Neil put his hand on the desk. "Couldn't you advance us enough to get to Genoa? Our ship will be there a week or ten days. We could send you the money soon."
The secretary sat down and fingered a paper knife. "Same old story with you sailormen," he said shortly. "Always want to go where we can't send you. Sometimes it's Barcelona; then it's Havre or London. One young fellow said his ship was tied up at Paris." He smiled at the memory. "If you want a coat and cap, I'll give you both."
"But it's very important that we make her," Neil entreated. "I'm purser. It isn't as if I could get another job to-morrow."
"You should have thought of that before you skipped ship for Monte Carlo."
"But we haven't seen Monte Carlo—"
The secretary cut in sharply. "Look here, now; I want to be reasonable. It's the border formalities I'm thinking of. One of you hasn't his seaman's papers and both of you are broke. There is a vise fee when you cross into Italy. All that means unnecessary work." He paused and looked at them earnestly. "Come back in an hour and I'll have your tickets for Marseilles ready. If you can't take them, we'll see what the Consul can do. He's busy just now."
He nodded; and they found themselves going out the door. In the Boulevard beneath the shade of the plane trees they talked it over as they turned east.
"Shall we go to Marseilles, Tod?" Neil's voice was languid.
"No—no. How can we? We must get hold of Jarvis. That is our one chance, Neil, to square things. We've got to get to Genoa. Can we walk?"
"We might; but we won't. That secretary was just trying us out. His office gets taken in so often by seaport bums that he's getting careful. But we're Americans, aren't we? And so is he. We'll go back and see the Consul himself. Bet you a dollar to a doughnut that we'll be on our way to Genoa by morning."
"I wish I had the doughnut," said Tod hungrily. "I'm as famished as a porpoise."
After all, Neil was right. The American Consul was American. That afternoon, with tickets to Genoa and ten francs in their pockets, they boarded the train at the P. L. M. station.
In a third-class compartment Neil sank down happily, humming a little tune. He counted one by one the buttons on his frayed and ill-fitting coat. "Richmen, poormen, beggarmen"—he grinned wanly—"that's us, Tod."
The train plunged on through the afternoon 0 Ahead in the dusk lay Italy.
CHAPTER VII
SHANGHAI PASSAGE
THE Mediterranean Express slid into the great Genoa station at nine that night. Among the stream of travellers it debouched were two scarecrow figures in seamen's clothes. The brothers found themselves in the midst of the seething crowd outside the platform, with a long line of drivers shouting, calling, gesticulating.
"Hotel de Milan — Helvetia — Hotel Liguria — Savoie?"
It was all strangely different, strangely exciting. Neil pushed his way ahead to the street. "We'll walk, Tod," he remarked; "we've just enough money for some bread and sausage and a flop somewhere in a sailors' lodging house. I know one—cheap—down by the water front."
They descended a narrow street, dark and silent, to the curving Via Carlo Alberto. Here little waterfront cafes shone in the night; opposite them the harbour spread out with its crowded shipping at anchor within the breakwater. Far out, a huge light was winking amid the stars. At a busy corner they went down a flight of stone steps to the Trattoria del Porto.
A restaurant by day, a cafe by night, it catered to the foreign ships in the harbour and was now aflare with life.
Beneath the pavement, they crossed between crowded tables where seamen of all nationalities sprawled on the marble surfaces. A steady drone of voices filled the smoky air; behind swinging doors to the rear a wheezy accordion belched forth a Venetian waltz accompanied by the continuous hiss of sliding feet. At a secluded table against the wall, the two Americans seated themselves.
"Pane — salame — cioccolata," Neil ordered. He darted cautiously over to the high counter where a miniature ship reposed in a glass case, and returned with an evening paper. Quickly his eyes ran down the shipping news. "She's here, Tod," he announced with an eager smile. "The steamer Araby, arrived this morning. Loading near the Ponte Calvi Docks."
Tod munched the butterless bread and the thin slice of sausage with its tang of garlic. "Should I go aboard to-night and find Jarvis?"
"He'll probably be ashore with the rest of the crew. Better wait till morning."
Tod relapsed into silence again, watching swaying sailors descend the steps to the cafe and with a crooked walk navigate the narrow aisle toward the music. With a start, he recognized one as Blackie Judson, fireman on the Araby. "Is he looking?" Tod asked, turning so he would not be observed.
"No; he'll be drunk for a week," Neil replied. "I know their kind; they take enough booze to burn out their 'tween decks."
Once the swinging doors crashed outward and two Portuguese sailors with earrings danced in drunken mirth out into the aisle. To the delighted cries of the onlookers, they swung in an unsteady circle until the proprietario laughingly drove them back as he might two clumsy cows.
Neil and Tod sat long over their frugal meal. It was after eleven when they climbed to the pavement above. There, for a second, they halted. Arc lamps flared along the harbour front; French and Portuguese seamen swung past; two policemen in dark clothes stood on the corner.
Tod's attention was focussed on two approaching figures, both vaguely familiar—one a tall blur, the other short and square. His pulse quickened. It was Jarvis and Mr. Hawkes.
The boy pulled his brother unceremoniously against the iron railing about the stairway, as the two men halted before the cafe. Neither immediately glanced their way. Tod perceived that the first mate was making a night of it; he talked boisterously; he gripped the handrail to steady himself going down. Tom Jarvis, starting below, let his long Tartar eyes sweep toward them; but no sign of recognition gleamed in them. Had he seen? Tod breathed quickly.
"Did you see him, Neil? Jarvis."
"Captain Tom Jarvis! Good heavens, I didn't notice. Let's get him." Neil started toward the stairs.
"No. No." Tod hung back. "We can't talk to him now. He's with Hawkes, Swickard's man I told you about."
Neil nodded. "Very well. Let's turn in, then; I'm sleepy as a turtle."
"Where do we go?"
"Along this vicolo," Neil said as they turned into a narrow winding street that climbed toward the town. "Ever been to a sailors' flophouse, Tod? No? Well, I hope that you're not too particular."
Tod laughed. "If I were to tell you all the little unmentionable things about the Araby "
"Save yourself the trouble. This place is bad enough. And it calls itself a hotel!"
The Albergo Morosini flaunted a huge sign above a small dark entrance. A narrow stone staircase led up to an office in which several seamen lounged, swapping yarns, no doubt, of passages good and bad.
"Yes, meester, I spik English," the man behind the counter informed them. "Beds feefteen and seex-teen." He waved them above.
Again they climbed a narrow stone stairway, shadowy and cool. At the top, in the yellow glow of an oil lamp, they hesitated before the open door to a room containing two tiers of long wooden structures like immense bunks, one upon the other. This was the flophouse, Neil explained, where sailors for five centesimi obtained the privilege of rolling themselves in a blanket and throwing themselves in huddled heaps on the flat boards, their heads on the raised side against the wall, their feet planted against the footboard running along the aisle.