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 Parsee, 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 hoarse laugh. Kavasji made a movement as if to approach the door, but changing his mind passed 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 débris 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 glasses clink.
"It was hellish cute," said his companion, as he leaned back and laughed heartily, showing an even row of strong white teeth through the masses 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.
"God'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, passed 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 glasses with what he called tonic water.
"That'll do, sonny," said the red-haired man, placing some silver coins with a smart click on the bar. "This settles the shot," and seizing a glass in each hand he lurched forward to rejoin his friend. Kavasji tested the coins carefully with his teeth and rang them on a table. Then opening a drawer, he shut them up with sundry companions.
The man sleeping at the table rose, and, after staring vacantly about him for a moment, walked out slowly into the street. As his friend entered the room Dungaree Bill took one of the "monkeys" from his outstretched hand. They, clinked the glasses together above and below.
"Here's luck," said Bill. The other nodded, and they drained the glasses.
"Tails curly enough?" asked the red-haired man.
"I guess so," said Dungaree, wiping his mouth with the back of his hairy hand.
"And now," said he, "for the game."
They arranged the cards; Dungaree cut, and the red-haired man dealt.
After a few rounds the effect of the drug began to tell. The giant's head sank upon his breast, and the little man's eyes twinkled with a vicious glee.
"Wake up, Dungaree," he said; "you're asleep, man."
"By God," said the other, "you've----"
His head dropped once more, and the long, powerful arms hung listlessly by his side.
The red-haired man had started from his seat at Dungaree's words, and in his hand held an open knife, which he had drawn like lightning.
He heaved a sigh of relief as he saw Dungaree's head sink back.
Then rapidly approaching him, he rifled him with a practised hand. He undid the canvas belt from his waist, and felt it heavy as he raised it and transferred it to his own person.
He then moved toward the door, but a sudden thought struck him, and he returned. He took up Dungaree's knife from the table.
"Might as well ease him of this," he said; "he will do somebody a hurt when he awakens."
Opening the door, he stepped into the barroom, and, reeling up to a table near the door, called for another drink. Kavasji once more turned his back, and with the noiseless rapidity of a cat the robber vanished into the street, which was already beginning to awaken.
He dashed down a small alley, and only stopped after he had run for about half an hour. "I guess," said he, "Steve Lamport, you are born again." Then turning down a broad street, he walked slowly forward in the direction of the nearest railway station.