And if the Atlanta sailed without him—what then? He had had enough of the sea, that was certain, yet he must earn a living somehow. He hadn't a dollar in the world, and he knew no trade that he could turn his hand to. His life at sea had unfitted him for anything else. Even if he made the effort and let the whiskey alone, how could he seek employment looking as he did? With no linen and in his grimy, oil-stained clothes, he would be eyed everywhere with suspicion. Nobody would have anything to do with him. The world has no use for its failures, for men who are down on their luck. The outlook was hopeless, for he saw no way to improve his condition.
"It's easy to lose one's self-respect and sink into degradation," he muttered bitterly to himself; "and when at last you see your folly, then it's too late—it's impossible to get back. Pshaw! What's the good?"
With a shaking hand, he helped himself to another drink, grateful to the lethal liquor which dulled his thoughts. Yet, in spite of himself, his clouded brain remained active. Memory slipped back ten years. If only those years could be lived over again! How dearly he had paid for the follies which had brought him where he was! Wild oats? Yes—he had sown them in plenty, and a damnable harvest he had reaped! Things had gone from bad to worse, until one day came the crisis. He was down and out, almost starving, without a friend to extend a helping hand. After he had fasted forty-eight hours, and the river seemed to be the only way out, a barroom companion told him of a job as coal-passer on an ocean liner which was to be had for the asking. He jumped eagerly at the chance as a drowning man grasps at a drifting straw. At least, it would mean temporary food and lodging. He was strong as an ox and could stand the pace, no matter how hard the work was. Besides, hidden away in a steamer's stoke-hold, he reckoned out that he would be dead to the world. No one would think of seeking him there. The brutal work and brutal companions would help him to forget the past.
For five long years he had stood it, but he could endure it no longer. Five years of physical and mental torment, and the future—a hopeless blank. The old days were wiped out completely, every decent tie shattered forever. He could never redeem the past. He had joined the vast army of life's failures, which goes marching on, silently, grimly to perdition. The sooner the end came the better. He was weary of it all. The best way would be to make an end of it at once. He knew he had only himself to blame, but, like most men who have gone to the devil, he held society responsible. The world is without pity for those who make mistakes. The man who's down is given no mercy. They said he was quarrelsome, a trouble-maker. So he was. In all these years of suffering he had steeled his heart to hate his fellow man. He detested the rich, idle class because he held it accountable for his present miserable condition, and in obscure socialistic and anarchistic meetings in the slums of New York and London he had listened gloomily to the wild-eyed orators' frenzied teachings of class-hatred. His sufferings had embittered him against the whole human race. He had fought his way through it all fiercely, because the whole world seemed in league against him, every man and woman his enemy. The only law he knew was that enforced by a strong arm. The weaker had no rights. It wasn't his fault if he had to defend himself. He had given the world back what it gave him and with interest. That's why he hit back every time blindly, savagely.
With an unsteady hand, he took up the whiskey-bottle and started to refill his glass. His back was partly toward the door, so he could not see the front store suddenly darken by the abrupt entrance of four men who pushed their way unceremoniously past Schmalz and rushed into the room where he was sitting. Two of the newcomers were ship's officers, the others were policemen.
Armitage was taken completely by surprise. He knew at once that they had come for him. With an oath, he jumped to his feet and his right hand went quickly to his hip pocket. But before he could draw his gun, the officers and policemen threw themselves upon him and pinioned his arms.
"You'd better come quickly, Armitage, or it'll go harder with you!" said the senior officer sternly.
"What d'ye want with me?" demanded the fireman hoarsely.
"You're under arrest for desertion," replied his superior.
"Where d'ye want me to go?" stammered Armitage, his breath coming and going in short, spasmodic gasps.