Iambic and hexameter, farewell! In that moment the poet died in
Thomas; I mean, the poet who had to dig his expressions of life out of
ink-pots. Things boil up quickly and unexpectedly in the soul;
century-old impulses, undreamed of by the inheritor; and when these
bubble and spill over the kettle's lip, watch out. There is an island
in the South Seas where small mud-geysers burst forth under the
pressure of the foot. Fate had stepped on Thomas.
As he sprang out of his bunk he was a reversion: the outlaw in
Lincoln-green, the Yeoman of the Guard, the bandannaed smuggler of the
southeast coast. Quickly he got into his uniform. He went about this
affair the right way, with foresight and prudence; for he realized that
he must act instantly. He sought the purser, who was cordial.
"I'm not feeling well," began Thomas; "and the doctor is ashore.
Where's there an apothecary's shop?"
"Two blocks straight out from the pier entrance. You'll see red and
blue lights in the windows. Tummy?"
"I'm subject to dizzy spells. Where's Jameson?" Jameson was the surly
cabin-mate.
"Quit. Gone over to the Cunard. Fool. Like a little money advanced?
Here's a bill, five dollars."
"Thank you, sir." Twenty shillings, ten pence. "Doesn't Jameson take
his peg a little too often, sir?"
"He's a blighter. Glad to get rid of him. Hurry back. And don't stop
at Mike's or Johnny's,"--smiling.
"I never touch anything heavier than ale, sir." Mike's or Johnny's; it
saved him the trouble of asking. Tippling pubs where stewards
foregathered.
His uniform was his passport. Nobody questioned him as he passed the
barrier at a dog-trot. Outside the smelly pier (sugar, coffee and
spices, shipments from Killigrew and Company) he paused to send a short
prayer to heaven. Then he approached a snoozing stevedore.
"Where's Mike's?"
"Lead y' there, ol' scout!"
"No; tell me where it is. Here's a shilling."
Explicit directions followed; and away went Thomas at a dog-trot again:
the lust to punish, maim or kill in his heart. He was not a university
man; he had not played cricket at Lord's or stroked the crew from
Leander; but he was island-born, a chap for cold tubbings, calisthenics
and long tramps into the country on pleasant Sundays. Thomas was
slender, but sound and hard.
Jameson was not at Mike's nor at Johnny's; but there were dozens of
other saloons. He did not ask questions. He went in, searched, and
strode out. In the lowest kind of a drinking dive he found his man. A
great wave of dizziness swept over Thomas. When it passed, only the
bandannaed smuggler remained, cautious, cunning, patient.