“I’ll fix him,” he said. “I’m against all crimps.”
It was three o’clock when captain and man went aboard the dredger at Sotterly. A half-hour later, there emerged from the cabin an individual resembling Sam Black only in face and form; he was dressed in “shore” clothes, furnished from the captain’s own supply. Save for a bit of a roll in his gait, he might have passed for a farmhand. He went rapidly, with long strides, up the road he had come shortly before.
At five o’clock that afternoon, Artie Jenkins stepped from a dooryard in the town and walked slowly down the road in the direction of the store. He toyed with a lighted cigarette, and seemed thinking, deeply.
“I’m afraid I can’t make it,” he murmured. “My own town, too. Still business is business—there’s Tom Carver—no, I couldn’t get him. Hang the luck—”
He was interrupted, unexpectedly. A man suddenly appeared from the side of the road, and waited for him to come up. It was dusk, but Artie Jenkins perceived that the man was a stranger in the town. He noted his appearance. Could this be a stroke of luck?
“What might the name of this place be?” inquired the stranger.
“Hollywood,” replied Artie Jenkins. “Never ’round these parts before?”
“No,” said the man. “I come from up yonder, Hillville. Lost my job on a farm there. Nothing doing now. Know of anyone that would like a good man to work around a place?”
Artie Jenkins puffed at his cigarette, while his sallow cheeks, unhealthy and pale, showed a tinge of colour. He turned to the man and put a hand on his shoulder, patronizingly.
“Well, if you’re not in luck!” he cried. “You hit on the one man in all Hollywood that can help you out. There isn’t a job in town for a farm hand now, but I can get you a nice, easy berth on an oysterman for the rest of the season. Ever on one?”