Chapter 2

As soon as they saw me Pete let out a bellow like a bull, and led the
charge.

“If it isn’t old Mac,” he shouted. “Gee–boy, but it’s great to see you,
even if your face is like a wet street. What’s stung you?”

“I’ve lost my job, Pete,” I said. “Upset the boss and all his belongings
into Leicester Square on Saturday night and got the boot.”

“You mean you’re at a loose-end,” he said, and he looked at the other
three. “What about it, boys?”

“Sure thing,” said Andy, “if he’ll come.”

“Of course he’ll come,” cried Pete. “Bring your poison into this corner,
Mac, and we’ll put you wise.”

So we went and sat down in a corner, and they told me the scheme. It
doesn’t much matter what it was: it’s got nothing to do with the yarn.
But it appeared they were sailing for South America the following
Friday, and they wanted to know if I’d go with them. Something to do
with a revolution in some bally little state, and Pete swore we’d all
make our fortunes.

Well, I guess if I hadn’t been feeling so sick with myself I shouldn’t
have gone. I ain’t no lizard lounger myself, but from past experience I
knew that hunting with that bunch meant a pretty fast pace. Particularly
Pete. He was a darned good fellow, but if he got a bit of liquor inside
him, it was well not to contradict him. I will say, to do him justice,
it took more than a bottle of whisky to get him into that condition, but
whisky was only four bob in those days.

At any rate I did go. And on Friday morning we sailed in a tin-can sort
of effect from Liverpool. She was really a cargo boat that took a few
passengers, and she just suited our pockets. Moreover she was going to
call at some obscure spot, where none of the big lines touched, and
which, according to Pete, was the exact place from which we could best
start our operations.

We ran into bad weather right away, and by Jove! that old tub could
roll.

Mercifully we were all good sailors, and it wasn’t until we went below
for dinner that we realized there was another passenger. She only
accommodated six, and up till then we had thought we were one short. But
there were six places laid at the table, with a seat at the end for the
skipper, who was on the bridge and had sent down word for us to start
without him.

The cabins led off the dining-saloon, and suddenly during a slight lull
in the ship’s movement, Pete began to laugh.

“Holy Smoke! boys,” he cried, “listen. Steward, who is the occupant of
the sixth seat, whom I hear enjoying himself in his cabin?”

The steward grinned.

“Gent by the name of Todmarsh, sir,” he answered. “Ain’t never been to
sea before. ‘E’s in a hawful condition.”

“Well, I hope he doesn’t make that row all night,” said Pete. “I’m in
the next cabin. Good-evening, skipper. We’ve taken you at your word and
started.”

“Quite right,” said the captain, hanging up his oilskin. “We’re in for a
bad forty-eight hours, I’m afraid.”

“You’ve got the brass band all complete, anyway,” grinned Andy. “Who is
Mr. Todmarsh, skipper?”

For a moment or two he didn’t answer. From under a pair of great bushy
eyebrows he took us all in: then he chuckled.

“Well, gentlemen,” he said, “I’ve had some pretty strangely assorted
bunches in this saloon during my time but I’ll stake my oath that mixing
you five and Mr. Todmarsh will constitute a record.”

It was Andy Fraser who turned pale.

“Don’t say,” he gasped, “that he’s a parson.”

“That’s just what I do say,” howled the skipper delightedly. “At least
he’s a missionary.”

“Steward–a double whisky,” said Pete feebly. “Skipper–it ain’t fair.
You ought to have had a notice hung over the side. Where’s he going to?”

“Same place as you,” answered the other. “Then he’s going up into the
interior. So you’ll be able to look after him when he lands. It’s the
first time he’s left England.”

Well, gentlemen, I don’t want to tread on anybody’s corns. I have always
had the highest respect for the Church myself, but I think you’ll agree
with me that what the skipper said about ill-assorted bunches was right.
The trouble was that the ship was so small–at least the passenger part
of it–that you couldn’t get away from one another. And the prospect of
three weeks cooped up with a devil-dodger was a bit of a staggerer.

It was three days before we saw him, and then the staggerer became a
knock-out. I found Pete and Andy holding one another’s heads on the
deck, and asked ’em what the trouble was. Personally I hadn’t seen him
yet, and it was just as they began to sob in unison that Mr. Todmarsh
appeared from below. Gosh! I’ve never thought of such an
extraordinary-looking little bird in my life. Boys–that man had to be
seen to be believed. Making all due allowances for the fact that he had
been sick for three days without cessation, Todmarsh won the freak
stakes in a canter.

His face was pasty, and his eyes behind his spectacles were weak and
watery. He can’t have stood more than five feet three, and his physique
was that of a stunted child.

“Good morning, Mr. Todmarsh,” said Pete gravely. “Hope you’re feeling
better.”

“I thank you, yes,” he answered, and at that moment Bill Merton and Tom
Jerrold hove in sight. Then they disappeared again quickly and I saw ’em
a minute or two later with their foreheads pressed against something
cold.

It was Pete who called a council of war, which was duly held in the
saloon over the forenoon bracer. Todmarsh, enveloped in a rug, was up on
deck, and we knew we shouldn’t be disturbed.

“Look here, boys,” said Pete, “that little guy is worse than anything I
could have believed possible. I reckon that the temptation to pull his
leg is going to be almost more than we can bear. But it seems to me that
since there are five of us and only one of him, it’s up to us to give
the poor beggar a sporting chance. He must have a certain amount of guts
presumably to start off on his own, when he’s made that way. So I votes
we play the game by him and treat him square. Anyway no monkeying about
with religion–that’s his affair, not ours.”

Well, we did our best. Pete only blasphemed twice at lunch, and Andy
darned near choked in biting off a story half-way through, that he’d
suddenly remembered was unprintable. But that guy was difficult. He
didn’t _say_ anything on the subject of alcohol–but he looked a lot.
Still we could have stood that, and the general cramped style of the
conversation, if he hadn’t come butting in after dinner.

We were playing poker, when in he comes from a stroll on deck. I’ll
admit his arrival coincided with Pete’s remarks on the subject of a full
house aces while Tom had fours, and for a moment or two we didn’t see
him. But the next instant, blowed if he hadn’t advanced to the table and
snatched up the pack of cards.

Well, I suppose, looking back on it now, that it showed a certain amount
of pluck. But at the moment it struck us as an unwarrantable piece of
impertinence.