Could one have put one’s ear to that Organization’s low-roofed door, one would have distinctly heard a chorus of muffled oaths and snatches of wild song droning from the lips of the mysterious inmates of that Arabian Nights-like establishment. Could one have opened that door on the sly and peeped in, one would have seen a sight worth seeing if only for its anthropological interest. All types were there, from the genuine “hard up” honest sailorman down to the reformed native from Timbuctoo. There they sat: sun-tanned men from the seas, ex-convicts, libérés from New Caledonia; handsome faces, bleared and serious-looking; hideous, sallow faces with pugnacious pug noses—Chinese, half-caste Malays, and one or two runaway ships’ apprentices. Most of them were leaning over the large bench-like table, shuffling cards and drinking fiery rum, as ever and anon they glanced beneath the rims of their wide-brimmed sombreros, and stared with hunted-looking eyes toward the shanty’s door. They were ever on the alert! O’Hara and I had been in that place only two days when two runaways arrived from Suva—one of whom hailed from London Town, the other from Noumea. They usually arrived without portmanteaux, under the cover of night, tapped at the door, paid the bribe demanded, and so came under the flag of brotherhood and the protection of that Charity Organization’s kindness.
O’Hara was tremendously excited about it all, and so was I. We got to love exciting cases. One day, as O’Hara and I were watching the antics of a covey of native children romping like puppies in the forest ferns, we heard the sound of voices.
“What’s that?” said O’Hara.
“Sounds like the paddles of a canoe and voices on the beach,” I replied.
We listened again, and distinctly heard sounds as of a woman weeping. Going up the little slope, we peeped through the banyan trunks; sure enough, there were new arrivals seeking the Organization’s shelter. They were two in all, the third person, who was leading them across the dense fern scrub, was Bill Bode, the second in command of the shanty. One of the fugitives was a tall, aristocratic-looking man; the other a young and pretty girl. It was very evident that the latter felt depressed as she looked in wonder at the sombre forest surrounding us.
The shadows of night were falling when we crept softly down the tracks and once more entered that mysterious shanty’s door.
That building consisted of several large, low-roofed rooms and two small compartments that were strictly private. One was arranged with much taste, even decorated with flower-pots and provided with the essentials for a fragile guest; and when the fugitive arrived, bringing with him the sad cause of his downfall, it was in that small compartment that she slept!
As O’Hara and I arrived in the rooms of that Sailors’ Boarding Establishment, for such it was to us, the new arrival walked quietly into the primitive saloon bar, gave a friendly nod to the members of the motley throng, and sat down amongst the guests, who were mostly belated sailors awaiting a ship. For, as I have intimated before, not all who dwelt beneath that roof were hiding from the long arm of the law. If anyone had doubts as to the respectability of that place, they would have been quickly dispelled had he seen the look on the faces of those rough men when someone tapped loudly at the door. That same evening Ko-Ko, the half-caste native maid, was dancing on the large bench at the far end of the room. Everything seemed rosy and peaceful. As the rough men cheered and repeatedly encored the girl’s dances, and one played the banjo and step-danced an incongruous obligato to the girl’s song, the hilarity was suddenly turned off like a gas-jet! Crash! someone had knocked violently at the shanty’s front door!
Every “man-jack” breathed an oath, put his hand to his sheath-knife, and glared his anticipation of the arrival of the police from Suva. The new arrival trembled visibly, and turned ashy-white as once more it came—crash! crash! on the door.
Just by the door was a huge tub which was a kind of emergency barrel. The whole scene, there in the shadows, seemed like some terribly realistic moving-picture show enacting before our eyes. Bones had rushed from the next room, lifted the vast lid from the barrel, while four stalwart men lifted the new arrival bodily—crash! bang! the stranger had gone!