There was much discussion as to whether the family should join the congregation of the established church, or take the bolder step of going over to Rome--the latter for preference, as it would fairly spite their enemies. The question, however, was for the present left in abeyance, and until it was settled they decided not to go to any church at all. Mr. Sarkies himself felt a load lifted from his mind at this decision. He determined not to let his love affair rest, and, notwithstanding every precaution, managed to obtain an interview with Lizzie, by the simple process of clambering up the trunk of a cocoanut palm which leaned against the high wall surrounding the elder's garden. Mr. Sarkies climbed up sufficiently high to overlook the wall, and Lizzie stood on the ground below him. The glass-covered wall was, however, between them. The position was not dignified, nor was it exactly comfortable, and Mr. Sarkies dreaded the general publicity of the whole scene. Still, however, he came to a satisfactory understanding with Lizzie. When she finally turned and vanished amid the trees, her white dress flitting through the open spaces in a ghostly manner, Sarkies came down with a sigh of relief, and, arranging his somewhat disordered dress, walked slowly toward a cab-stand. Hailing a buggy, and jingling some coin in his pocket, he jumped in and drove rapidly toward the Fort. He had mentally determined to celebrate his success by having an evening at the Divan Exchange, a saloon kept by an enterprising American, who concocted wondrous drinks, where the billiard-table was good, and the ice-creams marvellous. There was quite a crowd of cabs collected at the door, and the place was full when Sarkies entered it. Over the bar was a huge transparency representing the face of a clock, with the legend "No Tick Here" inscribed in large capitals on its face--a motto often full of sore disappointment to the customers. Immediately below this stood Colonel William P. Tamblyn, the proprietor, watching the practised hand of his tapsters as they poured forth monkeys, dogs' noses, eye openers, maiden's blushes, and other drinks whose name is legion. From the rooms above came the click of billiard balls, and the monotonous call of the marker--"Fiftee--fiftee-two--good game, sar!" Little marble-topped tables were scattered about, and from a daïs in the corner half a dozen musicians regaled the company with a choice selection of airs, from the "Blue Danube" to "Yankee Doodle." The music was almost drowned in the buzz of voices. All nationalities except China were represented here. Colonel Tamblyn announced that he drew the line there, and a flaring poster both outside and inside announced that "Chinamen and Soldiers in uniform are not admitted."
Sarkies obtained a suitable drink; he chose that pink compound of rum, mint, crushed ice, and peach brandy which rejoices in the name of maiden's blush, and bore it away with him to the billiard-room upstairs. The tables were full, and Sarkies, making himself comfortable on a bench, waited for his turn to come.
Beside him sat a neat-looking man, clean-shaven, with red hair and small black bead eyes. His blue coat with brass anchor buttons explained his calling. His ducks were spotlessly white, and the pipe-clay on his canvas shoes evidently just dry.
"May I trouble you for a light?" said the man.
"Certainly;" and Sarkies handed him a small plated box containing wax vestas.
The stranger lit a cheroot, and, returning the box, inquired, "Come here often?"
"Ya'as--sometimes," and Sarkies took a pull at his drink.
"This is about the first time I've been here; my ship has only just come in. Pleasant place this." And the stranger watched the end of his cheroot keenly to see that it was burning properly.
"Have a game after this?" asked Sarkies, and the stranger agreed.
They were able to get a table, and a small bet was made on the game, which Sarkies, much to his delight, won. The stranger paid up, and as he did so he remarked: