The S.S. Glory

by Frederick Niven

CHAPTER III

Lamplight and daylight blent in the waterfront streets, and as the little crowd of men left the more open wharf front, where there was also some reflected last daylight from the docks and the river, a looker-on might have been touched deeply, seeing the quick-going day, the gathering shadows in the gulches of the streets, the lighting up of the saloons, and that knot of men, more homeless than sparrows, drifting across the twilight. And they were not of the bottom rung, at least not in their own estimation. A man in the uniform of the Salvation Army passed by, and that member of the "Push" who looked like a squat Mike, and whose name, it transpired, was Michael, turned to Scholar and commented: "I suppose the Salvation Army does some good in its own way—among the lowest classes." And again a few paces on, when one of the men in the rear broke out: "Here, where are you fellows going? What's the matter with this?" Michael looked over his shoulder and shook his head in dissent; and a little further still, as the man behind was still wanting to know what was the matter with the saloon in question: "We don't want to go in there," Michael said. "There ain't enough of us. That's a bad, low-down joint."

"Scared, are you?" jeered the other.

"There's a bad push goes in there," said Michael, "and you don't stand a show if you're not in the swing."

"Go on! What could they do?"

It would appear that Michael felt his powers of explaining inadequate.

"Mike," he said, "here's a fellow wants to know what they would do with him back there."

"What they would do to him, is it?" asked Mike. "It all depinds whether he feels in his pockuts and fetches out the nate money as if it was his last nickel."

The man behind seemed interested.

"Supposing I put down fifty cents?" he said.

Mike looked at him witheringly.

"You'd have to spind the change on thim," he said.

"Oh!"

"But if ye want to see the whole thing for yoursilf, my device to you, me lad, is to plant down a dollar—if ye have it. If ye hadn't plenty of fighting friends with ye, ye might just as well hand it to them. If it's a rough house ye're wantin', we might all go in and oblige ye, but spakin' for mesilf, I'm wantin' a quiet drink."

"That's right," Michael commented quietly, with a nod to Scholar, by whose side he marched. "Partner of mine once went in there. I think meself that some fellow slipt up and drugged his beer, for when he comes near the tail of the glass he feels kind of funny, ye know, and he came outside. He was for walking out into the main streets, and then he thinks some bull would arrest him for drunk and incapable, for he could hardly stand; so he turns the other way and two fellows came up to him and began talking to him, and asks him what's the matter, and he tumbles to it and tries to walk back the other way again. One of them fellows comes the one side of him and the other the other side, and they says: 'You come along with us, where the bulls won't get you.' And while he's puzzling out which is better, the bulls or them, ye see—well, he doesn't know any more, ye see. And the next he does know, he's wondering where he is anyhow, for the things he's after seeing. It's the backs of the wharfs all upside down, ye see. He's lying there with nothing on him but his pants. The hat on his head, his shirt and his coat, with his discharge papers in it, they've skinned off him; and his boots; and him after having a dollar stowed away in each boot."

"Here you are, Scholar, then," said Mike, in advance, and swung into a saloon, a ramshackle sawdusted place, where, behind a short counter, a lean, sharp-faced man in shirt sleeves looked at them in a way reminiscent of a weasel. All entered with a swagger, each man with whatever change of face was his change of face before possible trouble. Mike jerked up his right shoulder, jerked up his left, hitched his belt, seemed to heave his chest up, and broaden his whole torso. Cockney curved his back, curved also his arms, making the swing of them, instead of by his side, left and right, in front of him, and thrust his face forward, craning his neck. Michael put one hand in his pocket, half-closed his eyes, and slowly, and without expression, his guarded gaze roved from occupant to occupant of the place. The man with the dangerously mad eyes, who it appeared was called Harry, but was referred to simply as Queer, merely sneered slightly, an unpleasant sneer, a one-sided sneer that showed a tooth. The Inquisitive One danced into the place; his name had not yet transpired, but it seemed to be "him," with an indicatory jerk of the thumb, at which he did not take open umbrage, only now and then giving his roving glance from foot to head of whoever thus referred to him. But if he danced in gaily he was none the less alert.

Somebody spoke, and Mike interrupted with: "Where's your manners? Can't you let the man that's going to stand treat ask you what you're going to be after having, without shouting your order like that?" And they lined up against the bar, on which the barman put the palms of his hands, standing before them.

