Chapter Twenty Seven.
An Inhospitable Hostelry.
Harry Blew stands in the doorway of the “Sailor’s Home,” watching the two gentlemen as they walk away, his eyes glowing with gratitude and sparkling with joy. And no wonder, considering the change in his situation brought about by their influence. Ten minutes before, his spirits were at the lowest and darkest. But the prospect of treble, or quadruple pay on board a snug ship, though it be a trading-vessel, with the additional chance of being mate instead of foremast-man, has given him a fillip, not only restoring them to their ordinary condition of cheeriness, but raising them to the highest exaltation.
The only damper is regret at parting with the fine young fellow who has done so much for him. But he has passed through that already, when separating from his ship, and can now better bear it under the reflection that, though apart from his patron, he will have an opportunity of doing something to show his gratitude. He knows how much Crozier is interested in the wellbeing of Carmen Montijo—for Harry has been made acquainted with her name, as also that of Iñez Alvarez—and to be entrusted with a sort of guardianship over these young ladies is a proud thought to the ex-man-o’-war’s man—a fine feather in his cap.
To carry out the confidence thus reposed in him will be a labour of love; and he vows in his heart it shall be done, if need be, at the risk of life.
Indeed, the interview just ended has made a new man of him in more senses than one; for upon the spot he registers a mental resolve to give up dram-drinking for ever, or at all events till he has seen his charge—the two Spanish señoritas—safe landed at Panama, and the Chilian ship snug in the harbour of Valparaiso. After that, he is less sure that he may not again go upon a spree, and possibly a big one.
Heaving a sigh as the English officers pass out of sight, he turns back into the bar-room. It is no longer a question of his going aboard the Crusader. He must remain ashore, to be up betimes in the morning, so that he may be early at the office of the ship-agent.
And now, again, a shadow, though only a slight one, comes over his countenance. He has still before him the undetermined question, where he is to sleep. Notwithstanding his fine prospects for the future, the present is still unchanged, and yet unprovided for.
Unfortunately, he did not think of this while the officers were with him, else a word would have made all well. Either of them, he doubted not, would have relieved his necessities had they been but told of them. Too late now; they are gone out of sight, out of hail, and whether he cannot tell or guess; and to attempt searching for them in such crowded streets would be only a waste of time.
While thus ruefully reflecting, he is confronted by the bar-keeper, whose usually grave countenance is now beset with smiles. The fellow has got it into his head that his sailor-guest is no longer impecunious. The navy gentlemen just gone have no doubt been to engage him for their ship, and perhaps made him an advance of wages.
“Well, my salt,” says he, in a tone of jocular familiarity, “I guess you’ve got the shiners now, an’ kin settle up your score?”
“No, indeed, sir,” answers Harry, more than ever taken aback; “I’m sorry to say I ha’n’t.”
“You hain’t! Then what hev them gold-buttoned fellers been palaverin’ ye about?”
“Not about money, master. Them’s two o’ the officers belongin’ to my old ship—the British frigate Crusader. An’ fine young fellows they be too.”
“Much good their finikin fineness seems to hev done you! So they hain’t gin you nuthin’ better than their talk, hev they? Nuthin’ besides?”
“Nothing besides,” rejoins Blew, restraining his temper, a little touched by the bar-keeper’s inquisitiveness, as also his impertinent manner.
“Nuthin’ but fine words, eh? Well, thar’s plenty o’ them ’bout hyar, but they won’t butter no parsnips; and let me tell you, my sailor-man, they won’t pay your board bill.”
“I know that,” returns the other, still keeping his temper. “But I hope to have money soon.”
“Oh! that’s been your story for the last two days; but it won’t bamboozle me any longer. You get no more credit here.”
“Can’t I have supper, and bed for another night?”
“No; that you can’t—not so much as a shake-down.”
“I’ll pay for them first thing in the mornin’.”
“You’ll pay for ’em this night—now, if you calc’late to get ’em. An’ if you’ve no cash, tain’t any use talkin’. What d’ye think we keep a tavern for? ’Twould soon be to let—bar, beds, and all—if we’d only such customers as you. So, the sooner you slope, the better the landlord ’ll like it. He’s jest gin me orders to tell ye to clar out.”
