CHAPTER X
Strange Fishing
Yes, her arms were extended towards him. The fact made the world swimbefore his eyes. Then he thought of Sorez and--it was well Sorez wasnot within reach of him. Slowly the barrier widened between Wilson andhis Comrade--slowly she faded from sight, even while his eyes strainedto hold the last glimpse of her. It seemed as though the big ship weredragging the heart out of him. On it went, slowly, majestically,inevitably, tugging, straining until it was difficult for him to catchhis breath. She was taking away not only her own sweet self, but thejoy and life from everything about him; the color from the sky, thegold from the sunbeams, the savor from the breezes. To others the skywas blue, the sun warm, and the salt-laden winds came in from over thesea with pungent keenness. To others the waters were sprinkled withjoyous colors--the white sails of yachts, the weather-beaten sails ofthe fishermen, and the gaudy funnels of the liners. But to him it wasall gray, gray--a dull, sodden gray.
He felt a tug at his sleeve and heard the gruff voice of the cabby.
"What about my fare?"
"Your fare?"
He had forgotten. He reached in his pocket and drew out a roll ofbills, thrusting them into the grimy hands of the man without lookingat them.
"Now get out," he ordered.
Wilson watched the fading hulk until it was lost in the tangle ofother shipping. Then he tried to hold the line of black smokewhich it left in its wake. When that finally blended with the smokefrom other funnels which misted into the under surface of the bluesky, he turned about and stared wearily at the jumble of buildingswhich marked the city that was left. The few who had come on alike mission dispersed,--sucked into the city channels to theirdestinations as nickel cash boxes in a department store are flashedto their goals. Wilson found himself almost alone on the pier.There was but one other who, like himself, seemed to find no interestleft behind by the steamer. Wilson merely glanced at him, but soonlooked back, his interest excited by something or other in theman's appearance. He was no ordinary looking man--a certain heavy,brooding air relieved of moroseness by twinkling black eyes marked himas a man with a personality. He was short and thick set, with shaggy,iron-gray eyebrows, a smooth-shaven face speckled on one side as by apowder scar. Beneath a thin-lipped mouth a stubborn chin protruded.He was dressed in a flannel shirt and corduroy trousers, fastened bya black belt. He had the self-sufficient air of the sailor orminer, which is developed by living a great deal apart from othermen. It seemed to Wilson that the man was watching him, too, withconsiderable interest. Every now and then he removed the short claypipe which he was smoking and covered a half circle with his eyeswhich invariably included Wilson. Finally he lounged nearer and a fewminutes later asked for a match.
Wilson, who was not much given to forming chance acquaintanceships,was at first inclined to be suspicious, and yet it was he who made thenext advance, prompted, however, by his eagerness for information.
"Do you know anything about sailing lines to South America?" heasked.
The older man removed his pipe. Wilson thought he looked a bitstartled--a bit suspicious at the question.
"What port?" he asked.
It occurred to Wilson that it might be just as well not to divulge hisreal destination. The only other South American port he could think ofwas Rio Janeiro, on the east coast.
"How about to Rio?"
"Hell of a hole--Rio," observed the stranger, with a sad shake of hishead. "But fer that matter so's everywhere. Never found a place whatwasn't. This is," he affirmed, sweeping his pipe in a semicircle.
"You're right there," agreed Wilson, the blue sky above cloudingbefore his eyes.
"I've heern there's goneter be an earthquake here some day. Swallerup the whole darned place. Guess it's so."
Wilson studied the man once more; he began to think the fellow was atrifle light-headed. But he decided not; he was probably only one ofthose with so strong an individuality as to be thought queer. Thestranger was staring out to sea again as though, in the trend of freshspeculations, he had lost all interest in the conversation. However,in a minute he withdrew his pipe from his mouth, and, without turninghis head, asked,
"Was you reckoning as a passenger or was yer lookin' for a chance toship?"
That was a proposition Wilson had not considered. It had no moreoccurred to him that a man untrained could secure work on a ship thanon a railroad.
"Think it is possible for me to get a job?" he asked. "I've not hadany experience."
