CHAPTER XIII
Wilson and the mate returned to the ship laden with their spoils, and pitching them on board first, descended themselves by a slower but pleasanter method.
"I expect our chaps are all ashore still," said the mate, looking round. "Pretty state they'll be in for a start. I suppose the boy's down with the cap'n."
"Just go down and send him up," said the skipper; "it's rather a delicate thing to do to give a man a suit of clothes. I don't want anybody standing round."
"There's no light," said the mate, looking towards the skylight. He went below and felt his way into the cabin.
"All in the dark?" he said cheerfully.
There was no reply. He fumbled about in the darkness for the matches, and having obtained them, struck a light and looked round. The cabin was empty. He opened the door of the state-room and peered in; that too was empty.
"He must have gone for a walk with the boy," said the skipper uneasily when he returned with the news.
He took up the parcel again and went below, followed by the mate, and for some time sat silently smoking.
"Nine o'clock," said the mate at last in consternation as the little clock tinkled the hour. "That confounded boy's not up to any mischief, I s'pose? He's been in a devil of a temper the last day or two."
"I don't see what mischief he could do," pondered the other, knitting his brows.
"Look's to me as if he's spirited him away," continued the mate. "I'll go ashore and have a look round and see whether I can see anything of them."
He took his cap from the locker and went. An hour elapsed, and the skipper, a prey to great anxiety, went up on deck.
The shops had closed, and with the exception of the street lamps, the town was in darkness and the streets silent, except for a chance wayfarer. Two or three seamen came up the quay and went aboard the steamer in the next berth. A woman came slowly along, peering in an uncertain fashion at the various craft, and shrinking back as a seaman passed her. Abreast of the Seamew she stopped, and in the same doubtful manner looked down on the deck. The skipper crossed to the side, and straining his eyes through the gloom, looked up at her.
"Is this the Seamew?" inquired a fresh girlish voice.
"Annis!" shouted the astounded skipper. "Annis!"
He ran up the rigging, and stepping on to the quay seized her hand. Then he drew her unresistingly towards him and was in the act of passing his arm round her waist when he remembered his position and drew back awkwardly.
"Come on board," he said gently.
He straddled from the quay to the rigging, and extending his hand in the midst of a perfect silence, helped her to the deck.
"Where is my father?" she said eagerly.
Wilson made no reply.
"Where is he?" she repeated.
Wilson shook his head. "I don't know," he said gloomily, "I don't know. He was here an hour or two ago. He was here yesterday."
She caught his arm breathlessly.
"Where is he now? What have you done with him?"
Wilson told her all he knew and having finished, watched her anxiously as she drew back a little and tapped on the deck with her foot.
A badly-blended chorus, making up in strength what it lacked in harmony, sounded on the quay, and gradually coming nearer, stopped at the Seamew for a final shout. The finale was rendered by the cook and Dick with much vehemence, while Sam, excited by his potations, danced madly before them.
"Silence up there!" shouted the skipper sternly, as Annis shrank away.
"A' right, sir," hiccupped Dick solemnly. "I'm lookin' after them. Mind how you break your neck, Sam."
Thus adjured, Sam balanced himself on the edge of the quay, and executing a double shuffle on the very brink of it by way of showing his complete mastery over his feet, fell into the rigging and descended. He was followed by Dick and the cook, both drunk, and both preternaturally solemn.
"Get below," said the skipper sharply.
"Ay, ay, sir," said Dick, with a lurch. "Come on, Sam, we—ain't wanted—here."
"It's all your damned dancing, Sam!" said the cook—who had ever an eye for beauty—plaintively.
"Will you get below?" roared the maddened skipper, giving him a push.
"I'm very sorry," he said, turning to Annis as they disappeared; "everything seems to be going wrong to-night."
"It doesn't matter," she said coldly. "Goodnight."
"Where are you going?" asked Wilson.
"Going to find a hotel," said Annis; "there's no train back to-night."
"Take the cabin," he said entreatingly, "I and the mate'll sleep for'ard."
"No, thank you," said Annis.
She stepped to the side, and, assisted by the skipper, clambered up on to the quay again. The mate came up at the moment and stood eyeing her curiously.
"This is Miss Gething," said the skipper slowly. "Any news?"
"None," said the mate solemnly; "they've vanished like smoke."
"Is it certain," asked Annis, addressing, him, "that it was my father?"
