Laid up in Lavender

by Stanley John Weyman

"A hundred pounds!" the wretched fellow moaned. Sleigh's performance had completely unmanned him. "I have not a hundred pesetas with me."

As it happened--alas, it has often happened so with me!--I had but three hundred pesetas, some twelve pounds odd, about me, nor any hope of a remittance nearer than Malaga. Still, I did what I could. "Look here," I said to Sleigh, "I can hardly believe that you are in earnest, but I will do this. I will give you ten pounds to be silent and let the man take his chance. It is no good to haggle with me," I added, "because I have no more."

"Ten pounds!" he replied derisively, "when the police will give me eighty! I am not such a fool."

"Better ten pounds and clean hands, than eighty pounds of blood money," I retorted.

"Look here, Mister," he answered sternly; "do you mind your own business and let us settle ours. I am sorry for you, mate, that is a fact, but I cannot let the chance pass. If I do not get this money some one else will. I'll tell you what I will do." As he paused I breathed again, while the miserable man whose life was in the balance looked up with renewed hope. "I will lower my terms," he said. "I would rather get the money honestly, I am free to confess that. If you will out with two thousand pesetas, I will keep my mouth shut, and give you a helping hand besides."

"If not?" I said.

"If not," he answered, shrugging his shoulders--but I noticed that he laid his hand on his knife--"if you do not accept my terms before we are in port at Carthagena, I go to the first policeman and tell him who is aboard. Those are my terms, and you have time to think about them."

With that he left the cabin, keeping his face to us to the last. Hateful and treacherous as he was, I could not help admiring his coolness and courage, and his firm grasp of the men he had to do with.

For I felt that we were a sorry pair. I suppose that my companion, bad as his position seemed, had cherished strong hopes of escape. Now he was utterly unmanned. He sat on the couch, his elbows on his knees, his head on his hands, the picture of despair. The pistol had vanished into some pocket, and although capture meant death, I judged that he would let himself be taken without striking a blow.

My own reflections were far from being comfortable. The man grovelling before me might deserve death; knowing the stakes, he had gambled and lost. Moreover, he was a complete stranger to me. But he was an Englishman. He had trusted me. He had spent an hour--but it seemed many--in my company, and I shrank from the pain of seeing him dragged away to his death. My nature revolted against it; I forgot what the consequences of interference might be to myself.