Detective and mystery stories; England -- Fiction; Journalists -- Fiction; Murderers -- Fiction
“Confound Mr. Muir,” I interrupted angrily. “Do you think I’m going to
stay here all night while you stand there jawing and grinning. Be off
with you and get my clothes for me or you won’t see a halfpenny of the
pound I promised you.”
“It was two poun’ as you promised me,” said the fellow, lying
insolently, now that he had--as he thought he had--me in his power.
“And ---- little too for a man wot’s running the risk of getting the
billet by lettin’ strangers on boord, dead against the rools. But I
don’t leave my ship for no ---- two pounds, I don’t You’ll ’ave to come
along wi’ me in the dinghy; an’ mind I ’as the money afore you ’as the
clothes. None of your monkey tricks with me, I tell yer. Come, wot’s it
to be? Are you going back wi’ me, or will you wait for Mr. Muir to come
and fetch yer? I can let ’im know in the morning (this with an impudent
grin) as you’ve been rescooed.”
“I don’t go ashore without my clothes if I stop here all night,” I
said firmly; “it’s inhuman to ask me. What harm could I do to the
confounded ship for the few minutes you’re away? I don’t want to stay
here any longer than I can help, I assure you. It was a sovereign I
promised you; but if you’ll row ashore as fast as you can and get
my clothes, and promise to keep your mouth shut, you shall have two
pounds. Will that please you?”
“Make it three,” said he, “and I’ll say done.”
“Very well,” I answered, “only be as quick as you can, for the sooner
I’m out of this thieves’ den and have seen the last of your hangman
face the better. And now I’ll go down out of the cold; and perhaps you
won’t grudge me another dram of that rum of yours, considering how
you’ve bled me to-night.”
Motioning me to follow, he led the way to the stern of the ship,
where, as I knew, the hulk-keeper’s quarters were situated, the
dynamite being stored, as I have already said, in the hold.
A cockpit, from which there shot up into the night an inverted pyramid
of yellow light, marked the entrance to the cabin, and into this
Hughes, disdainful of stairs, shuffled feet foremost, swinging a
moment with his palm resting on either ledge and his body pillared by
rigid arms before he dropped out of sight, like a stage Mephistopheles
returning to his native hell. Not being familiar with the place, I
decided to content myself with a less dramatic entrance, and picked my
way accordingly down the steep stairs and into the little cabin which
served as kitchen, sitting-room, and dormitory. A lighted oil-stove
stood in the centre, beside which Hughes placed a wooden chair.
“You’ve got very comfortable quarters here,” I said, looking round
approvingly after I had seated myself. “If one doesn’t mind a lonely
life (it _is_ lonely I suppose?), one might do worse than turn
hulk-keeper.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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