The mate looked at the skipper and pushed his cap back. "We had no reason to think otherwise," he said shortly. "It's a mystery to me altogether. He can't have gone home by train because he had no money."
"It couldn't have been my father," said Annis slowly. "Somebody has been deceiving you. Good-night. I will come round in the morning; it is getting late."
"Where are you going?" inquired the mate.
"She's going to look for a hotel," said the skipper, answering for her.
"It's late," said the mate dubiously, "and this isn't much of a place for hotels. Why not take her to the woman where her father has been staying? You said she seemed a decent sort."
"It's a poor place," began the other.
"That'll do," said Annis decidedly; "if it was good enough for my father it is good enough for me. If it wasn't my father I may learn something about him. Is it far?"
"Two miles," said the mate.
"We'd better start at once, then," said the skipper, moving a step or two by way of example.
"And perhaps you'll walk down too," said Annis to the mate.
It went to the mate's heart to do it, but he was a staunch friend. "No, I think I'll turn in," he said, blushing at his rudeness; "I'm tired."
He lifted his cap awkwardly and descended. Annis, with her head at an uncomfortable altitude, set off with the skipper.
"I'm sorry the mate wouldn't come," said the latter stiffly.
After this they went on in silence along the quiet road, Miss Gething realizing instinctively that the man by her side had got a temper equal to at least a dozen of her own. This made her walk a little closer to him, and once, ever so lightly, her hand brushed against his. The skipper put his hands in his jacket pockets.
They reached the late habitation of the mysterious Captain Gething without another word having been spoken on the journey. The mews was uninviting enough by daylight, by night it was worse. The body of a defunct four-wheeler blocked up half the entrance, and a retriever came out of his kennel at the other end and barked savagely.
"That's the house," said Wilson, indicating it—"number five. What's the matter?"
For Miss Gething, after making little dabs with her handkerchief at lips which did not require the attention, was furtively applying it to eyes which did.
"I'm tired," she said softly—"tired and disappointed."
She hesitated a moment, and then before Wilson had quite made up his mind what to do, moved proudly away and knocked at the door of number five. It was opened after some delay by an untidy woman in crackers and a few other things, who having listened to the skipper's explanation, admitted Miss Gething to her father's room. She then saw the skipper to the door again, and having wished him a somewhat grim good-night, closed the door.
He walked back as sharply as he could to the schooner, his mind in a whirl with the events of the evening, and as he neared the quay broke into a run, in awkward imitation of a small figure approaching from the opposite direction.
"You little vagabond!" he panted, seizing him by the collar as they reached the schooner together.
"A'right," said Henry; "'ave it your own way then."
"Drop him overboard," said the mate, who was standing on the deck.
Henry indulged in a glance of contempt—made safe by the darkness—at this partisan, and with the air of one who knows that he has an interesting yarn to spin, began at the beginning and worked slowly up for his effects. The expediency of brevity and point was then tersely pointed out to him by both listeners, the highly feminine trait of desiring the last page first being strongly manifested.
"I can't make head or tail of it," said the skipper, after the artist had spoilt his tale to suit his public. "He's taken fright at something or other. Well, we'll go after him."
"They're getting away at about one," said the mate; "and suppose he won't come, what are you going to do then? After all, it mightn't be her father. Damned unsatisfactory I call it!"
"I don't know what to do," said the bewildered skipper; "I don't know what's best."
"Well, it ain't my business," said Henry, who had been standing by silently; "but I know what I should do."
Both men leaned forward eagerly.
"I may be a young vagabond," said Henry, enjoying to the full this tribute to his powers—"p'raps I am. I may be put to bed by a set of grinning idiots; I may—"
"What would you do, Henry?" asked the skipper very quietly.
"Go back an' fetch Miss Gething, o' course," said the boy, "an' take her down to the ship. That'll settle it."
"By Jove! the boy's right," said the mate—"if there's time."
But the skipper had already started.
"You're a very good boy, Henry," said the mate approvingly. "Now go down and watch the Frolic again, and as soon as she starts getting under way run back and let us know. If she passes before he comes back I'll hail her and try and find out what it all means."
Meantime the skipper, half walking, half running, went on his way to Overcourt, arriving at Stagg's Gardens in a breathless condition. Number five was fast asleep when he reached it and began a violent thumping upon the door.
"Who's there? What do you want?" demanded a shrill voice as the window was thrown up and a female head protruded.
