Kabanata Kabanata 12 · BOOK II CHAPTER II

"Gr-r-r--you little brat! If you open your face to him I'll kill you,

kill you, see!"

The voice was Madam Winklestein's, and the words, hissed in a whisper of

incredible malignity, arrested me as if I had been struck by a live

wire. I listened. Behind the stateroom door there followed a silence,

grimly intense; then a dull pounding; then the same savage undertone.

"See here, Berna, we're next to you two--we're onto your curves. We know

the old man's got the stuff in his gold-belt, two thousand in bills.

Now, my dear, my sweet little angel what thinks she's too good to mix

with the likes o' us, we need the mon, see!" (Knock, knock.) "And we're

goin' to have it, see!" (Knock, knock.) "That's where you come in,

honey, you're goin' to get it for us. Ain't you now, darlin'!" (Knock,

knock, knock.)

Faintly, very faintly, I heard a voice:

"No."

If it be possible to scream in a whisper, the woman did it.

"You will! you will! Oh! oh! oh! There's the cursed mule spirit of your

mother in you. She'd never tell us the name of the man that was the ruin

of 'er, blast 'er."

"Don't speak of my mother, you vile woman!"

The voice of the virago contracted to an intensity of venom I have

never heard the equal of.

"Vile woman! Vile woman! You, you to call _me_ a vile woman, me that's

been three times jined in holy wedlock.... Oh, you bastard brat! You

whelp of sin! You misbegotten scum! Oh, I'll fix you for that, if I've

got to swing for it."

Her scalding words were capped with an oath too foul to repeat, and once

more came the horrible pounding, like a head striking the woodwork.

Unable to bear it any longer, I rapped sharply on the door.

Silence, a long, panting silence; then the sound of a falling body; then

the door opened a little and the twitching face of Madam appeared.

"Is there somebody sick?" I asked. "I'm sorry to trouble you, but I was

thinking I heard groans and--I might be able to do something."

Piercingly she looked at me. Her eyes narrowed to slits and stabbed me

with their spite. Her dark face grew turgid with impotent anger. As I

stood there she was like to have killed me. Then like a flash her

expression changed. With a dirty bejewelled hand she smoothed her

tousled hair. Her coarse white teeth gleamed in a gold-capped smile.

There was honey in her tone.

"Why, no! my niece in here's got a toothache, but I guess we can fix it

between us. We don't need no help, thanks, young feller."

"Oh, that's all right," I said. "If you should, you know, I'll be

nearby."

Then I moved away, conscious that her eyes followed me malevolently.

The business worried me sorely. The poor girl was being woefully abused,

that was plain. I felt indignant, angry and, last of all, anxious.

Mingled with my feelings was a sense of irritation that I should have

been elected to overhear the affair. I had no desire just then to

champion distressed damsels, least of all to get mixed up in the family

brawls of unknown Jewesses. Confound her, anyway! I almost hated her.

Yet I felt constrained to watch and wait, and even at the cost of my own

ease and comfort to prevent further violence.

For that matter there were all kinds of strange doings on board,

drinking, gambling, nightly orgies and hourly brawls. It seemed as if we

had shipped all the human dregs of the San Francisco deadline. Never, I

believe, in those times when almost daily the Argonaut-laden boats were

sailing for the Golden North, was there one in which the sporting

element was so dominant. The social hall reeked with patchouli and stale

whiskey. From the staterooms came shrill outbursts of popular melody,

punctuated with the popping of champagne corks. Dance-hall girls,

babbling incoherently, reeled in the passageways, danced on the cabin

table, and were only held back from licentiousness by the restraint of

their bullies. The day was one long round of revelry, and the night was

pregnant with sinister sound.

Already among the better element a moral secession was apparent.

Convention they had left behind with their boiled shirts and their

store clothes, and crazed with the idea of speedy fortune, they were

even now straining at the leash of decency. It was a howling mob,

elately riotous, and already infected by the virus of the goldophobia.

Oh, it was good to get on deck of a night, away from this saturnalia, to

watch the beacon stars strewn vastly in the skyey uplift, to listen to

the ancient threnody of the outcast sea. Blue and silver the nights

were, and crystal clear, with a keen wind that painted the cheek and

kindled the eye. And as I sat in silent thought there came to me

Salvation Jim. His face was grim, his eyes brooding. From the

brilliantly lit social hall came a blare of music-hall melody.

"I don't like the way of things a bit," he said; "I don't like it. Look

here now, lad, I've lived round mining camps for twenty years, I've

followed the roughest callings on earth, I've tramped the States all

over, yet never have I seen the beat of this. Mind you, I ain't

prejudiced, though I've seen the error of my ways, glory to God! I can

make allowance once in a while for the boys gettin' on a jamboree, but

by Christmas! Say! There's enough evil on this boat to stake a

sub-section in Hell. There's men should be at home with their dinky

little mothers an' their lovin' wives an' children, down there right now

in that cabin buyin' wine for them painted Jezebels.

"There's doctors an' lawyers an' deacons in the church back in old Ohio,

that never made a bad break in their lives, an' now they're rowin' like

barroom bullies for the kisses of a baggage. In the bay-window of their

souls the devil lolls an' grins an' God is freezin' in the attic. You

mark my words, boy; there's a curse on this northern gold. The Yukon's

a-goin' to take its toll. You mark my words."

"Oh, Jim," I said, "you're superstitious."

"No, I ain't. I've just got a hunch. Here we are a bit of floatin'

iniquity glidin' through the mystery of them strange seas, an' the very

officers on dooty sashed to the neck an' reekin' from the arms of the

scented hussies below. It'll be God's mercy if we don't crash on a rock,

an' go down good an' all to the bitter bottom. But it don't matter.

