Complete Works

George Dunbar had turned on him, too, in the end.  Cloete was clearly somewhat disillusioned.
    As to Stafford, he died, professed loafer, in some East End hospital or other, and on his last day clamoured “for a parson,” because his conscience worried him for killing an innocent man.  “Wanted somebody to tell him it was all right,” growled my old ruffian, contemptuously.  “He told the parson that I knew this Cloete who had tried to murder him, and so the parson (he worked among the dock labourers) once spoke to me about it.  That skunk of a fellow finding himself trapped yelled for mercy. . . Promised to be good and so on. . . Then he went crazy . . . screamed and threw himself about, beat his head against the bulkheads . . . you can guess all that — eh? . . . till he was exhausted.  Gave up.  Threw himself down, shut his eyes, and wanted to pray.  So he says.  Tried to think of some prayer for a quick death — he was that terrified.  Thought that if he had a knife or something he would cut his throat, and be done with it.  Then he thinks: No!  Would try to cut away the wood about the lock. . . He had no knife in his pocket. . . he was weeping and calling on God to send him a tool of some kind when suddenly he thinks: Axe!  In most ships there is a spare emergency axe kept in the master’s room in some locker or other. . . Up he jumps. . . Pitch dark.  Pulls at the drawers to find matches and, groping for them, the first thing he comes upon — Captain Harry’s revolver.  Loaded too.  He goes perfectly quiet all over.  Can shoot the lock to pieces.  See?  Saved!  God’s providence!  There are boxes of matches too.  Thinks he: I may just as well see what I am about.
    “Strikes a light and sees the little canvas bag tucked away at the back of the drawer.  Knew at once what that was.  Rams it into his pocket quick.  Aha! says he to himself: this requires more light.  So he pitches a lot of paper on the floor, set fire to it, and starts in a hurry rummaging for more valuables.  Did you ever?  He told that East-End parson that the devil tempted him.  First God’s mercy — then devil’s work.  Turn and turn about. . .
    “Any squirming skunk can talk like that.  He was so busy with the drawers that the first thing he heard was a shout, Great Heavens.  He looks up and there was the door open (Cloete had left the key in the lock) and Captain Harry holding on, well above him, very fierce in the light of the burning papers.  His eyes were starting out of his head.  Thieving, he thunders at him.  A sailor!  An officer!  No!  A wretch like you deserves no better than to be left here to drown.
    “This Stafford — on his death-bed — told the parson that when he heard these words he went crazy again.  He snatched his hand with the revolver in it out of the drawer, and fired without aiming.  Captain Harry fell right in with a crash like a stone on top of the burning papers, putting the blaze out.  All dark.  Not a sound.  He listened for a bit then dropped the revolver and scrambled out on deck like mad.”
    The old fellow struck the table with his ponderous fist.
    “What makes me sick is to hear these silly boat-men telling people the captain committed suicide.  Pah!  Captain Harry was a man that could face his Maker any time up there, and here below, too.  He wasn’t the sort to slink out of life.  Not he!  He was a good man down to the ground.  He gave me my first job as stevedore only three days after I got married.”
    As the vindication of Captain Harry from the charge of suicide seemed to be his only object, I did not thank him very effusively for his material.  And then it was not worth many thanks in any case.
    For it is too startling even to think of such things happening in our respectable Channel in full view, so to speak, of the luxurious continental traffic to Switzerland and Monte Carlo.  This story to be acceptable should have been transposed to somewhere in the South Seas.  But it would have been too much trouble to cook it for the consumption of magazine readers.  So here it is raw, so to speak — just as it was told to me — but unfortunately robbed of the striking effect of the narrator; the most imposing old ruffian that ever followed the unromantic trade of master stevedore in the port of London.
     

THE INN OF THE TWO WITCHES

     
    A FIND
     
    This tale, episode, experience — call it how you will — was related in the fifties of