The quarry was alone in a side-room, drinking gin and smiling to
himself. For an hour Thomas waited. His palms became damp with cold
sweat and his knees wabbled, but not in fear. Four glasses of ale,
sipped slowly, tasting of wormwood. In the bar-mirror he could watch
every move made by Jameson. No one went in. He had evidently paid in
advance for the bottle of gin. Thomas ordered his fifth glass of ale,
and saw Jameson's head sink forward a little. Thomas' sigh almost
split his heart in twain. Jameson's head went up suddenly, and with a
drunken smile he reached for the bottle and poured out a stiff potion.
He drank it neat.
Thomas wiped his palms on his sleeves and ordered a cigar.
"Lonesome?" asked the swart bartender. This good-looking chap was
rather a puzzle to him. He wasn't waiting for anybody, and he wasn't
trying to get drunk. Five ales in an hour and not a dozen words; just
an ordinary Britisher who didn't know how to amuse himself in Gawd's
own country.
Jameson's head fell upon his arms. With assured step Thomas walked
toward the corridor which divided the so-called wine-rooms. At the end
of the corridor was a door. He did not care where it led so long as it
led outside this evil-smelling den. He found the room empty opposite
Jameson's. He went in quietly. The shabby waiter followed him,
soft-footed as a cat.
"A bottle of Old Tom," said Thomas.
The waiter nodded and slipped out. He saw the sleeper in the other
room, and gently closed the door.
"Gink in number two wants a bottle o' gin. He's th' kind. Layer o'
ale an' then his quart. Th' real souse."
"So that's his game, huh?" said the bartender. "How's th' gink in
number four?"
"Dead t' th' world."
"Tip th' Sneak. There may be a chancet t' roll 'em both. Here y' are.
Soak 'im two-fifty."
Half an hour longer Thomas waited. Then he rose and tiptoed to the
door, drawing it back without the least sound. Jameson's had not
latched. Taking a deep long breath (strange, how one may control the
heart by this process!) Thomas crossed the corridor and entered the
other room; entered prepared for any emergency. If Jameson awoke, so
much the worse for him. The gods owe it to the mortals they keep in
bondage to bestow a grain of luck here and there along the way to
Elysium or Hades. His cabin-mate's stentorian breathing convinced the
trespasser that it was the stupidest, heaviest kind of sleep.