Suddenly Thomas'
hand flew to his breast. The chamois bag was gone!
CHAPTER IV
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.
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