"Scholar, young feller," he said, "Scholar, young feller—listen to what I'd be tellin' ye. When ye see fellers come in, and when ye hear them say they're sorry they signed on the ship watch your pockuts. They haven't signed on at all. They've only come aboard to see what they can steal."
"Is Montreal Mike—is Montreal Mike there?" called a voice from above.
"It's me ould friend," said Mike, swung to the floor, swayed out.
"Come and have some more, Mike," said the voice above. "She won't sail till four."
"Come ashore!" called Mike to Scholar.
"No, thanks."
"All right, then—watch your pockuts and keep an eye on my bunk. I haven't reserved it. Tell thim it's Montreal Mike's, and he'll burst any man he finds sitting on it."
There was a hailing on deck, a phrase repeated; it drew nearer, came down the stairs, a chorus of: "Not sailing till four!" and a general exodus from the cabin. Scholar stretched out upon his bunk—and repented him that he had invited Mike and the others ashore, starting them upon their jamboree. Nor could he ease himself by thinking that if he had not done so someone else would; not even the thought that sooner or later they would have gone ashore of their own accord, finding that the others had left work, soothed him. The place rang like the inside of a drum as the departing feet clattered over the deck. The volume of sound died, the hammer of heels was intermittent. More men, or youths, such as Mike had warned him of, came down into the cabin and roved, searching, round it. Suddenly a man in one of the mid-deck bunks—a top bunk—sat up and wailed: "Ma valise—gone—pooh!" The half-dozen remaining sleepers awoke, sat up and asked him what he was jabbering about. He waved his arms in a forward gesture, signifying disappearance, flight.
"Ma valise—gone!" he repeated.
"He had a valise! Gee! Here's a feller had a valise!"