"I want to see that young lady I brought here a little while ago," said the skipper—"quick."
"What, at this time o' night!" said the lady. "Be reasonable, young man, if you are sweethearting."
"Something important," said the skipper impatiently.
"Can't you tell me what it is?" said the lady, who felt that she was in a position to have her curiosity satisfied.
"Tell her I've got news of her father," said the skipper, restraining himself with difficulty.
The head disappeared and the window was closed. After what seemed an hour to the impatient man, he heard a step in the passage, the door opened, and Annis stood before him.
With a very few words they were walking together again down the road, Annis listening to his story as they went. It was a long way, and she was already tired, but she refused the offer of her companion's arm with a spirit which showed that she had not forgotten the previous journey. As they neared the Seamew the skipper's spirits sank, for the mate, who was watching, ran out to meet them.
"It's no use," he said sympathetically; "she's under way. Shall we hail her as she goes by?"
The skipper, leaving Annis unceremoniously on the quay, sprang aboard and peered anxiously down the river. The night was starlit, and he could just discern a craft coming slowly towards them.
"Hoist a couple of lanterns, Jack, and call the crew up quickly," he cried to the mate.
"What for?" said the other in astonishment.
"You light 'em," cried the skipper excitedly. "Henry, help me off with these hatches."
He was down on his knees with the boy unfastening them, while the mate, having lit a lantern, ran forward to rouse the men. The Frolic was now but twenty yards astern.
"Ahoy! schooner, ahoy!" bawled Wilson, running suddenly to the side.
"Halloa!" came a hoarse voice.
"Are you full up?" shouted the master of the Seamew.
"No," came the roar again.
"Drop your anchor and come alongside," shouted the skipper, "I've got to stay here another week, and I've got a dozen barrels o' herring must be in London before then."
The Frolic was abreast of them, and he held his breath with suspense.
"It won't take you half an hour," he shouted anxiously.
The grating of the cable was music in his ears as it ran out, and hardly able to believe in the success of his scheme he saw the crew taking in the sail they had just begun to set. Ten minutes later the Frolic was rubbing against his side.
The hatches were off the Seamew, and a lantern swinging in her hold shed a sickly light upon the sleepy faces of her crew. The mate was at the foc'sle whispering instructions to Annis.
"Look alive," said the master of the Frolic, "I'll just take 'em on deck for the present."
He came fussily to the side to superintend, gazing curiously at Annis, who was standing watching the operations.
"What a nice ship!" she said. "May I come on board?"
"You're quite welcome if you don't get in the way," was the reply.
Accepting this qualified permission, Annis stepped on board and walked quietly round the deck. At the companion she paused and looked round. Everybody was busy; and trembling with nervousness, she hesitated a moment and then descended into the dark cabin.
"That you, captain?" said a voice. "What are we stopping for?"
Annis made no reply.
"Who is it?" said the voice again.
"Hush!" said Annis.
"Oh, all right," said Mr. Tillotson shortly. "What's wrong?"
Annis hesitated, waiting to hear another voice, but in vain. She fancied that she heard another person breathing, but that was all.
"Father!" she cried, suddenly. "It's me! Annis! Where are you?"
There was a great shout from the other side of the cabin, and in the gloom she saw something spring up and come towards her. Something which caught her in a mighty grasp and crushed her soft face against a long, stiff beard. Laughing and crying together she put her arms about its neck and clung to it convulsively.
"There, there, my lass!" said Captain Gething at last.
"We only stopped you by a miracle," said Annis hysterically. "The Seamew is alongside, and why you wanted to run away again I don't know."
"I don't understand," said Captain Gething wearily.
"You can understand that I wouldn't take you into danger," said Annis tenderly. "Put your coat on and come with me."
Without another word Captain Gething did as he was bid. He stopped, as though to speak to Tillotson, and then thinking better of it, followed his daughter on deck.
"I'm not coming with you, cap'n," he said as that ardent mariner passed them rolling a barrel along the deck.
"A' right," said the other briefly; "you won't get your money back."
In a shamefaced fashion Captain Gething, still holding his daughter's arm, stepped on board the Seamew and shook hands with its master. By the time he was half through his story there was a burning desire on the part of the skipper to go down and have a look at Tillotson—a desire peremptorily checked by Annis, who had an erroneous opinion concerning that gentleman's identity, and the Frolic having taken in its herrings, sheered off with a friendly good-night. The crew of the Seamew watched her until she had her anchor up, and then, at the impatient suggestion of Henry, who was stage managing, went below.
