To my amazement the infuriated sea-man’s abuse ceased as abruptly as if the power of speech had been taken from him. He remained in his threatening attitude, leaning across the table, his clenched fist thrust forward, his mouth open; but his eyes were held by the crop-haired man’s and not a sound came from his lips.
“Down, Madigan,” continued the big man. “It is my wish that you sit down.”
A snarl came from the small man’s lips. He seemed about to break out again, but suddenly he subsided and sat down. The big man nodded stiffly, as one might at child who has obeyed an unpleasant command, and the smaller man humbly closed the door.
My cabman came hurtling out through the swinging doors, nearly running me down in his hurry.
“Hullo!” he cried. “Did you see that, too? Whee-yew! That was a funny thing. That little fellow’s Tad Madigan, a mate that’s lost his papers, and the toughest man along the water-front; and he—he shut up like a schoolboy, didn’t he?”
Saloon brawls, even when displaying amazing characters, do not interest me.
I reminded him that he had gone in to inquire about the location of my dock.
“Oh, that’s a good joke on me,” he laughed. “Your dock’s right next door here, and you can see the Wanderer from Billy’s back room.”
A few minutes later I was standing in the midst of my baggage on this dock, looking out across the water to where lay anchored the white, clean-lined yacht, Wanderer.
It was a morning in early June, a day alive with bright, warm sun. A slight breeze with a mingling of sea, and pine, and the subtle scents of Spring in it, was coming up the Sound, and beneath its breath the water was rippling into wavelets, each with a touch of sun on its tiny crest.