"Well, what will you have, Mike?" asked Scholar. It was the first time he had given him his name, and Mike acknowledged it with a nod. He turned to the bar-keeper.

"I'll have a schooner of beer," he said.

Michael, catching Scholar's eye, nodded to him, and then to the bar-keeper. "The same for me," he said.

The barman looked along the row and received a series of nods. He glanced at Scholar, elevating his brows, and Scholar inclined his head, and the monster nominal glasses, but really glass jugs with handles, came swift almost as conjuring, one after the other, on to the counter.

"Well, here's looking at ye," said Mike, "and good luck."

"Well, here's good luck," said Michael.

The phrase passed along, and the great jugs were held up and the quaffing began. Mike drank a quarter of his, and then turned his back to the bar, and surveyed the room. Over in a corner a faint disturbance arose, sounds of altercation, somebody telling someone else that he would push his face in. Mike looked into the corner, impassive. He leant forward and dragged a high stool over to the counter.

"Come and sit here beside me, Scholar," he said.

The narrow swing doors opened; a slight draught of air, cooler than the air within, caused them to glance round. A furtive and evil face showed for a moment in the middle of the strip of dark, blue night, and then was withdrawn. Michael looked at Mike to see if he had noticed that observer who came and went. Scholar sat up on the high stool.

"I don't know if you're fond of entering into scraps," said Mike quietly. "But don't you do it. It's a way some of these fellows have. Hearken to 'em now!"

This half-dozen or so of the "Push" of the S.S. Glory applied itself to its beer, and to talk, two by two. It had the air of partitioning itself off from the rest of the house; it was a private party.

"Order!" cried the bar-keeper, shoving his chin at those in the noisy corner. "Order, please!"

A man danced from the corner, beseeching another to "stand out." Scholar glanced in the direction of the group from which he had come, and it struck him that one or two faces there were turned more toward the men of the Glory than toward the combative person. At one small table, that stood all by itself, there had been, so far, a newspaper and two red fists; the newspaper came down now a little way and a face looked over the top, a face as red as the fists that had shown on each side. The bar-keeper's hands were flat on the counter again; he was looking (almost stupidly it seemed) at the man who desired trouble, but now his eye roved toward the face that appeared over the newspaper's top.

"Order, sir!" he said again, looking once more at the man who had stood up and forth to demand war.

Mike drained his glass; his eyes were very bright. He turned, and leaning against the counter, looked at the belligerent one, met his eye, cleared his throat oddly, and heaved up his chest. It struck Scholar that the beer acted quickly upon Mike.

"Well, will you fight me then?" said the man, catching Mike's eye.

Mike took a fierce step forward—he who had but a moment ago advised Scholar to keep out of such trouble. The eyes of the bar-keeper and of the man behind the newspaper again met. Down went the newspaper, up came the man. He walked over to the blusterer and addressed a knothole in the planks before his feet.

"I'll have to ask you to get out," he said, speaking to the knot-hole, and then glanced at the man.

"I don't have to!"

The actions were then as quick as when two cats, the preamble over, decide to come to grips. A whirl of arms and legs went down the middle of the saloon, the swing doors swept left and right and closed again, and the big man was alone now, his eye upon the doors as they wavered to a standstill.

"There you are!" said Michael to Scholar. "That's what I told you—this is a good class house."

"Drink up! Drink up!" ordered Mike, "and we'll have some more."

But four rational glasses of beer in one seemed sufficient for Scholar.

"We'd better get back I think," he said. "The rest of the cattle will be coming on board."

"Oh, but indade I must stand treat now!" answered Mike.

"Can't you get a glass of beer here?" asked Scholar, accentuating the "glass."

"Them is the glasses of beer here," said Mike. "Come along boys, drink up!" he repeated; and he glanced at the door with a kind of hilarity in his eye.

"When will she sail, do you think?" said the Inquisitive One.

"She can't go out before four or five in the morning," said Mike. "Give us all the same again, Mr. Bar-keeper."

Those who had not finished made haste to do so, and the glasses were replenished. The man who had thrown out the belligerent one had not again taken his seat. He was looking sadly, moodily, at the swing doors. He might have been brooding over some domestic trouble by the look of him. Then he turned about, still looking heavily at the floor, walked rearwards, hands behind back, and took up a position towards the end of the saloon, legs spraddled, swaying up on his toes and coming down on his heels again gently.

