Wilson had nothing left of his ten dollars.
“All the same,” said Stubbs. “Settle when you git your pay.”
He led him then to a pawn shop where he picked out a thirty-two calibre revolver and several boxes of cartridges. Also a thick-bladed claspknife.
“See here, Stubbs,” objected Wilson, “I don’t need those things. I’m not going pirating, am I?”
“Maybe so. Maybe only missionaryin’. But a gun’s a useful ornyment in either case.”
He drew out a heavy silver watch and with his forefinger marking off each hour, computed how much time was left to him.
“What d’ ye say,” he broke out, looking up at Wilson, “what d’ ye say to goin’ fishin’, seein’ as we’ve gut a couple of hours on our hands?”
“Fishing?” gasped Wilson.
“Fishin’,” answered the other, calmly. “I know a feller down by the wharf who’ll take us cheap. Might’s well fish as anything else. Prob’ly won’t git none. Never do. I’ll jus’ drop in below here and git some bait an’ things.”
A dozen blocks or so below, he left Wilson on the sidewalk and vanished into a store whose windows were cluttered with ship’s junk. Anchor-chains, tarpaulin, marlinspikes, ropes, and odd bits of iron were 122 scattered in a confusion of fish nets. Stubbs emerged with a black leather bag so heavy that he was forced to ask Wilson to help him lift it to his shoulders.