Sooner or later there's goin' to be a reckonin'. There's many a one

shoutin' an' singin' to-night'll leave his bones to bleach up in that

bleak wild land."

"No, Jim," I protested, "they will be all right once they get ashore."

"Right nothin'! They're a pack of fools. They think they've got a bulge

on fortune. Hear them a-howlin' now. They're all millionaires in their

minds. There's no doubt with them. It's a cinch. They're spendin' it

right now. You mark my words, young feller, for I'll never live to see

them fulfilled--there's ninety in a hundred of all them fellers that's

goin' to this here Klondike will never make good, an' of the other ten,

nine won't _do_ no good."

"One per cent. that will keep their stakes--that's absurd, Jim."

"Well, you'll see. An' as for me, I feel as sure as God's above us

guidin' us through the mazes of the night, I'll never live to make the

trip back. I've got a hunch. Old Jim's on his last stampede."

He sighed, then said sharply:

"Did you see that feller that passed us?"

It was Mosher, the gambler and ex-preacher.

"That man's a skunk, a renegade sky-pilot. I'm keepin' tabs on that man.

Maybe him an' me's got a score to settle one of them days. Maybe."

He went off abruptly, leaving me to ponder long over his gloomy words.

We were now three days out. The weather was fine, and nearly every one

was on deck in the sunshine. Even Bullhammer, Marks and Mosher had

deserted the card-room for a time. The Bank clerk and the Wood-carver

talked earnestly, planned and dreamed. The Professor was busy expounding

a theory of the gold origin to a party of young men from Minnesota.

Silent and watchful the athletic Mervin smoked his big cigar, while,

patient and imperturbable, the iron Hewson chewed stolidly. The twins

were playing checkers. The Winklesteins were making themselves solid

with the music-hall clique. In and out among the different groups darted

the Prodigal, as volatile as a society reporter at a church bazaar. And

besides these, always alone, austerely aloof as if framed in a picture

by themselves, a picture of dignity and sweetness, were the Jewish maid

and her aged grandfather.

Although he was my room-mate I had seen but little of him. He was abed

before I retired and I was up and out ere he awoke. For the rest I

avoided the two because of their obvious connection with the

Winklesteins. Surely, thought I, she cannot be mixed up with those two

and be everything that's all right. Yet there was something in the

girl's clear eyes, and in the old man's fine face, that reproached me

for my doubt.

It was while I was thus debating, and covertly studying the pair, that

something occurred.

Bullhammer and Marks were standing by me, and across the deck came the

acridly nasal tones of the dance-hall girls. I saw the libertine eyes of

Bullhammer rove incontinently from one unlovely demirep to another, till

at last they rested on the slender girl standing by the side of her

white-haired grandfather. Appreciatively he licked his lips.

"Say, Monkey, who's the kid with old Whiskers there?"

"Search me, Pete," said Marks; "want a knockdown?"

"Betcher! Seems kind-a standoffish, though, don't she?"

"Standoffish be darned! Never yet saw the little bit of all right that

could stand off Sam Marks. I'm a winner, I am, an' don' you forget it.

Just watch my splash."

I must say the man was expensively dressed in a flashy way. His oily,

pimple-garnished face wreathed itself in a smirk of patronising

familiarity, and with the bow of a dancing master he advanced. I saw her

give a quick start, bite her lip and shrink back. "Good for you, little

girl," I thought. But the man was in no way put out.

"Say, Sis, it's all right. Just want to interdooce you to a gentleman

fren' o' mine."

The girl gazed at him, and her dilated eyes were eloquent of fear and

distrust. It minded me of the panic of a fawn run down by the hunter, so

that I found myself trembling in sympathy. A startled moment she gazed;

then swiftly she turned her back.

This was too much for Marks. He flushed angrily.

"Say! what's the matter with you? Come off the perch there. Ain't we

good enough to associate with you? Who the devil are you, anyhow?"

His face was growing red and aggressive. He closed in on her. He laid a

rough hand on her shoulder. Thinking the thing had gone far enough I

stepped forward to interfere, when the unexpected happened.

Suddenly the old man had risen to his feet, and it was a surprise to me

how tall he was. Into his face there had come the ghost of ancient power

and command. His eyes blazed with wrath, and his clenched fist was

raised high in anathema. Then it came swiftly down on the head of Marks,

crushing his stiff hat tightly over his eyes.

The climax was ludicrous in a way. There was a roar of laughter, and

hearing it Marks spluttered as he freed himself. With a curse of rage he

would have rushed the old man, but a great hand seized him by the

shoulder. It was the grim, taciturn Hewson, and judging by the way his

captive squirmed, his grip must have been peculiarly vise-like. The old

man was pale as death, the girl crying, the passengers crowding round.

Every one was gabbling and curious, so feeling I could do no good, I

went below.

What was there about this slip of a girl that interested me so? Ever and

anon I found myself thinking of her. Was it the conversation I had

overheard? Was it the mystery that seemed to surround her? Was it the

irrepressible instinct of my heart for the romance of life? With the old

man, despite our stateroom propinquity, I had made no advances. With the

girl I had passed no further words.

But the Gods of destiny act in whimsical ways. Doubtless the voyage

would have finished without the betterment of our acquaintance;

doubtless our paths would have parted, nevermore to cross; doubtless our

lives would have been lived out to their fulness and this story never

have been told--had it not been for the luckless fatality of the Box of

Grapes.