“Then why didn’t they give you the money to clar your kit?”
“They’d have done that—no doubt of it—if I’d only thought o’ askin’ them. I forgot all about it.”
“Ah, that’s all very fine—a likely tale; but I don’t believe a word of it. If they cared to have you in their ship, they’d have given you the wherewithal to git there. But, come! it’s no use shilly-shallyin’ any longer. The landlord won’t like it. He’s gin his orders sharp: Pay or go.”
“Well, I suppose I must go.”
“You must; an’, as I have already said, the sooner you’re off the better.”
After delivering this stern ultimatum, the bar-keeper jauntily returns behind his bar, to look more blandly on two guests who have presented themselves at it, called for “brandy smashes,” and tossed down a couple of dollars to pay for them.
Harry Blew turns towards the door; and, without saying another word, steps out of the room.
Once on the street, he does not stop or stand hesitating. The hospitality of the so-called “home” has proved a sorry sham; and, indignant at the shabby treatment received, he is but too glad to get away from the place. All his life used to snug quarters in a fine ship’s forecastle, with everything found for him, he has never before experienced the pang of having no place to lay his head. He not only feels it now, in all its unpleasantness, but fancies the passers-by can tell all about the humiliating position he is placed in.
Haunted by this fancy—urged on by it—he quickens his steps; nor stays them till out of sight of the “Sailor’s Home,” out of the street in which the detestable tavern stands. He even dislikes the idea of having to go back for his chest; which, however, he must some time do.
Meanwhile what is to become of him for the remainder of that night? Where is he to obtain supper, and a bed? About the latter he cares the least; and having had no dinner and but a spare breakfast he is hungry—half-famished—and could eat a pound or two of the saltest and toughest junk ever drawn out of a ship’s cask.