"There's some things yer don't need experience fer."
"I'm willing to do anything--from peeling potatoes to scrubbingdecks."
"There's better nor that fer a man."
"I'd like to find it."
The stranger studied the younger man from the corner of his eyes,pressing down the live coals in his pipe with a calloused forefinger.
"If you was only goin' to the West Coast, now."
"What? Where?"
"Say pretty far up--Say to Carlina?"
Wilson could scarcely believe his ears. He steadied himself. This mustbe more than mere coincidence, he thought. For all he knew, this manmight be some agent of the priest. Perhaps the latter had some inklingof what had been found. But if that were so, there was little doubtbut what the priest would have taken up the search for it himself. Atany rate, Wilson felt well able to care for himself. The parchment wassafe in an inside pocket which he had fastened at the top with safetypins. The advantage in having it there was that he could feel it witha slight pressure of his arm. If an opportunity offered to get toCarlina, he would accept it at whatever risk. Wilson answered slowlyafter the manner of one willing to consider an offer but eager to makea good bargain.
"I don't know but what Carlina would suit me as well as Rio. It's moreto get away from here than anything."
"You has the right spirit, m' boy."
He paused, then added indifferently,
"Dunno but what I can find a berth fer you. Come if ye wanter, an'we'll talk it over."
Wilson followed. This at least offered possibilities. The strangerlolled the length of the dock shed and out into the street asunconcernedly as though only upon a stroll. They turned into the mainthoroughfare among the drays and ship-chandlers' shops, out into thebusy, unconcerned life of the city. The stranger was as unconscious ofthe confusion about him as though he were the only occupant of thestreet, crossing in front of the heavy teams with a nonchalance thatforced frantic drivers to draw their horses to their haunches, andmotormen to bend double over their brakes. Oaths and warningsapparently never reached him. Once Wilson clutched at his broadshoulders to save him from a motor car. He merely spat at the rearwheels.
"Couldn't git killed if I wanted to," he grumbled.
They brought up finally before a barroom and entered, passing throughto the small iron tables in the rear. The dim gas revealed smudgedwalls ornamented with dusty English sporting prints--a cock fight, afist fight, and a coach and four done in colors. A dwarf of a waiterswabbed off the wet disks made by beer glasses.
"Two half and halfs," ordered the stranger.
When they were brought, he shoved one towards Wilson.
"Drink," he said. "Might's well."
Wilson gulped down the bitter beer. It cleared his head and gave himnew life. The stranger ordered another.
"Can't talk to a man when he's thirsty," he observed.
The room grew hazily warm, and Wilson felt himself glowing with newlife and fresh courage.
"My name is Stubbs--Jonathan Stubbs," explained the stranger, asWilson put down the empty mug. "Follered the sea for forty year.Rotten hard work--rotten bad grub--rotten poor pay. Same on land ason sea, I reckon. No good anywhere. Got a friend who's a longshoremanand says th' same 'bout his work. No good anywhere."
He paused as though waiting for the other to introduce _himself_.
"My name is Wilson, haven't done much of anything--and that's rottenpoor fun. But I want to get to South America and I'll do anythingunder the sun
that will pay my way there."
"Anything?"
"Yes," laughed Wilson, "anything, to heaving coal."
"'Fraid of your neck?" asked Stubbs.
"Try me."
"Gut any family?"
"No."
"Ever shipped afore?"
"No."
Stubbs settled further back in his chair and studied the ceiling.
"Wotcher want to git there for?"
"I have a friend who's somewhere down there," he said frankly.
"Man?"
"No."
"Women," mused Stubbs, "is strange. Can't never lay your hand on awoman. Here they are an' here they ain't. I had a woman once't. Yes, Ihad a woman once't."
He relapsed into a long silence and Wilson studied him withfriendlier interest than before. Life was written large upon hiswrinkled face, but the eyes beneath the heavy brows redeemed many ofthe bitter lines. It was clear that the man had lived much withinhimself in spite of his long rubbing against the world. He was a man,Wilson thought, who could warn men off, or welcome them in, at will.