"Are you satisfied now?" inquired Wilson in a low voice, as Captain Gething, with a wisdom born of years, went slowly below.
"Quite," breathed Annis softly.
"I'm not," said Wilson, in tones full of meaning.
Miss Gething smiled, and leaning against the side surveyed, with some interest, the dark water and the sleeping town. She did not move when Wilson came and stood by her, and when he took her hand, made no protest.
"I'm not satisfied—yet," said Wilson, raising her hand to his lips.
His eye caught the two lanterns which were burning somewhat garishly, and crossing over, he took them down and blew them out. He turned suddenly at the sound of a smothered laugh, a moment too late. Annis Gething had gone below.
THE BROWN MAN'S SERVANT
CHAP I
The shop of Solomon Hyams stood in a small thoroughfare branching off the Commercial Road. In its windows unredeemed pledges of all kinds, from old-time watches to seamen's boots, appealed to all tastes and requirements. Bundles of cigars, candidly described as "wonderful," were marked at absurdly low figures, while silver watches endeavored to excuse the clumsiness of their make by describing themselves as "strong workmen's." The side entrance, up a narrow alley, was surmounted by the usual three brass balls, and here Mr. Hyams' clients were wont to call. They entered as optimists, smiled confidently upon Mr. Hyams, argued, protested shrilly, and left the establishment pessimists of a most pronounced and virulent type.
None of these things, however, disturbed the pawnbroker. The drunken client who endeavored to bail out his Sunday clothes with a tram ticket was accommodated with a chair, while the assistant went to hunt up his friends and contract for a speedy removal; the old woman who, with a view of obtaining a higher advance than usual, poured a tale of grievous woe into the hardened ears of Mr. Hyams, found herself left to the same invaluable assistant, and, realizing her failure, would at once become cheerful and take what was offered. Mr. Hyams' methods of business were quiet and unostentatious, and rumor had it that he might retire at any time and live in luxury.
It was a cold, cheerless afternoon in November as Mr. Hyams, who had occasional hazy ideas of hygiene, stood at his door taking the air. It was an atmosphere laden with soot and redolent of many blended odors, but after the fusty smell of the shop it was almost health-giving. In the large public-house opposite, with its dirty windows and faded signboards, the gas was already being lit, which should change it from its daylight dreariness to a resort of light and life.
Mr. Hyams, who was never in a hurry to light up his own premises, many of his clients preferring the romantic light which comes between day and night for their visits, was about to leave the chilly air for the warmth inside, when his attention was attracted by a seaman of sturdy aspect stopping and looking in at his window. Mr. Hyams rubbed his hands softly. There was an air of comfort and prosperity about this seaman, and the pawnbroker had many small articles in his window, utterly useless to the man, which he would have liked to have sold him.
The man came from the window, made as though to pass, and then paused irresolute before the pawn-broker.
"You want a watch?" said the latter genially. "Come inside."
Mr. Hyams went behind his counter and waited.
"I don't want to buy nothing, and I don't want to pawn nothing," said the sailor. "What do you think o' that?"
Mr. Hyams, who objected to riddles, especially those which seemed to be against business, eyed him unfavorably from beneath his shaggy eyebrows.
"We might have a little quiet talk together," said the seaman, "you an' me; we might do a little bit o' business together, you an' me. In the parler, shall we say, over a glass o' something hot?"
Mr. Hyams hesitated. He was not averse to a little business of an illicit nature, but there rose up vividly before him the picture of another sailor who had made much the same sort of proposal, and, after four glasses of rum, had merely suggested to him that he should lend him twenty pounds on the security of an I.O.U. It was long since, but the memory of it still rankled.
"What sort of business is it?" he inquired.
"Business that's too big for you, p'raps," said the sailor with a lordly air. "I'll try a bigger place. What's that lantern-faced swab shoving his ugly mug into the daylight for?"
"Get off," said the pawnbroker to the assistant, who was quietly and unobtrusively making a third.
"Mind the shop. This gentleman and I have business in the parlor. Come this way, sir."
He raised the flap of the counter, and led the way to a small, untidy room at the back of the shop. A copper kettle was boiling on the fire, and the table was already laid for tea. The pawnbroker, motioning his visitor to a dingy leather armchair, went to a cupboard and produced a bottle of rum, three parts full, and a couple of glasses.
