“Another noise like that, Hooky, and I’ll twist your arm out,” says Dawkins, in a savage whisper. “Now, what time d’ye close?—but it don’t matter—you close early to-night, d’ye see. You close now, immediate, and smart about it. There’s business to discuss, Hooky. Now bring rum, and then clear out this mess of swabs. Smart, now!”
He jerked Gamaliel upright again, as though the wiry Jew were pliant as a figure of straw. We sat and drank our liquor, and very good it was, and watched Gamaliel going from one to another of his guests, whispering confidentially to them. I don’t know what he said, but whatever it was—and in a house like Gamaliel’s a sudden need of departure was no novelty—the argument was effectual. Within half an hour or so the room was clear, the shutters up, and the door locked. Then Dawkins removed hat and cloak and stretched himself at ease before the fire, we following his example. Gamaliel stood contemplating us, his head bent a little forward and one side, his shoulders drooped forward, his crooked hands loosely hanging at his side, all as we remembered. There was discomfiture in his face and a furtive uneasiness, and now and again his glance turned to the door, and he seemed to listen. For once the effusive Jew appeared at a loss for words; he gave us no greeting, asked us no questions, expressed no surprise at our presence there.
“What d’ye stand staring for?” roared Dawkins. “Fetch supper, Hooky; fetch aft the supper, will ye?”
“There’s but little in the house, Mr Dawkins,” said the Jew. “What would you fancy? A bit of Dutch cheese, or——”
“Cheese, was it? Cheese, eh? You hear him, shipmates? Now look you here, Hooky,” said Mr Dawkins, getting up, “you and me will go-look-see the store-room in company, my lad.”
He took the little Jew by collar and elbow, and ran him from the room. We heard the old buccaneer’s great voice booming in the back premises, and presently he returned, driving Gamaliel before him. The Jew was loaded to the chin with victuals. A couple of chickens, a noble round of beef, a prime tongue, two or three loaves of bread, and a round of Gloucester cheese were piled pell-mell in his arms.
“Lookee here, here’s victuals for an admiral, and more where they come from,” shouted Dawkins. “You thieving cur, you spawn of Moses, spread the table, spread all the tables. There’s going to be a party.” He deftly filched a bunch of keys from the innkeeper’s pocket, for the little man was helpless in the buccaneer’s experienced gripe, and would have quitted the room, but the Jew, who was biting and tearing by this time, clung to his skirts.
Dawkins wrenched him loose and flung him on the floor. “Keep the Hebrew stirring, mates,” says he, and went out, bellowing at the pitch of his voice.
“Hi-yeo, messmates, hi-yeo! Any poor seaman want rations and rum? Hi-yeo! Call—call again.”
And immediately there arose cries like the cries of famished animals, deep-mouthed shoutings, and a beating upon doors, from all parts of the old, rambling house, above, beneath, and behind. Mr Dawkins was accomplishing a general gaol-delivery, letting loose the poor mariners whom Gamaliel used to entrap. He would lodge and board the guileless seamen until their money was out, when he would lock them up, take their clothes in pawn, and starve them till he could sell them aboard ship. A crimp’s is a good trade.