"Maybe," he resumed, "maybe you'll come an' maybe you won't. Come ifyou wanter."
"Where to?"
"To Choco Bay. Can't promise you nothin' but a berth to theport,--good pay an' a damned rough time after you get there. Maybeyour throat cut in the end."
"I'll go," said Wilson, instantly.
The gray eyes brightened.
"Now I ain't promised you nothin', have I, but to git you to thecoast?"
"No."
"Hain't said nothin', have I, 'bout what may happen to you after yougit there?"
"Only that I may get my throat cut."
"What's the difference if you do? But if you wants to, I'll gamble mychest agin a chaw that you won't. Nothin' ever comes out right."
"But I don't want to. I most particularly object to getting my throatcut."
"Then," said Stubbs, "maybe you will. Where's your kit?"
"On my back."
"You'll need more than that. Come on."
Stubbs led the way to a second-hand store and bought for his new-foundfriend a flannel shirt, trousers like his own, a pair of stout boots,and a cap.
Wilson had nothing left of his ten dollars.
"All the same," said Stubbs. "Settle when you git your pay."
He led him then to a pawn shop where he picked out a thirty-twocalibre revolver and several boxes of cartridges. Also a thick-bladedclaspknife.
"See here, Stubbs," objected Wilson, "I don't need those things. I'mnot going pirating, am I?"
"Maybe so. Maybe only missionaryin'. But a gun's a useful ornyment ineither case."
He drew out a heavy silver watch and with his forefinger marking offeach hour, computed how much time was left to him.
"What d' ye say," he broke out, looking up at Wilson, "what d' ye sayto goin' fishin', seein' as we've gut a couple of hours on ourhands?"
"Fishing?" gasped Wilson.
"Fishin'," answered the other, calmly. "I know a feller down by thewharf who'll take us cheap. Might's well fish as anything else.Prob'ly won't git none. Never do. I'll jus' drop in below here and gitsome bait an' things."
A dozen blocks or so below, he left Wilson on the sidewalk andvanished into a store whose windows were cluttered with ship's junk.Anchor-chains, tarpaulin, marlinspikes, ropes, and odd bits of ironwere scattered in a confusion of fish nets. Stubbs emerged with ablack leather bag so heavy that he was forced to ask Wilson to helphim lift it to his shoulders.
"Going to fish with cast-iron worms?" asked Wilson.
"Maybe so. Maybe so."
He carried the bag lightly once it was in place and forged a pathstraight ahead with the same indifference to pedestrians he had showntowards teams, apparently deaf to the angry protestations of those whounwisely tried their weight against the heavy bag. Suddenly he turnedto the right and clambered down a flight of stairs to a float where aman was bending over a large dory.
"Engaged for to-day?" he demanded of the young fellow who was occupiedin bailing out the craft. The man glanced up at Stubbs and then turnedhis attention to Wilson.
"My friend," went on Stubbs, "I want to get a little fishin' 'foredark. Will you 'commodate me?"
"Get in, then," growled the owner.
He helped Stubbs lower the bag into the stern, with the question,
"Any more to your party?"
"This is all," answered Stubbs.
In five minutes Wilson found himself in the prow being rowed out amongthe very shipping at which a few hours before he had stared with suchresentment. What a jackstraw world this had proved itself to him inthis last week! It seemed that on the whole he had had very little todo with his own life, that he was being juggled by some unknown hand.And yet he seemed, too, to be moving definitely towards some unknowngoal. And this ultimate towards which his life was trending wasinseparably bound up with that of the girl. His heart gave a bound asthey swung out into the channel. He felt himself to be close on theheels of Jo. It mattered little what lay in between. The incidents oflife counted for nothing so long as they helped him to move step bystep to her side. He had come to his own again,--come into theknowledge of the strength within him, into the swift current of youth.He realized that it was the privilege of youth to meet life as it cameand force it to obey the impulses of the heart. He felt as though thecity behind him had laid upon him the oppressive weight of its handand that now he had shaken it free.
The color came back once more into the world.
The Web of the Golden Spider Page 11