The men scattered by the dissolving contact of the land came together once more in the shipping office.—“The Narcissus pays off,” shouted outside a glazed door a brassbound old fellow with a crown and the capitals B.T. on his cap. A lot trooped in at once but many were late. The room was large, whitewashed, and bare; a counter surmounted by a brass-wire grating fenced off a third of the dusty space, and behind the grating a pasty-faced clerk, with his hair parted in the middle, had the quick, glittering eyes and the vivacious, jerky movements of a caged bird. Poor Captain Allistoun also in there, and sitting before a little table with piles of gold and notes on it, appeared subdued by his captivity. Another Board of Trade bird was perching on a high stool near the door: an old bird that did not mind the chaff of elated sailors. The crew of the Narcissus, broken up into knots, pushed in the corners. They had new shore togs, smart jackets that looked as if they had been shaped with an axe, glossy trousers that seemed made of crumpled sheet-iron, collarless flannel shirts, shiny new boots. They tapped on shoulders, buttonholed one another, asked: “Where did you sleep last night?” whispered gaily, slapped their thighs with bursts of subdued laughter. Most had clean, radiant faces; only one or two turned up dishevelled and sad; the two young Norwegians looked tidy, meek, and altogether of a promising material for the kind ladies who patronise the Scandinavian Home. Wamibo, still in his working clothes, dreamed, upright and burly in the middle of the room, and, when Archie came in, woke up for a smile. But the wide-awake clerk called out a name, and the paying-off business began.
One by one they came up to the pay-table to get the wages of their glorious and obscure toil. They swept the money with care into broad palms, rammed it trustfully into trousers’ pockets, or, turning their backs on the table, reckoned with difficulty in the hollow of their stiff hands.—“Money right? Sign the release. There—there,” repeated the clerk, impatiently. “How stupid those sailors are!” he thought. Singleton came up, venerable—and uncertain as to daylight; brown drops of tobacco juice hung in his white beard; his hands, that never hesitated in the great light of the open sea, could hardly find the small pile of gold in the profound darkness of the shore. “Can’t write?” said the clerk, shocked. “Make a mark, then.” Singleton painfully sketched in a heavy cross, blotted the page. “What a disgusting old brute,” muttered the clerk. Somebody opened the door for him, and the patriarchal seaman passed through unsteadily, without as much as a glance at any of us.
Archie displayed a pocketbook. He was chaffed. Belfast, who looked wild, as though he had already luffed up through a public-house or two, gave signs of emotion and wanted to speak to the Captain privately. The master was surprised. They spoke through the wires, and we could hear the Captain saying:—“I’ve given it up to the Board of Trade.” “I should ’ve liked to get something of his,” mumbled Belfast. “But you can’t, my man. It’s given up, locked and sealed, to the Marine Office,” expostulated the master; and Belfast stood back, with drooping mouth and troubled eyes. In a pause of the business we heard the master and the clerk talking. We caught: “James Wait—deceased—found no papers of any kind—no relations—no trace—the Office must hold his wages then.” Donkin entered. He seemed out of breath, was grave, full of business. He went straight to the desk, talked with animation to the clerk, who thought him an intelligent man. They discussed the account, dropping h’s against one another as if for a wager—very friendly. Captain Allistoun paid. “I give you a bad discharge,” he said, quietly. Donkin raised his voice:—“I don’t want your bloomin’ discharge—keep it. I’m goin’ ter ’ave a job ashore.” He turned to us. “No more bloomin’ sea fur me,” he said, aloud. All looked at him. He had better clothes, had an easy air, appeared more at home than any of us; he stared with assurance, enjoying the effect of his declaration. “Yuss. I ’ave friends well off. That’s more’n you got. But I am a man. Yer shipmates for all that. Who’s comin fur a drink?”
No one moved. There was a silence; a silence of blank faces and stony looks. He waited a moment, smiled bitterly, and went to the door. There he faced round once more. “You won’t? You bloomin’ lot of yrpocrits. No? What ’ave I done to yer? Did I bully yer? Did I ’urt yer? Did I? … You won’t drink? … No! … Then may ye die of thirst, every mother’s son of yer! Not one of yer ’as the sperrit of a bug. Ye’re the scum of the world. Work and starve!”
He went out, and slammed the door with such violence that the old Board of Trade bird nearly fell off his perch.
“He’s mad,” declared Archie. “No! No! He’s drunk,” insisted Belfast, lurching about, and in a maudlin tone. Captain Allistoun sat smiling thoughtfully at the cleared pay-table.
Outside, on Tower Hill, they blinked, hesitated clumsily, as if blinded by the strange quality of the hazy light, as if discomposed by the view of so many men; and they who could hear one another in the howl of gales seemed deafened and distracted by the dull roar of the busy earth.—“To the Black Horse! To the Black Horse!” cried some. “Let us have a drink together before we part.” They crossed the road, clinging to one another. Only Charley and Belfast wandered off alone. As I