"Tea for me," said the seaman, eyeing the bottle wistfully.
The pawnbroker pricked up his ears. "Nonsense," he said, with an attempt at heartiness, "a jolly fellow like you don't want tea. Have some o' this."
"Tea, confound yer!" said the other. "When I say tea, I mean tea."
The pawnbroker, repressing his choler, replaced the bottle, and, seating himself at the table, reached over for the kettle, and made the tea. It was really a pleasing picture of domestic life, and would have looked well in a lantern slide at a temperance lecture, the long, gaunt Jew and the burly seaman hobnobbing over the blameless teapot. But Mr. Hyams grew restless. He was intent upon business; but the other, so far as his inroads on the teapot and the eatables gave any indication, seemed to be bent only upon pleasure. Once again the picture of the former sailor rose before Mr. Hyams' eyes, and he scowled fiercely as the seaman pushed his cup up for the fourth time.
"And now for a smoke," said his visitor, as he settled back in his chair. "A good 'un, mind. Lord, this is comfort! It's the first bit o' comfort I've 'ad since I come ashore five days ago."
The pawnbroker grunted, and producing a couple of black, greasy-looking cigars, gave one to his guest. They both fell to smoking, the former ill at ease, the latter with his feet spread out on the small fender, making the very utmost of his bit of comfort.
"Are you a man as is fond of asking questions?" he said at length.
"No," said the pawnbroker, shutting his lips illustratively.
"Suppose," said the sailor, leaning forward intently—"suppose a man came to you an' ses— there's that confounded assistant of yours peeping through the door."
The pawnbroker got up almost as exasperated as the seaman, and, after rating his assistant through the half-open door, closed it with a bang, and pulled down a small blind over the glass.
"Suppose a man came to you," resumed the sailor, after the pawnbroker had seated himself again, "and asked you for five hundred pounds for something. Have you got it?"
"Not here," said the pawnbroker suspiciously. "I don't keep any money on the premises."
"You could get it, though?" suggested the other.
"We'll see," said the pawnbroker; "five hundred pounds is a fortune—five hundred pounds, why it takes years of work—five hundred pounds—"
"I don't want no blessed psalms," said the seaman abruptly; "but, look here, suppose I wanted five hundred pounds for something, and you wouldn't give it. How am I to know you wouldn't give information to the police if I didn't take what you offered me for it?"
The pawnbroker threw up his huge palms in virtuous horror.
"I'd mark you for it if you did," said the seaman menacingly, through his teeth. "It 'ud be the worst day's work you ever did. Will you take it or leave it at my price, an' if you won't give it, leave me to go as I came?"
"I will," said the pawnbroker solemnly.
The seaman laid his cigar in the tray, where it expired in a little puddle of tea, and, undoing his coat, cautiously took from his waist a canvas belt In a hesitating fashion he dangled the belt in his hands, looking from the Jew to the door, and from the door back to the Jew again. Then from a pocket in the belt he took something wrapped in a small piece of dirty flannel, and, unrolling it, deposited on the table a huge diamond, whose smouldering fires flashed back in many colors the light from the gas.
The Jew, with an exclamation, reached forward to handle it, but the sailor thrust him back.
"Hands off," he said grimly. "None of your ringing the changes on me."
He tipped it over with his finger-nail on the table from side to side, the other, with his head bent down, closely inspecting it. Then, as a great indulgence, he laid it on the Jew's open palm for a few seconds.
"Five hundred pounds," he said, taking it in his own hands again.
The pawnbroker laughed. It was a laugh which he kept for business purposes, and would have formed a valuable addition to the goodwill of the shop.
"I'll give you fifty," he said, after he had regained his composure.
The seaman replaced the gem in its wrapper again.
"Well, I'll give you seventy, and risk whether I lose over it," continued the pawnbroker.
"Five hundred's my price," said the seaman calmly, as he placed the belt about his waist and began to buckle it up.
"Seventy-five," said the pawnbroker persuasively.
"Look here," said the seaman, regarding him sternly, "you drop it. I'm not going to haggle with you. I'm not going to haggle with any man. I ain't no judge o' diamonds, but I've 'ad cause to know as this is something special. See here."
He rolled back the coat sleeve from his brawny arm, and revealed a long, newly healed scar.
"I risked my life for that stone," he said slowly. "I value my life at five hundred pounds. It's likely worth more than as many thousands, and you know it. However, good-night to you, mate. How much for the tea?"
