"We belong to the aristocracy," Neil went on; "we have beds."
They turned toward the front and entered a high-ceilinged dormitory with an aisle visible between two long rows of cots. Though a lamp burned in a bracket at one side, the twilight of the room was like thick smoke. Counting the beds, they proceeded down the aisle. Beneath light gray blankets, a seaman snored querulously; another tossed near by with bestial mutterings.
"By golly, I'm glad we're near the window," Tod remarked as they found their cots at the end of the row.
"Yes, and closed, of course," Neil returned softly. He stepped to the nearest casement and flung it open. Little squeaks from the hinges echoed through the room.
At once an Italian voice broke in with a curse.
"Sure, I'll close it," Neil replied as he opened the other. "Go to sleep, caro mio."
Tod slipped from his outer clothes and dropped into his cot. "By golly, this is a queer place, Neil."
"Is it? Well, wake me in the morning or I'll sleep the week out. This is heaven."
Tod pulled his blanket round his neck. The doorway, far down the aisle, was a yellow square in the shadowed wall. From the windows a chill wind blew; somewhere out beyond the breakwater a steamer was whistling; from a cafe round the corner came the muted notes of an accordion playing a gay little air, soft and languorous as the Italian sunlight. It kept running through the boy's mind. He couldn't sleep, though he heard Neil's even breathing near him.
His mind was occupied with thoughts of Jarvis. Had the big man actually seen them and yet showed no sign of recognition because of some new aspect of the situation? Did he, perhaps, really believe that he, Tod Moran, had jumped ship in Marseilles? Had he known Neil, the man for whom he had been searching this last year or two? Or was Jarvis in reality mixed up with Hawkes in some double dealings, tired of his effort toward clearing his name that led nowhere, willing in his bitterness of spirit to wrench what he yet could from life? Let Jarvis just wait till morning and he heard this news of Neil, this corroboration of the danger impending the Araby. His eyes would shine then with renewed hope.
Steps sounded on the stone stairway. Two seamen lurched down the aisle, hunting their numbered cots. Tod recognized their talk as a bastard French. One of the newcomers kicked off his shoes and flung himself down on his blankets; the other hiccoughed, spat on the floor, and with his cap still on, pulled the covers over his head. Except for the sound of breathing and the snoring of a drunken sailor near the doorway, silence enveloped the long room.
Tod slept only fitfully. Through the minutes, other seamen wandered in and, groping in the dark, found an empty bed. Strange tongues spoke in whispers across the room; strange words drifted into the boy's consciousness.
Presently he started into sudden wakefulness at the touch of hands on his blanket. "I want a bunk!" a voice, gruff and deep, broke in. Tod perceived a dark face bending over him, a face with only two eyes visible beneath the mass of black hair. "Take yer blanket," the man said thickly, "and go back to the blamed chicken coop."
"Get away!" Tod retorted. "There's an empty bed across the aisle."
The man merely nodded. Now thoroughly awake, the boy looked up intently. He knew the fellow! It was the burly stoker, Black Judson, of the Araby. Tod felt the man take hold of the long iron side and lift. A second later he found himself on the floor with his two blankets writhing about him.
"I want a bunk!" grumbled Black Judson. "Git out, you cockroach!"
Neil stirred in his bed. "What the deuce is wrong?" he asked sleepily.
"Some drunken fool tipped me out on the floor."
"The devil he did!" Neil, so slow in avenging his own insults, was up in a flash at this ignominy thrust upon his brother. He darted across Tod's reclining form and jerked the man by the arm. "Get outa here, you dago, or I'll scuttle you! Get me?"
"Me? By thunder, I'll toss yuh in th' furnace." Black Judson sprang, hurling his great body on the tall American.
Tod kicked the blankets from his feet. Jumping up he saw that the two men were locked in a fierce, warlike embrace. Swaying, struggling, they pitched into the aisle full length. Neil rose first and stepped back. His assailant swayed drunkenly for a moment like a beast on all fours; then, in a horrified instant, Tod saw that, as the stoker rose, his right hand fingered a sailor's sheath knife. It glimmered in the lamplight like an evil thing.
Black Judson staggered forward. Even as he lunged for Neil, the knife gleaming dully in his hand, Tod sprang between them. His arm flew upward to ward off the blow.
"Tod, get out!" Neil blurted.
Already the big fireman had closed with the boy. Of a sudden, Tod felt a swift stab of pain in his left side. He staggered. Men tumbled out of their cots; cries, curses, broke the stillness. Hands grasped the two writhing figures. Tod glimpsed the burly form of the fireman disappear in the midst of the crowding seamen. Neil's voice sounded in his ears as if it were miles distant.
"Hurt, Tod?"
Tod stumbled backward. "No—only a scratch. He got my side."
Dark forms appeared silhouetted in the square light of the doorway. Footsteps came crowding down the aisle. A volley of oaths ripped open the air. "What! Theese American! Why you fight? Thees is good house—never fighting here."
"Nom d'un chiert, il est mort!"
"Dio carter"
"Aw, hell, stow the gab!"
Cries, echoing like distant shots about him. A swaying jumble of people, and Neil striding forward. "Yes, where's that devil with the knife? It's prison for him."
"Poleece!"
"Guardier"
"The cops—the bulls!"
Strangely unmoved, Tod watched the aisle clear as if by magic. Facing him and Neil were the dark-clad forms of two policemen. Over the shoulders of these, two other faces, familiar, appearing like figures in a dream, stared at him, their eyes alight with hatred. They were Mr. Hawkes and Tom Jarvis.
The gruff voice of the first mate boomed across the room. "That's them, officer. Those two there. Tried to jump ship, they did. Running away."
"It's a lie!" Neil sputtered.
Tod stepped backward as the two policemen swooped like birds of prey and pinioned their arms to their sides.
"What's this mean?" Neil gasped.
Mr. Hawkes smiled grimly. "Now, don't try to lie outa this, young man," he interposed. "We got yuh this time, and we got the Genoa law behind us. It's the ship's brig for yuh both."
Neil struggled uselessly in the iron grip of his captor. "Cut it out," he remonstrated. "Don't try any shanghai passage stuff on us."
Tod turned his bewildered eyes upon the cook. "Tom," he whispered. "Tom."
The face of the Tattooed Man wore an impassive mask. Not the slightest emotion stirred his features; only his eyes, as he glanced at Mr. Hawkes, gleamed narrowly.
The first mate laughed in his beard. "Ain't these the flyaways, Mr. Jarvis? Ain't they?"
Tom Jarvis let his gaze settle upon Tod's face with a gleam of understanding. Although his lips did not move, the boy read his message. Play the game, Joe Macaroni. Play the game. Tod unconsciously nodded as the cook's quick glance passed across to the former purser of the Annie Jamison. The impassive mask of the moment before slowly vanished as he stared, transfixed, at Neil Moran. Hatred, intense and overwhelming, swept across his bronzed features. The pupils of his eyes dilated; his mouth slid into a straight hard line.
"Yeh, that's the men," Jarvis jerked out in a tone full of menace. "We'll take 'em back, officer. Get 'em dressed."
At the words, Tod felt his heart go cold; a clammy perspiration broke out on his body. An abrupt trickle at his side, warm, slow, caught his attention. He screwed up his right arm where a stabbing pain gnawed his ribs. Looking down he saw that his hand dripped with blood.