of fellows, they were, that get into ringside seats and yell their heads off, but grow wobbly in the knees at the smell of a fist.
Elbow to elbow they now stood with the mouchers, the fellows that were never seamen, but hung about the waterfront, taking the drinks of free-handed sailors, patting Jack on the back, and rolling him if he staggered in a dark place. Some of them held beer mugs from which they took an occasional sip, but with eyes steady over the rim so as to miss nothing.
The proprietor of the Rest Easy, a hard man, as he had to be in order not to be once in a while kicked out of his joint by some peevish stevedore, but a bit bloated from too much sampling of his own goods, had tucked his white apron into the waist band of his trousers and, bungstarter in hand to see fair play, stood in the front rank of the onlookers, twisting a drooping mustache with his free hand. Both fighters were strangers, so he played no favorite; and his idea of fair play merely forbade the use of knife, club or gun. Anything else went. A fellow could use whatever Nature, assisted by the shoemaker, had given him.
Buck was a hard-knuckle scrapper. He believed in taking what the other fellow had to give and in handing back what he could.
Webster's knuckles were as hard as any man's; and the Duke, in a friendly way, had from time to time poked his nose until Webster learned a bit about guarding and ducking—but the smallest bit imaginable.
Like all rough fighters, they struck for the face; and most of the blows went home. Each of Webster's fists had the weight of a twelve pound sledge, and Buck was as big a man, with the driving power of a jibing boom in his arms.
'Arry Coy had picked himself up, and while he danced about like a one-legged man in an egg race, he squawked encouragement to his champion.
Buck and Webster went to it with smash and crash, crouch and swing.
Then Webster put over a whirling fist and knocked Buck down.
Buck rolled over with a cat-like backward scramble just in time to miss the swing of a hobnailed foot; then coming to a crouch rushed forward, headlong.
This rapid recovery caught Webster off guard, and the half-ton blow to the jaw spun him around and dumped him over.
He lighted on his back, and as Buck came on, reckless with triumph, Webster shot out both feet.
Buck recovered his balance some ten feet back. By that time Webster was up again, and they went to it, swinging, lurching, lunging.
“Pretty work,” commented the critical proprietor, tucking the bungstarter under an arm and beginning to roll a cigaret, but without moving his eyes from the fight.
George and his two fat friends were purple in the face from excitement. They hopped up and down, eager to see the blood flow, a man go down and stay there. They whooped and pranced, having the time of their lives, seeing a real fight.
Both fighters were soon breathing like a pair of porpoises that come to the top after dodging a swarm of sharks.
The stood toe to toe, swinging right and left and back again. Their arms were a bit slower in getting started, but the blows had weight and they took them without flinching.
Then Webster put over one that nearly shut Buck's left eye by cutting the skin of the overhanging brow; and Buck, stung to extra strength, dropped a bunch of knuckles squarely against Webster's mouth, loosening teeth and making the lips puff up like a mushroom.
Blinded a bit by the blood, Buck stepped back and wiped his face with a tattooed forearm.
“Had enough?” said Webster.
“—— no! I just stopped to ask what graveyard your family uses!”
And they were at it again.
“Good boys,” said the proprietor of the Rest Easy approvingly as he blew a stream of smoke through his nose and gave an upward pull to his mustache.
George was howling his delight, and struck pudgy palm to thigh in admiration of Buck's wit.
“Heat 'im hup, Dick! Heat 'im hup!” yelled 'Arry Coy, jumping about, shadow boxing to illustrate.
BUT the men now fought with weary muscles. Their arms dragged, being so tired they would almost drop from the weight of the fists swinging at long range—so they moved in closer, almost belly to belly. They now made no effort to duck or guard, counting it so much lost motion; no effort to dodge, only to strike. But they hammered away, fighting on without rest, time or referee, breathing hoarsely, swinging as if lifting weights.
It was a fight to the finish, but they were too nearly matched, too full of iron bones and sinewy muscles and the unyielding heart for either to give up before he was down and out.
The spirit was willing, but the muscles were exhausted; and slugging on and on wore down their strength until at last they leaned against each other for support and listlessly prodded their sides with blows that wouldn't have mashed a fly.
“Fight it out, boys. Go on, fight it out! Don't be quitters—fight it out!” yelled George. “Don't show yellow. Fight it out!”
They couldn't fight, but neither would quit.
Between them there were three blackened and one blinded eye, a swollen mouth, a pair of puffed ears each, and patches on each cheek that would by dawn be black and purplish.
At last they stood motionless, pushing weakly, heads. loosened, mouths open, arms hanging, but their eyes still full of challenge.
“Well, you've had enough,” said the proprietor of the Rest Easy as he pushed them apart. “But it was a pretty good fight in spots.”
“The drinks are on me—everybody drinks. The drinks are on me!” cried George importantly as he bustled forward to pat the fighters on the back and lead them to the bar. “Everybody drinks—I'm buying!”
But Buck drew back with a sullen glow in his one good eye.
“Count me out,” he said, crouching his head on his short neck and giving George a glare that weakened his knees. “I buy my own and drink with good men, not with a bunch of potbellied barflies like you and this crowd of bums that's grinned to see better men than they ever were take a beating!”
