Chapter 3

“Look here, little man,” said Pete ominously, “if that’s your idea of
fun and laughter it isn’t mine. Put back those cards on the table.”

“Never,” cried Mr. Todmarsh. “These are the devil’s counters!”

“Devil’s grandmother,” said Pete getting up, and putting his hand on the
little man’s shoulder. “See here, Mr. Todmarsh–you’re a missionary. I
and my pals are not: it takes all sorts to make a world, you know. But
there’s no reason why we shouldn’t all live quite happily together on
board this ship, if you’ll mind your business same as we’re going to
mind ours.”

“This _is_ my business,” answered the other. “To play cards for money is
one step down the road to Hell.”

“Well, I’m afraid we’re too darned near the bottom of the hill to worry
about that,” said Pete quietly. “Put back those cards on the table.”

“I will not,” said Todmarsh defiantly.

For just a moment I thought Pete was going to lose his temper, and
Heaven alone knows what would have happened to the little blighter if
Pete had hit him. He’d have burst. However he didn’t: he took both Mr.
Todmarsh’s wrists in one of his hands and took the pack out of his
pocket with the other.

“Don’t do it again,” he said gently. “You’re a stupid little man, and
you’ve got a lot to learn. But now you’ve lodged your complaint, and
salved your conscience: so, all I say to you is–don’t do it again. Next
time I might hurt you.”

And it wasn’t until we were having our final nightcap that anyone
alluded to it again.

“You know,” said Andy as he put down his glass, “he’s mad and all that,
but for a thing of that size to do what he did to five fellows like
us–well, it’s not too bad.”

And that, I think, is what we all felt until the following day, when a
thing happened that changed the whole atmosphere. In the bucketing we’d
had, a lot of the cargo had got shifted, and the men were straightening
things up under the first officer. As a matter of fact Pete and I for
want of a bit of exercise were lending a hand ourselves, and the job was
almost done when a heavy case suddenly toppled over and caught one of
the sailors underneath.

My God! but it was a nasty sight. The poor devil had the lower part of
his body pretty well squashed flat: the mess was something frightful.
There he was screaming fit to beat the band, though it was obvious to
all of us that he was a goner. As I say–still, I’ll draw a veil over
the details.

“Get the missionary, Mac,” shouted Pete to me.

I raced off, and found him on deck.

“Accident, Mr. Todmarsh,” I said. “Man dying. No hope.”

I’d got him by the arm and was hurrying him along.

“You can say a prayer or something, can’t you? It’s a matter of
seconds.”

It was: the poor chap’s groans were getting feebler. A bunch of his pals
were round him, while Pete was holding up his head. They made room for
us as we came, and I heard Pete mutter–“Hurry: hurry.”

And then I looked round: there was no missionary. He was being sick in
the corner: he was still being sick when the groans ceased. And it was
left to Pete to say–“God rest your soul, old chap.”

Then he got up, and I can’t say I blame him. He lifted Mr. Todmarsh some
five feet in the air with his boot, and left him where he lay.

“And if the little swab complains to the Captain, Mac,” he said to me
grimly, “I’ll do it again.”

But he didn’t complain: he shut himself into his cabin for twenty-four
hours. He didn’t even come on deck when we sewed up in some canvas what
was left of the poor devil who had been crushed, and buried him
overboard.

“Ashamed to show his face,” remarked Pete. “And that’s the wretched
little coward who had the gall to speak about devil’s counters.”

It was about three o’clock next afternoon that he suddenly appeared
again. We were lounging about on deck–it was beginning to get almighty
hot–and he went straight up to Pete.

“I want to thank you, Mr. O’Farrell,” he said, “for kicking me.”

Pete stared at him.

“Are you trying to be sarcastic?” he said curtly.

“Far from it,” answered the other. “The fact that you did what you did
is as nothing to the mental torture I’ve been suffering since it
happened. I failed that poor chap, and my only prayer is that I may have
a chance of atoning. It’s no excuse to say that it was the first time
I’d ever seen an accident, and that the sight of it made me physically
sick. I failed him, and there’s no more to be said. I realize that I was
just a rotten coward. And that’s why I’m glad you kicked me, because
it’s part of my punishment that I should realize the contempt you
rightly feel for me.”

With that he was gone, leaving Pete staring after him speechlessly.

“Well, I’m damned,” he muttered at length. “I reckon that little cove
has me beat.”

He filled his pipe thoughtfully, and then he looked at me.

“What do you make of him, Mac?”

“Well, it _was_ a nasty sight, Pete,” I answered. “And they say that
medical students often faint at their first operation. But for all that
if you hadn’t kicked him yesterday, I should.”

“I reckon I just felt wild at the moment,” he said. “But now–somehow or
other–I wish I hadn’t.”

And for the next two or three days I often noticed a puzzled frown on
his face. He seemed to be trying to size the little man up. He used to
peer at him, when he wasn’t looking, as if he was some strange specimen,
until we started pulling his leg about it.

“Can’t help it,” he grinned. “The blighter sort of fascinates me. I’ve
never met anybody like him before. But what for the life of me I can’t
make out is what good he thinks he’s going to do. I was leaning over the
side this morning talking to him. And there were a couple of sharks in
the water. So I told him a pretty lurid story of what I’d once seen
happen to a fellow bathing at Durban, when a shark got him. I give you
my word, boys, he was the colour of putty and shaking like a leaf when
I’d finished. Well, what I want to get at is what earthly use a freak
with nerves like that is going to be. Told me he always suffered from a
vivid imagination ever since he could remember: told me–hullo! what on
earth has bitten the skipper?”

The captain was coming along the deck towards us, and his face was
white.

“I’ve got the most appalling news, gentlemen,” he said gravely. “There’s
a case of plague on board.”

“Good God!” Pete sat up staring at him. “Plague!”

“Yes. I’m sorry to say there’s no doubt about it whatever. We’ve got, as
you know, no doctor on board, but I’ve seen plague before. And the
symptoms are absolutely unmistakable.”

It was then that for the first time I noticed Todmarsh. His eyes were
fixed on the skipper’s face, with a look in them of such terror as I
have never seen before or since. His lips were moving as if he was
trying to speak, but no words came.