I met the two sailors at “Old Ben’s” tavern. They had been waiting, taking a nip or two at a table until I came.

“’Tis good liquor,” said Garnett, as he put down his glass; “’tis a most holy an’ pious drink, makin’ all manner of holy an’ pious thoughts come into my old head. ’Tis good liquor an’ well fitted for a man along in years, like myself, who has filled his skin with all manner of truck and ruined his digestion. You say you’ll have another?”

The glasses were refilled.

“Now, ’pon me whurd, fer a fact, Mr. Gore, ’tis fer gettin’ outrajis drunk that baldheaded infidel is after; jist obsarve him.”

Garnett had removed his cap and was hard at work mopping the dent in the top of his shining, bald cranium, where he had been “stove down” by a handspike in the hands of a sailor on one of his early voyages. Then he pulled out his little nickel-plated vial and sniffed at it violently.

“I don’t mind his personalities,” he remarked, “for I call to mind the time well enough when I could make him or any of his kin toe a seam. We had a little fracas onct, when I was mate with old man Anderson, and he remembers well enough what I used to be when it came to finding out who was who on a vessel’s main-deck.”

“What Anderson was that?” I asked. “You mean the one who used to be in with Mr. Ropesend?”

“Sure, no other, though I supposed he was dead long afore this. He was an out an’ outer when he was on deep water, an’ a little more so when he was on the beach. I misremember something about a shindy he got into on the West Coast, when he was skipper of the Ivanhoe. He did the right thing, though, for he took the boy along with him as soon as he growed big enough an’ carried him around the Cape. Afterward he made a present of him to old man Brown’s wife, who had no young uns of her own, an’ who was always making pets of dogs and parrots aboard and driving the old man half crazy. Old man Brown and your father, old man Gore, were great chums, and so he was with old Mr. Ropesend—”

“Ye can’t believe nothin’ a garrulous owld man like him says,” interrupted O’Toole. “Let’s have another round av th’ crayther an’ discuss somethin’ worth hearin’, sich as wimmin, for instance. He’s an ondacent owld scandal. A rale owld scandal.”

“Pay no attention to him,” said Garnett, and I could tell by the slight thickness of his speech that the old mate was getting his head sheets in the wind. “I was about to tell of one of old Brown’s monkeys, when he stuck his head into the muzzle of the fog-horn one day, an’ this boy turned her loose, full blast. Gord! I believe the critter ain’t through climbin’ yet—up an’ down—mizzen r’yal truck—then to the mainmast head—then for’ards an’ up agin—”

“Hold on a minute,” I said, “before we have any more liquor; I want to ask both of you if you will sail with me on the Arrow the day after to-morrow?”

“What! sail away again afore a man has a chanct to get the sea roll out of his legs an’ some good liquor into them?” roared Garnett. “I reckon not. What’s liquor made for, anyway? D’ye expect we’d think o’ sech a thing?”

“Certainly; the pay is good, and we are bound for China.”

Neither answered for several moments; but Garnett gave me a sidelong glance from the corner of his eye and then looked at O’Toole.

Finally he said:

“I might go as mate, but nothin’ would tempt me to sail under a fellow like that.” And he pointed at O’Toole.

O’Toole seemed to be hunting for something in the bottom of his glass, and he said nothing.

“Well,” I observed, somewhat dryly, “come take a turn through the park and let’s discuss the matter before it’s too late. There’s plenty of time to get a brace on afterward. I must have a couple of men that I can rely on.” And, making this last appeal to their vanity, I arose from the table and they followed me.

After settling the score, we walked up the street, which was still filled with people, and were just about to enter the park when a crowd forming on the sidewalk on the block beyond attracted our attention.

“’Tis a bit av a fracas, maybe,” said O’Toole. “Let’s have a look at it and take a hand—if necessary.”

We made our way quickly along the pavement and forced ourselves through the crowd of gaping people.

A man was lying in the centre of the crowd, and his head was pillowed in a woman’s lap. His pale face was upturned, and the woman wiped away the blood that flowed from a gash in his forehead upon her clean white handkerchief.

“Stand back, please, and give him air,” she cried, and her voice made me jump and start forward. Every nerve in me seemed to throb at the sound. But the people only crowded closer. I could not see the woman’s face, for her back was turned toward me, but I recognized her voice quick enough. Taking a brace against the huge form of O’Toole, I shoved with all my strength against the crowd, and together we managed to force a gap of a few paces in extent about the fallen man. The next instant an ambulance came driving up at full speed. Several officers leaped out and tore their way through the jam of curious people to the injured man’s side. They raised him quickly, bore him to the wagon, and drove rapidly away.

“Knocked down and run over,” some one said in a low tone, as I turned to where the woman now stood with a policeman beside her.

“Who was it?” the officer asked her.

“I don’t know.”

“What is your name?”

“I have no name,” she answered, quietly, and was gone in the crowd before the policeman thought to detain her.

In an instant I was after her and caught her.

“Alice—Miss Waters!” I cried, and I seized her arm.

She turned at the sound of my voice as if shot.

“Let me go! Oh, please let me go, Mr. Gore,” she pleaded, and I saw her face flush and her eyes fill up.

“Not unless you’ll come with me to Mr. Ropesend’s house—or tell where you live,” I answered, but, at the same time, I did let go her arm.

“Oh, I can’t. I can’t do it, I tell you, so please go away. You have no right to stop me. Oh, please go away.” And she broke into sobbing and crying like a child.

That was enough. I passed my arm through hers and led her out of the crowd and up the street.

“I shall see you home,” said I, “and I will not leave you until you promise to let me see you in the morning.”

She went along quietly enough at first, and then suddenly burst out afresh into such a violent fit of crying that I was frightened.

“Let me go. Let me go, please,” she sobbed, and I was so upset at the earnest tone of her voice that I almost hesitated and started to turn around.

Then I saw a sturdy, bow-legged form dragging a great, tall giant along the pavement close behind me.

“What can any one want with me?” the poor girl sobbed in such a bitter tone that it cut me like a knife. Then she grew more quiet, though the tears still ran down her cheeks. I took the arm I had dropped and went on.

What I said is no one’s business. But before we reached the place where she was staying she had promised to do as I had asked her.

We walked slower as we drew near the house where she was staying, and those ruffians behind us began to catch up.

“I niver thought it; ’pon my whurd, fer a fact, I didn’t. But ’tis clear as a tropic night, with a moon, t’ me now.”

“You never think, anyways, you red-headed infernal—”

“’Pon me whurd, I forgive him, Garnett. I might av died for a principle, savin’ yer ugly prisince, but by th’ sowl av Saint Patrick I’d turn pirit this minute fer a leddy like that.”

“The more fool, you, you—”

“Phwat’s th’ matter with ye? She’s young and hasn’t half th’ divilments av a widder—”

“If you are going to sail with me get out and get as drunk as you please. If you are not aboard in the morning I go without you. Get out! Clear!”

There was something in my voice that made them look at me, and they both understood. The next minute they disappeared down a cross street.