"He's after freezing them out," said Michael, seeing Scholar glance at the man of moody weight. The noisy group had probably a like opinion of his brooding proximity, drained its glasses, rose and passed to the door. The heavy man walked slowly in the rear. It was composed of some tough-looking units; but Scholar, who had come down from the lumber camps of Michigan, was not intimidated by their scowling faces. One of them jostled Cockney's elbow, and he turned round, lean and humped like a weasel; but the big man, following just a step behind, thrust his big hand between Cockney and the jostler, and admonished: "Now then, now then. Move on, please!"

Michael nodded his head again to Scholar, jogged him with an elbow.

"See?" said he. "See? There's nothing on here between the people behind the bar and the people in front, same as in some of them."

"I see," said Scholar.

Hardly had the last of these ugly fellows departed than the Inquisitive One plucked his elbow and drew him aside, and Scholar was amazed to notice that his utterance was thick as he whispered, a blend of ingratiation and intimidation in his face: "How much are you getting for the trip over?"

"Look here—none of that whispering!" said Mike, the heavy, ready-to-smite look, with which he had watched the departure of the dubious throng, still on his face. "If you fellows have anything to say, say it. Here's a schooner of beer untouched, too!"

Scholar turned about.

"My inside isn't big enough to take another glass of that size," he declared.

"Here's looking at you, then!" said Michael, and, lifting the glass jug, he opened his throat, and holding it rigid as if it were a filler, poured the contents down.

"There y'are!" said Mike. "There y'are! That's a gintleman! That's a gintleman!" And there was a faint thickness in his speech too, as though his tongue was spongy. "I was niver mixed up with such a push in me life—what with whisperin' together and drinking another man's beer."

Cockney broke out, in a jeering voice, eyeing the Inquisitive One and Scholar: "How much are you getting for the trip? Tell me, and see if yer getting something mor'n me."

"Oh, is that what he's after whispering?" said Mike.

The stubby Michael caught Scholar by the elbow and drew him away from the inquisitor, who went back to his place at the bar to drain his glass in an offended manner.

"You see, it's like this," began Michael, swaying ever so little towards Scholar. "What these fellows do is this: one of them gets up a row with you, and one of the others comes in as if he was separatin' you. 'Pay no attention to him,' he says. 'Pay no attention to him. You come along of me. You're a good man wantin' to fight when you're insulted, but he's drunk. Pay no attention to him. Come along of me.' And the other fellows say: 'Come along of us!' But they're all of the one push, see? And when you go off with them to talk about the things you would be doin' if they hadn't separated you, ye never know when it's goin' to end. The way that them landsharks goes around looking for honest seamen——"

A roaring bellow from Mike interrupted this. Evidently he had spoken before.

"I'm askin' ye—I'm askin' ye—I'm askin' yez—are ye goin' to have another drink?" he demanded. "Whisperin' like a lot of girls!"

While he was roaring thus, entered two men, blue-capped and shabbily attired, clean as to face and half the neck, but showing tide marks of scanty washings.

"Hallo, Mike!" one of them said.

"Well, bejabbers, and how's yourself?" answered Mike. Here was clearly not a case of new and fraudulent friends, for Mike evidently knew them both; having shaken hands with the first he required no introduction to the second, extended his great hand, shook warmly, and cried: "How are you? Have a drink with me!"

"Have a drink with me," said the man who had first hailed Mike, and he ordered and paid for three glasses of beer. Suddenly he glanced over his shoulder at the other men.

"Are these fellows——" he began.

"Oh, indade!" said Mike. "Thim fellers is aither too short in the neck to take more, or they have saycrets to whisper."

Some of the men near the door had gone out, and now the door swung open again, and one shouted: "Shake a leg, push of the S.S. Glory! Crew of the S.S. Glory, shake a leg!"

"What's the time?" said Scholar, astonished. "It can't be late yet. This place is still open."

"'E thinks 'e's in England," said Cockney, but joyful, not malevolent. "The first thing yer notice in this 'ere country is them bills—'Open day hand night'—and the next thing is the size of them glasses. They look long at first, but you get used to everythink. I could do wiv 'em longer." He drained his glass. "Longer fer me! Longer fer me!" he began to sing, making for the door. Evidently the strains of a Salvation Army song outside had come to his ears through the voices and clatter of the place, for as the doors swung now with the men tumbling out, Scholar heard the beat of a drum and voices singing: "That will be glory, glory for me!" Cockney danced along the street, his wide trousers flapping about his lean shanks, laughing and singing: "Longer fer me! Longer fer me!"

