Hemming, the adventurer

by Theodore Goodridge Roberts

"Wait until we hear from Hemming's enemy. I think he'll take a turn before we get out of this," he replied. "He has played poor old Hemming some low tricks before now," he added, and gave Hicks a hint of the trouble in Hemming's past. Hicks passed on and descended to the billiard-room, and O'Rourke paused at the door. He turned the key and stepped into the room. He dodged before his eyes had warned him of danger. The huge fist landed on a point of his left shoulder, and sent him spinning across the room. He recovered himself in time to partially evade the seaman's bull-like rush. Staggered and hurt, he closed with his antagonist, wondering dully if the fellow had broken the cords, or had worked the knots loose. It did not occur to him to call for help. The door had closed behind him. The mariner's huge arms seemed to force his very heart out of its place. The bowed, sturdy legs wrenched at his knees. The hot, evil breath burned against his neck. For a moment the pain of it closed his eyes. He was bent nearly double, and pin-points of light flashed in his brain. Then he recovered his wits and his courage. He twisted himself so that his shoulder caught the sailor's chin. This gave him a chance to breathe, and eased the crushing weight upon his ribs. It was O'Rourke's belief that, in a rough and tumble fight, without knives, and muscles being equal, the gentleman has always the advantage of the plebeian. So once again he settled himself to prove it. But this time the plebeian was unusually desperate. He wanted a diamond, and he hated the man his hands were upon. All his superiors were detestable to his uncouth soul. He had feared O'Rourke before this. Now he felt no fear—only a mad desire to knock the breath out of that well-kept body, and mark with blood the hard-set, scornful face. Then for the coast again, with the stone of fabulous price. For a minute or two O'Rourke played a waiting game. Twice, by his quickness and length of leg, he avoided a bad throw. His back and neck had some close calls. After discovering that he was in better condition than his opponent, he began to force matters. Within ten minutes of his entrance, he knelt upon the sailor's bulky shoulders, and with colourless lips muttered strange oaths. Though his eyes were bright, he was not nice to look at.

The original savage glared exultingly from that white face. The sailor lay still, with blood from lips and nose staining the floor, a pitiful and ungainly figure.

Presently O'Rourke got to his feet and staggered from the room. Smith caught him just in time to help him to a chair. It had been a big effort for a warm day.

Hicks nursed the mariner back to his miserable existence. This required only a few minutes, for brandy had an almost magic effect upon this outcast of the sea. He emptied one decanter, and, seeing no chance of a second, made a dash for the open window, taking the sill in a flying jump. But the window was on the second floor. When Smith went out to look at the body there was no trace of it.

"I could have sworn," said Hicks, with a shudder, "that I heard his neck break, but maybe it was just the bushes giving way."

The night was bright with stars. The little garrison sat up and smoked by the open windows. On the lower floor, windows were shuttered and barred, and doors were locked. If this game of war were worth playing at all, it was worth playing well. Shortly before midnight some one staggered up to the front of the house, carrying a paper lantern at the end of a stick, and singing. The guards jeered him. It was the sea-cook, drunk and bedraggled. He stopped his song in the middle of a line, and waved his lantern toward the window above him.

"Come out," he bawled, "an' gimme that dimund. Gesh you thought I couldn't jump out er that windy, didn't yer? Gesh yer'll be jumpin' outa it yerself perty soon."

The lantern caught fire, and the gaudy paper globe went up in a little burst of flame. The man threw it from him, and lurched on to the veranda. A scattered volley broke, here and there, from the garden. A few bullets pinged into the woodwork of the windows. Shouts of laughter went up from the clusters of trees and shrubs. The sailor hammered the front door. The guards sneaked away into the friendly shadows.

"They are all drunk," said Hicks, "and they'll try to rush us, for sure."

"Then the colonel's death was not an unmixed blessing," remarked O'Rourke.