“Here, what's this—what's this!” shouted the proprietor of the Rest Easy, who had seen the size of the slummers' rolls and knew that they were in a mood for spending. “Where do you get that stuff?”
He gripped his bungstarter and glared.
But Buck looked as if in the short breathing space he might have recovered enough for at least one more good wallop.
Then Webster muttered, “I'm with you mate,” and shifted about a bit, his knotted fists dangling as he stood shoulder to shoulder with Buck. “I'm with you if you want to clean this dump!”
“Well,” roared the proprietor of the Rest Easy, who was his own bouncer and had great faith in the bungstarter, “if you bums feel that way about it, get out of my place. Get out! What do you mean anyhow, making a roughhouse in here. Get out!”
“Get out, ——!” roared a third voice, and Frank, who had been resting a long time, came to the front with a pair of fists hanging low.
The Duke quietly appeared beside Webster and his dark eyes fastened on the face of George.
And 'Arry Coy, a heavy mug in each hand, took up a strategic position on the proprietor's flank.
“We drink, and we drink here, and I pay for it!” said Webster as well as he could, speaking between puffed lips.
“We drinks 'ere we does!” repeated 'Arry Coy.
The proprietor glanced around, saw the strategic position, took a look at the beer mugs. Then he quietly stuck his bungstarter under a fold of the white apron and smiled cheerily:
“That's all right. No hard feeling, boys. The drinks are on the house.”
A pleased buzzing went up from the hangers-on, and ended suddenly as Buck said:
“No, not for me. I'm no bum and I don't drink with bums!”
The Duke took a step aside and with an air of firm politeness said to George:
“I suggest that you and your friends use the back door—it's the nearest!”
George, good spender that he was, always self-sure of a welcome in any company, gave an astounded pop-eyed glare; then, offended:
“Well, if you feel that way——”
“I feel just that way,” said the Duke quietly, with a glow in his eyes that gave the three well-fed men a chilly sensation.
They turned huffily and walked out, but through the front door, thereby soothing their pride, and feeling valiant.
"Whisky for me,” said Buck. “I need it.”
And he grinned at Webster.
"I pay,” said Frank, a hand on the Duke's arm. “I'm the only one that took the count.”
“Like —— yer is!” shouted 'Arry Coy, flinging away his beer mugs. “Didn't Hi go to sleep on the bloomin' floor, first off? Hi did so Hi did. Hi pay!”
Five men lined up, and there was money on the bar before each of them.
Some of the blowzy onlookers had eased themselves out the door, hopefully trailing after the fat gentlemen who had been down on the waterfront, seeing life; but others sidled together at the end of the bar, and coughed as they cast expectant eyes toward the proprietor, innocently trusting that he would remember what had been said about the next one being on the house.
But he didn't. That was off. He didn't even send a glance in their direction.
Five glasses were deftly scooted into position. The bottle was slapped down.
Buck passed it to Webster, who shoved it back with—
“You first.”
“Not me,” said Buck. “There's too many good men here.”
Then, leaning over the bar he eyed 'Arry Coy, who was lined up beside Webster, he said—
“Here you—you started all that other thing, now start this!”
And he gave the bottle a shove that sent it sliding along the polished wood to 'Arry.
The glasses were filled, and Buck looked right and left to see that all were set; then lifting his own, he said to Webster:
“Here's to you, whoever the —— you are. You're a good man. I never met a better. Me, I'm Buck Davis, and this is my brother Frank, mates on the Clarendon. A rip-roarin' hooker she is for farmers and soldiers, but sailors—why, blast your old heart, a man like you can spit on her deck!”
'Arry Coy had his liquor halfway down before he heard the ship's name; then he coughed and spluttered as if drowning himself.
They gathered round and pounded him on the back until he could breathe again.
“He's used to milk,” said Webster.
“Ought to wear a bib,” suggested Frank.
“I've told him whisky was a man's drink,” said the Duke severely.
“Don't let them kid you, lad. You're all right,” said Buck, shoving over the bottle again. “And you've got a man's wallop with a beer mug.”
“Hi say—Hi say, Mister Davis, wot habout a feller wiv a mole on 'is nose wot used to be on yer ship?”
“That swab! I'd like to lay hands on him again. Two days out of Liverpool the carpenter lost his watch. The crew had suspicions and searched the forecastle, and found it under the blankety-blank's donkey feed. He knuckled under and begged to stay out of irons. I had him switched to my watch, and I kept him hoppin' like a fish on a skillet. He jumped ship here and has been goin' up and down the waterfront giving the Clarendon a bad name. Why, from a dozen men this night I've heard her ill-spoken of—but they changed their minds when I put in my word. And the cross-eyed piece of a shark's gut yesterday heaved a rock at the Old Man. Miss him he did; but I wish he'd try heavin' one at me! The lying swab!”
“Hi say, Mister Davis. Hi say, 'ow habout molasses on yer ship?”
“Three times a day. The Old Man uses it instead of sugar, lots of it. He thinks sailors like sweet stuff. Says it's food for 'em.”
“Wot did Hi tell yer, Dick?” 'Arry Coy whispered to Webster. “Wot did Hi tell yer? That she would be a 'ome! Hi 'ad the 'unch!”
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1948, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 75 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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