"Yes; but you will be when you find your man."
Tod's cheeks were flushed; he felt his pulse quicken. Now he understood the man, understood his strange silences, the look of deep absorption in his eyes. He was a person who knew life, too. He'd tell him of Neil. Surely he would help. And whom would he rather confide in than Tom Jarvis? Weren't he and Neil akin? Hadn't they both been judged guilty by Jasper Swickard, at one time a director of the Jamison Line, now manager of the European-Pacific Steamship Company?
"Yes, now I understand," Tod repeated; "Swickard would never suspect that the cook on the Araby might be the former captain of—of—what was her name?"
Jarvis pronounced the name softly, with a caress in his deep voice. "The Annie Jamison."
Tod grew rigid. The Annie Jamison. On the instant, he remembered the time when Neil had come home with the news of the wreck in the Columbia River. No one had been hurt, though; Neil had gone off almost at once on his trip to the Amazon, where he had contracted a tropical fever. Forgotten incidents welled up within him. His mouth felt abruptly dry.
"Who—who was this man who ran away? Why didn't he give evidence?"
Tom Jarvis laughed thickly. "Money, I guess. And yet I felt certain that he was the one person who would back me up. I depended upon him." He leaned back against the bulkhead; his eyes half closed. "He was the purser."
"The purser." The words barely escaped the boy's lips. There was a feeling at his throat as though something clutched his windpipe.
Tom Jarvis rose. His huge bulk loomed up almost to the deck head. His hands clenched, his muscles grew taut; the dragons writhed on his chest and about the cords of his neck. He flung out the words with an oath, words that in an instant built up again that impenetrable wall between them.
"Yes, the purser—damn him! . . . Neil Moran."
PART THREE. ON THE TRAIL OF NEIL MORAN
MARSEILLES HARBOUR
Foreign and Offshore Vessels in Port
Arrived 3 April Am. Stmr. Araby, Ramsey 37 days from San Francisco.
Mdse to Granet et Cie.
Journal Maritime
CHAPTER I
A SECRET MEETING IN MARSEILLES
RISE and shine! Up, you lubbers! Marseilles— on the starboard bow!"
Tod Moran turned out with a yawn, climbed the ladder to the forecastle head, and watched Marseilles rise out of the classic waters of the Mediterranean, Over the network of masts and funnels in the harbour, a soft mist wavered; then the first rays of the sun dispersed the haze and brought into view the church of Notre Dame de la Garde, which, from its height behind the city, gazed serenely down upon the turbulent water front.
Port formalities are ceremonial functions in France; it was afternoon before the quarantine officers departed and the Araby moored to her dock in the New Harbour. Tom Jarvis and Tod rushed through the evening mess with a gaiety which they had forgotten had ever existed. The cook became a boy again. Two years had elapsed, he told Tod, since he had stepped foot in the great cosmopolitan city; and his memory went back to those days when his ship had made regular passages from New York to Mediterranean ports. Land! Marseilles! The laughter of throngs in the cafes in the Rue de la Cannebiere. Heigho! for France.
Night enveloped the city when Tod went with him down the gangway to the quay. The stones sang with their eager steps. Gas lamps burned along the water front; above shone the deep blue of the southern sky.
"By golly, isn't the air wonderful?" Tod exclaimed. "It's land air!"
Jarvis threw back his head and laughed. "Joe Macaroni, you talk just the same as when you came aboard at Frisco. 'Isn't the sea wonderful, Mr. Jar-vis?' Sufferin' sea gulls! You smell the water-front alleys."
"You mean they're dirty?"
"I do."
"Oh, well, it's land air, anyway—and everything seems different. Even you, Tom."
"Me?"
"Yes; officer's blue serge makes you look nifty—like a captain, for sure. Where do we go?"
"Everywhere. To the theatre, to the opera, to the movies. We're going to saturate ourselves with song and dance. Ah, here's the old can o' beer."
He spoke with a delighted catch of his breath as they turned from the Quai du Port into Marseilles' greatest thoroughfare. "It's French from now on, mon ami. Can you parley?"
Tod sighed. "A little. I wish I'd studied more at school. A restaurant menu is about my limit. What theatre, do you think—"
He paused; his hand went out to clutch Jarvis's arm. "Look! There's the Skipper and Hawkes ahead of us!"
Tom Jarvis came to a sudden stop. He pulled Tod away from a gleaming street lamp into the shadow of a doorway. At this point the Rue Cannebiere was thronged with promenaders. Cafe doors blazed with light; merry chatter struck Tod's ears in a tongue strange yet pleasing.
Silently they waited with eyes fastened upon the movements of the two familiar figures a few yards ahead. Arm in arm, the commander of the Araby and his mate were swinging up the pavement. Before a brilliantly illumined entrance, flanked by two small trees in tubs, they paused while a group of people came out. Then they lurched within.
"Yeh, I thought so." Jarvis nodded slowly. "Hawkes is gettin' the cap'n liquored up, as usual. Now, I wonder why?"
"You mean there might be a reason?" Tod queried, looking up at him.
"With Hawkes there is always a reason—and one of the worst, generally. If he is trying to get rid of the Old Man, he'll bear watching."
Tod followed his companion's glance across the street where a cafe displayed its tables on the pavement. "The very place," Jarvis went on. "We can watch from there without Hawkes ever being the wiser."
A moment later found the two Americans seated at a small round table before the Cafe du Soleil where a potted palm half hid them from passers-by. Here, beneath the awning, Tod sipped his grenadine and surveyed with mounting interest the life of this strange seaport. There was a gay, care-free atmosphere about the place that made one think of carnival time. Figures brushed slowly past by ones and twos, laughing, throwing nimble jests in foreign tongues: soldiers clad in sky-blue with women on their arms, sailors from an English man-of-war in the harbour, dark-skinned Moors from Algeria, shifty-eyed Levantines, Italian merchants with flashing glances. He seemed to be sitting by the wayside, watching the world go by.
So immersed in the scene was he that Jarvis's voice, abrupt, incisive, broke in like a thunderclap. "Hawkes! And alone!"
Tod's glance flashed through the fronds of the palm to the cafe opposite. The first mate stood in the doorway, looking up and down the pavement. At length he advanced to the curb and hailed a waiting taxi.
"Quick," cried Jarvis as he rose and flung a ten-franc note on their little pile of saucers; "we must keep him in view."
"Can we follow him?"
"We must. He may have an appointment somewhere. It's about the Araby, I know. I'm certain they never mean her to reach San Francisco again. But what do they intend?.. Our ship!"
Already Mr. Hawkes was entering his cab. Jarvis pushed his great bulk through the throng to the curb. "Here's a taxi."
Tod brushed past two Zouaves in red and blue, and followed him to the edge of the pavement where, behind the taxicab, they were securely hidden from any one opposite. Jarvis spoke to the driver, who sorrowfully shook his head.