"Come on, Mike!" shouted the last of them.

"Tell them to cast off if I don't come!" he replied. "I've met ould friends—and I'm drinkin'."

"Come along, Mike," Michael hailed.

"Come along, Mike," implored Scholar. There was something like pity in his eye for the great empty-stomached man. They were all empty-stomached—that is so far as to food; and that beer had drugged and stupefied them.

"To hell wid yez all!" cried Mike; and then through the haze in his eyes he peered along the saloon at Scholar. "Stay wid me, Scholar, stay wid me. Let the other fellows go."

"I want to cross over," said Scholar.

"Well, well—God bless you then. Don't let them fellers run it on ye," and Mike waved his hand and turned his back. Outside Michael held the door open with a foot, and when Scholar came out, Michael, withdrawing the foot, seemed to have some difficulty in balancing. Scholar caught his arm.

"What are you holdin' me for?" said Michael. "There's nothing the matter with me!"

He persisted with this remark all the way to the corner in the rear of the others, varying it now and then with: "I'm all right." At the corner were two men that Scholar recognized; one of them was the man with whom Mike had had half a mind to grapple, the thrower-down of the gauntlet; the other one was of the ejected gang. The former caught Scholar's eye in the lamplight.

"Is the big fellow there still?" he asked.

Cockney, looking over his shoulder a few paces ahead, turned about, pausing in his singing of "Longer fer me!" and came back, craning like a thin duck.

"Wot does 'e say? Wot does 'e say?"

The two men eyed him coldly.

"Wot does 'e say?" repeated Cockney.

"He wants to know if Mike's in there still," said Michael.

"Wot does 'e want Mike for? Wot do you want Mike for?"

"We were speaking to this gentleman," said one of the men, but not the one who had spoken to Scholar.

"O, you were, were you. Why can't yer speak for yerself?" and Cockney turned to the other, he who had tried to lure Mike into combat. "Wot do you want him for?"

"It's none of your business!" replied the man.

"Yus it is! We're shipmites! I'll give yer a bash in the ear-'ole for tuppence! I'll put yer nose up among yer 'air for ten cents! Won't hi do instead? We're shipmites, 'im and me."

The man lunged at Cockney to deliver a blow; and Cockney, with a wriggle and a snarl, smashed a blow in his assailant's wind, and, next moment, when they grappled, set his teeth in the man's wrist.

"Bull!" somebody shouted, so the farther combat of weasel and boar was not to be seen, for the call of "bull!" was genuine. There he was, there was the policeman pacing slowly towards them like a fate, broad, determined, left hand at side nonchalant, right hand slightly raised, nonchalant too, twirling his club gently at the end of its short leather wristlet—like a stout Georgian dandy, swinging a cane.

None of the "Push" of the S.S. Glory had any desire to see the inside of a lock-up, and evidently the two men who had been curious regarding Mike's whereabouts, were not in league with the police. By the time that his slow patrol brought him to the end of the block, that bull had the pavement to himself; the two "toughs" had disappeared in one of the narrow streets, in one of its narrow entrances; the "Push" was stumbling about over hawsers and round bales on the dark wharf-side. The policeman, turning gently about, gave ear. He heard a thin sound of fiddles, a sound of clapping and table-thumping behind closed windows over at Dutch Ann's dance house; the quick, coughing sound of a donkey-engine somewhere along the docks, and a voice chanting: "Up again!"—pause—"All right! Up again!" Slow puffs of a locomotive drew near, sepulchral cling-clang of the bell; there came a shout of voices: "Yo-ho! Let her go!" a rattle of iron, a rattle of wheels over cobbles; and all through this was a querulous lowing of cattle, puzzled, despondent, irritable, after their week's journey from the long green rolls of Alberta, from lush bottoms of the Milk River.

The Salvation Army people had gone; but away along towards where the masts and the smoke-stack top of the S.S. Glory showed over the wharf, Cockney's voice sang high and piping and exulting: "Longer fer me! Longer fer me!"