“What’s he like?” asked Ginnell.
“Like? Why, I’ll tell you what he’s like; he wouldn’t sign on in your tub for a hundred dollars a month.”
“Faith and you’re a nice sort of chap,” said Ginnell. “Is it playin’ the fool with me you are?”
By way of reply Harman took the box of quinine tabloids from his pocket, opened it, showed the contents, and winked.
Bone and Ginnell understood at once.
“One of those in his drink will lay him out for an hour,” said Harman, “without hurtin’ him. Put one in your weskit pocket, Bone—and how about your boat?”
“She’s down below at the stairs,” replied the landlord, putting the tabloid in his waistcoat pocket. “I’ll go and call Jim to get her ready—a moment, gentlemen.” He vanished into a back room, and they heard him shouting orders to Jim; then he returned, and as he passed behind the bar who should enter but Captain Mike!
The Captain walked to the bar, called for a drink, and without as much as a glance at the others took it to a seat in a far corner, where he lit a pipe. Several wharf habitués loafed in, and soon the place became hazy with tobacco smoke and horrible with the smell of rank cigars.
“Well,” said Ginnell, “where’s your man? I’m thinkin’ he’s given you the slip, and be the powers, Mr. Harman, if he has, it’ll be the worst for you.”
The brute in Ginnell spoke in his growl, and Harman was turning over in his mind the fate of any unfortunate who had Ginnell for boss when the swing door opened and Blood appeared.