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.
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.
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