The crush of the crowd had elbowed him into a corner beside a tiny second-hand clothes-stall near the landing-place of the coasting steamers, and he gazed idly at the foul-looking seamen’s clothing—caps, oilskins, sea boots, cotton trousers—that almost filled the recess in the wall that served for a shop. In the centre lounged the shopman, apparently half Eurasian and half English Jew, who looked as if he clothed himself from his own stock in trade.
As Elliott was trying to disengage himself from the crowd, he knocked down a suit of oilskins, and stooped to pick it up. It was an excellent suit, though considerably worn, and as he rescued the heavy sou’wester hat, his eye was caught by rude black lettering on the under side of the peak. It had been done in India ink, and read “J. Burke, S. S. Clara McClay.”
Elliott stared at the initials, dazzled by his good luck. They must be the oilskins of the missing mate, who had sold them there. Who else could have brought clothing from the wreck to Bombay? The shopman, scenting trade, had crept forward, and was sidling and fawning at Elliott’s shoulder.
“Want nice oilskins, Sahib? Ver’ scheap. You shall haf dem for ten rupee.”
“I’ll give you five,” said Elliott, carelessly, hanging up the cap.
“Fif rupee? Blood of Buddha! I pay eight, s’help me Gawd!”
“Look here,” said Elliott. “I don’t want the oilskins, but I think they used to belong to a friend of mine, and I’ll give you eight rupees if you’ll tell me where you got them.”
The merchant wrinkled his brows, undoubtedly pondering whether he was in danger of compromising any thief of his acquaintance.
“I remember,” he presently announced. “You gif me ten rupee?”
“Ten it is.”