He put his hand contemptuously in his trouser pocket, and pulled out some small change.
"There's the risk of getting rid of the stone," said the pawnbroker, pushing aside the proffered coin. "Where did it come from? Has it got a history?"
"Not in Europe it ain't," said the seaman. "So far as I know, you an' me an' one other are the only white men as know of it. That's all I'm going to tell you."
"Do you mind waiting while I go and fetch a friend of mine to see it?" inquired the pawnbroker. "You needn't be afraid," he added hastily. "He's a respectable man and as close as the grave."
"I'm not afraid," said the seaman quietly. "But no larks, mind. I'm not a nice man to play them on. I'm pretty strong, an' I've got something else besides."
He settled himself in the armchair again, and accepting another cigar, watched his host as he took his hat from the sideboard.
"I'll be back as soon as I can," said the latter somewhat anxiously. "You won't go before I come?"
"Not me," said the seaman bluntly. "When I say a thing I stick to it. I don't haggle, and haggle, and—" he paused a moment for a word, "and haggle," he concluded.
Left to himself, he smoked on contentedly, blandly undisturbed by the fact that the assistant looked in at the door occasionally, to see that things were all right. It was quite a new departure for Mr. Hyams to leave his parlor to a stranger, and the assistant felt a sense of responsibility so great that it was a positive relief to him when his master returned, accompanied by another man.
"This is my friend," said Mr. Hyams, as they entered the parlor and closed the door. "You might let him see the stone."
The seaman took off his belt again, and placing the diamond in his hand held it before the stranger who, making no attempt to take it, turned it over with his finger and examined it critically.
"Are you going to sea again just yet?" he inquired softly.
"Thursday night," said the seaman, "Five hundred is my price; p'raps he told you. I'm not going to haggle."
"Just so, just so," said the other quietly. "It's worth five hundred."
"Spoke like a man," said the seaman warmly.
"I like to deal with a man who knows his own mind," said the stranger, "it saves trouble. But if we buy it for that amount you must do one thing for us. Keep quiet and don't touch a drop of liquor until you sail, and not a word to anybody."
"You needn't be afraid o' the licker," said the sailor grimly. "I shan't touch that for my own sake."
"He's a teetotaler," explained the pawnbroker.
"He's not," said the seaman indignantly.
"Why won't you drink, then?" asked the other man.
"Fancy," said the seaman dryly, and closed his mouth.
Without another word the stranger turned to the pawnbroker, who, taking a pocket-book from his coat, counted out the amount in notes. These, after the sailor had examined them in every possible manner, he rolled up and put in his pocket, then without a word he took out the diamond again and laid it silently on the table. Mr. Hyams, his fingers trembling with eagerness, took it up and examined it delightedly.
"You've got it a bargain," said the seaman. "Good-night, gentlemen. I hope, for your sakes, nobody'll know I've parted with it. Keep your eyes open, and trust nobody. When you see black, smell mischief. I'm glad to get rid of it."
He threw his head back, and, expanding his chest as though he already breathed more freely, nodded to both men, and, walking through the shop, passed out into the street and disappeared.
Long after he had gone, the pawnbroker and his friend, Levi, sat with the door locked and the diamond before them, eagerly inspecting it.
"It's a great risk," said the pawnbroker. "A stone like that generally makes some noise."
"Anything good is risky," said the other somewhat contemptuously. "You don't expect to get a windfall like that without any drawback, do you?"
He took the stone in his hand again, and eyed it lovingly. "It's from the East somewhere," he said quietly. "It's badly cut, but it's a diamond of diamonds, a king of gems."
"I don't want any trouble with the police," said the pawnbroker, as he took it from him.
"You are talking now as though you have just made a small advance on a stolen overcoat," said his friend impatiently. "A risk like that—and you have done it before now—is a foolish one to run; the game is not worth the candle. But this—why it warms one's blood to look at it."
"Well, I'll leave it with you," said the pawnbroker. "If you do well with it I ought not to want to work any more."
The other placed it in an inside pocket, while the owner watched him anxiously.
"Don't let any accident happen to you to-night, Levi," he said nervously.
"Thanks for your concern," said Levi grimacing. "I shall probably be careful for my own sake."
He buttoned up his coat, and, drinking a glass of hot whisky, went out whistling. He had just reached the door when the pawnbroker called him back.