Apparently a few years younger than his associates, he was a clean-cut, good-looking fellow with a smooth face, and regular features, and there was something in his manner, an air of authority in the toss of his head, which suggested that he might be fashioned of a different clay, yet his grimy skin and oil-stained, coal-blackened clothes indicated that his condition of life was the same. His eyes were red from drinking and there were grim lines about his mouth that prompted his companions to leave him to himself. They knew their customer.
In the stokers' forecastle Jack Armitage had made himself quickly known as a man whom it was unwise to monkey with. Directly he joined the ship, he gave them to understand that clearly. The cock of the boiler-room, a bully who had heretofore run things to suit himself, rashly started an argument with the newcomer, and before he knew what had hit him, he was a fit subject for the hospital. Quick to admire physical strength, his comrades respected Armitage after that episode, and they nicknamed him Gentleman Jack, because his English was straighter than theirs and because he appeared to have known better days. Sometimes they hailed him as "Handsome," because of his shape, regular features and wavy hair. Of his history they knew nothing, and seeing that he was moody and uncommunicative, no one ventured to arouse his wrath by asking questions that he might consider too personal. Besides, no one cared. There's no "Who's Who?" in a steamer's stoke-hold. A natural refuge for the scum of the cities—for those wanted by the police as well as for those who have failed—even a detective will hesitate to follow his quarry into the red jaws of hell itself. To this, as much as anything else, the stoke-hold owes its reputation as the modern Sanctuary.
So they let Armitage alone. He did his "shift" along with the rest, gaining promotion first as coal-passer, then as trimmer, then as fireman. His services were valued because of his great strength and power of endurance. He could go on raking and pulling out fires long after his mate had fallen back exhausted. But with his superiors he was not very popular. Discontented, intolerant of discipline, mutinous, he was nearly always in trouble, and, owing to his violent, uncontrollable temper, quarrels were incessant even with his comrades. They feared him more than they loved him, and perhaps this explained why his present attempt to induce them to desert ship just before sailing-time had not met with much success.
"They'll catch ye, it's a cinch! Then it'll go hard wid ye. 'Tain't no worser for you than for the rest of us. The boiler-room's bad enough, I grant ye that, but it's a darn sight better than goin' to jail. What do you say, Dutch?" he demanded, turning to another.
Armitage maintained his sulky silence. The man called "Dutch," a lantern-jawed chap with red hair and a squint, expectorated a long stream of saliva on the floor before replying. Shifting his quid, he said:
"I guess Shorty's right, Jack. I ain't no fonder of doin' the suicide act in that hell-hole than ye is yerself. I'd quit right now, and never want to see the sight of a bloomin' ship again. But we've signed for the voyage, ain't we? We must grin and bear it for another trip. The law gives 'em the right on us. I'm goin' back now, before I'm taken back. What d'ye say, Bill?"
Bill, already half-seas over, nodded in a stupid, maudlin manner. He had drunk so much that he could hardly keep his head up, and the words came thickly from his lips:
"Desert ship?—hie! No, siree! Hie! Ye remember—Robinson, who tried to beat it at Naples? Hie! They didn't do a thing to him—almost fed the bloody furnace with him, that's all! No, siree, no pier-head jumps for me!"
The clock in the outer shop struck eleven. Shorty jumped to his feet.