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.
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