Pomfrett was better acquainted with the byways of Bristol than I, who was born there. We plunged into the black alley that led behind the Burning Bush. It branched left and right, covert for the hunted of the press-gang. Into the tavern by the back door we crept, and into a side room to the right hand. A tall press and a scrutoire were dimly discernible; it was here, apparently, that Gamaliel sat at his accounts, with an eye upon his customers, for a breast-high partition separated the chamber from the front room we had just quitted. Red curtains were drawn between the ledge of the bulkhead and the ceiling, and we spied upon the pair through a rift in the drapery.
“No prey, no pay. Keep to the rules, you crimping swab.” Mr Dawkins filled the room with his bellowing.
“As you please, Jemmy,” returned Gamaliel’s reedy voice. “I know the rules as well as you, I reckon. You get no more, without you pay for what you got—nor you don’t get that, neither.”
“Now, I ask you fair and candid,” grumbled Dawkins, “have I got a guinea piece in the wide world? You know better than that, Hookey. Here! Hands off that bottle!”
Dawkins jumped to his feet, leaning forward upon the table, his open knife poised on his lifted palm, as Gamaliel caught up the bottle, replaced it swiftly in the cupboard, and turned the key.
“Put down that knife, Jemmy,” said Gamaliel, composedly. “No good ever come of quarrelling among shipmates. Come! Take another glass, and we’ll talk it over comfortable and polite, as gentlemen should.”
He poured out a tot of rum, and Mr Dawkins, with a very ugly look, sat down again.
“I’ve no objections to a amicable conference, not I,” said Dawkins. “But stakes on the table, I say.”
“Why, of course,” said Gamaliel. “Put down your pretty ring, then, and I put down the bottle.”
“You don’t want much, do you?” said Dawkins. Nevertheless, he moistened his finger and pulled off his ring.