A replica of a London cab, something which
smacked of home; he could have hugged for sheer joy the bleary-eyed
cabby who touched his rusty high hat.
"Free?"
"Free 's th' air, bo. Where to?"
"Pier 60, White Star Line. How much?"--quite his old-time self again.
"Two dollars,"--promptly.
"All right. And hurry!" Thomas climbed in. He was safe.
As the crow flies it was less than a ten-minutes' jog from that corner
to Pier 60. Thomas had not gone far; he had merely covered a good deal
of ground. Cabby drove about for three-quarters of an hour and then
drew up before the pier.
Back to his cabin once more, weak as a swimmer who had breasted a
strong tide. He opened his trunk and rammed the chamois-bag into the
toe of one of his patent-leather boots. In the daytime he would wear
it about his neck, but each night back into the shoe it must go. He
flung himself on the bunk, not to sleep, but to think and wonder.
Meantime there was great excitement in the dive. The waiter was
rocking his body, wailing and holding his jaw.
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