“It’s gallows hard, master,” says Harry, heaving a sigh; “the more so, as I’ve got the promise o’ a good berth ’board a ship that’s down in the harbour. The gentlemen you seed have just been to tell me about it.”
“Then why didn’t they give you the money to clar your kit?”
“They’d have done that—no doubt of it—if I’d only thought o’ askin’ them. I forgot all about it.”
“Ah, that’s all very fine—a likely tale; but I don’t believe a word of it. If they cared to have you in their ship, they’d have given you the wherewithal to git there. But, come! it’s no use shilly-shallyin’ any longer. The landlord won’t like it. He’s gin his orders sharp: Pay or go.”
“Well, I suppose I must go.”
“You must; an’, as I have already said, the sooner you’re off the better.”
After delivering this stern ultimatum, the bar-keeper jauntily returns behind his bar, to look more blandly on two guests who have presented themselves at it, called for “brandy smashes,” and tossed down a couple of dollars to pay for them.
Harry Blew turns towards the door; and, without saying another word, steps out of the room.
Once on the street, he does not stop or stand hesitating. The hospitality of the so-called “home” has proved a sorry sham; and, indignant at the shabby treatment received, he is but too glad to get away from the place. All his life used to snug quarters in a fine ship’s forecastle, with everything found for him, he has never before experienced the pang of having no place to lay his head. He not only feels it now, in all its unpleasantness, but fancies the passers-by can tell all about the humiliating position he is placed in.
Haunted by this fancy—urged on by it—he quickens his steps; nor stays them till out of sight of the “Sailor’s Home,” out of the street in which the detestable tavern stands. He even dislikes the idea of having to go back for his chest; which, however, he must some time do.
Meanwhile what is to become of him for the remainder of that night? Where is he to obtain supper, and a bed? About the latter he cares the least; and having had no dinner and but a spare breakfast he is hungry—half-famished—and could eat a pound or two of the saltest and toughest junk ever drawn out of a ship’s cask.
In this unhappy frame of body as of mind he strays on along the street. There is no lack of food before his eyes, almost within reach of his hand; but only to tantalise, and still further whet the edge of his appetite. Eating-houses are open all around him; and under their blazing gas-jets he can see steaming dishes, and savoury joints, in the act of being set upon tables surrounded by guests seeming hungry as himself, but otherwise better off. He, too, might enter there without fear of being challenged as an intruder; for among the men inside are many in coarse garb, some of them not so respectably apparelled as himself. But what would be the use of his going into a restaurant without even a penny in his pockets? He could only gaze at dishes he may not eat, and dare not call for. He remembers his late discomfiture too keenly to risk having it repeated.
Thus reflecting, he turns his back upon the tables so temptingly spread, and keeps on along the street.
Again the double question recurs: Where is he to get supper, and where sleep?
And again he regrets not having given his confidence to the young gentlemen, and told them of the “fix” he was in. Either would have relieved him on the instant, without a word. But it is too late now to think of it, or hope seeing them in the streets. By this time, in all likelihood, they have started back to their ship.
How he wishes himself aboard the Crusader! How happy he would feel in her forecastle, among his old shipmates! It cannot be; and therefore it is idle to ponder upon it.
What on earth is he to do?
A thought strikes him.
It is of the ship-agent whose card Crozier left with him, and which he has thrust into his coat-pocket. He draws the bit of pasteboard out, and holds it up to a street-lamp, to make himself acquainted with the ship-agent’s address. The name he remembers, and needs not that.
Though but a common sailor, Harry is not altogether illiterate. The seaport town where he first saw the light had a public school for the poorer people, in which he was taught to read and write. By the former of these elementary branches—supplemented by a smattering of Spanish, picked up in South American ports—he is enabled to decipher the writing upon the card—for it is in writing—and so gets the correct address, both the street and number.
Having returned it to his pocket, he buttons up his dreadnought; and, taking a fresh hitch at his duck trousers, starts off again—this time with fixed intent: to find Don Tomas Silvestre.