This was the chap who was getting the mortgage through for Chamberlain, and to whom, by good luck, I had to apply for my dollars, so, having got Chamberlain to sign my time sheet, I trotted off down town to interview Andrews. I had enough money coming to me then — if I could collect it — to see me through to Montreal, no longer as a hobo, but as a real, self-respecting passenger — what a change! When I asked for Mr. Andrews the clerk accommodated his tone of voice to my appearance, which, beyond being clean, was hardly millionairish, and the few words we had quickly brought Andrews out of his office to see what was going on.
I must say his office was reached by a steep flight of stairs, which led directly into the street, and down which I was proposing to toboggan the clerk.
“Hello, my lad,” said Andrews, “what’s all the row about?”
I told him.
He whistled when he saw the account, and told me the mortgage was not through. At the same time he knew exactly where I stood, and, to make a long story short (good fellow that he was) he paid me in full on the spot.
I then journeyed down to the Manor Bar, where kindred spirits used to foregather, and, to their surprise, stood them all a good round of drinks. One of the chaps who had quit Chamberlain’s place before I took on, and who had been cocksure I should not get my pay, asked me “where I had got the wad.” I told him.
Said he, “How did you manage to collect it?”
“Well, of course,” said I — trying a good leg pull — “you don’t want to go round to these lawyer’s places eating humble pie; you want to go in and threaten to break up the furniture and take them to pieces. Throw things about a bit, and say, if they don’t ante up, that you’ll include them in a quick passage to the street. Just let them know you are some sort of a chap. See then, how quickly they will come across with your money.”
He gazed at me the whole time I was talking, and then just walked out.
Half an hour or so later I had boarded the train at the Depot, and was sitting on the steps of the car yarning with a few of the fellows who had come to see me off, when another pal came on to the platform roaring with laughter, and said to me, “Say, what on earth did you tell Charlie?” When I told him the yarn, he said he had just come past Andrews and Pitblado’s office in time to see Charlie thrown down the stairs into the street. We were still laughing over poor Charlie as the train drew out, and I started on the last lap for Liverpool.
Having made a good grub stake in Winnipeg, and being able to stick to one train for a change, it seemed a very short time before I was in Montreal, with its familiar ships and shipping. Here I was back on my own territory, and in touch with my old friend, the sea. My troubles, as far as the trail was concerned, were over. Crossing the ocean — or even going round the world — presented less of a problem than did a few hundred miles by land. Looking back over it all, I felt I had achieved my object to some extent. At any rate, I had been up through the North-West. I’d tried it out, I’d had a great time, and I’d got back — the next bit to Liverpool hardly counted. Admittedly I had gone broke; on the other hand I had got back, which was more than thousands and thousands of others had done. There were hundreds in Winnipeg alone — many of whom were there when I arrived on the way out, and were still there when I left on the way back — who, poor devils, had no idea how to make their way back home.
It was not long before I was on board ship, and in my own element again. I was not on board in the capacity of an officer. I took the first job that was going, and that was cattle-man — not very thrilling, with all the beasts tied up by their head stalls, and I could not help but compare them with similar animals out on the range. Here they were in their hundreds; there they had been in their thousands. Neither were the cattle-men quite the type one meets “punching” on the prairie; they were inclined to be a wee bit impulsive at the wrong time. For instance, when I came down a bit late for the first day’s dinner, every scrap of food had been cleaned up, on the basis of “first come, first served.” Perhaps I was more at home on this job than they had realised. However, believe me, it never happened again, and when a few of the niceties of shipboard life had been duly instilled, they proved quite good fellows — if a bit crude.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
BACK TO SEA
Two o’clock one bright spring morning found us “tied up” in the Hornby Dock, Liverpool, just a little over twelve months since I had left. As all my money had been exhausted in making my way to Montreal, I stepped off the ship with a pair of buckskin pants, serge shirt, huge sombrero hat, and the world before me again.
A few miles hard walking brought me to my old rooms, where I must hide myself until such time as I could have a suit of clothes made by my friendly old tailor.
What agony it was to encase oneself again in boiled shirt and stiff collar, but it had to be done; respectability once more, and then a ship. There was no time to lose as I hadn’t a penny in the world, and I certainly was not going to apply at home for money.
Down to the docks I went for an interview with old Jack Rattery (sic), the Marine Superintendent of the African Royal Mail. He was commonly known as “Three Fingered Jack” having had two of them bitten off by a negro down the West Coast. Bully Waters at one time had been his mate, and they were great pals; also two of a kidney. Furthermore Rattery had told me, when I left the Niagara that Bully Waters, despite the lurid passages at arms and wordy battles that had taken place between us, had, to my unbounded astonishment, given me a most glowing character. This being so, I knew I was sure of a ship as soon as Capt. Rattery could find me one. He wanted to know where I had been. I merely told him, “Where ships don’t go. But I’m looking for a ship now, sir.“
I had also seen a brand new ship in dock about to sail on her maiden voyage, and I asked him to appoint me to her. Good fellow, he gave me the job. Right glad I was to be back again on pay, with the hopes of wiping out some of the huge debts that had accumulated with my tailor and elsewhere. Sextant to buy, telescope to buy, glasses to buy, instruments of various kinds, books, in fact, the whole complete outfit, including uniform and mufti, for I had sold everything before I had left. Still, what matters; I was back in the good old familiar surroundings, again serving my eccentric mistress. Good solid pieces of gold rolling in every voyage from over the pay desk, instead of digging them out of the earth — much more of it too — so why worry? Everyone would soon get paid and I’d quickly make enough to hit the lone trail again.
Being a new ship and the biggest on the run, we gave a banquet in every port, and we did not have to be looking for the makings of the banquet with a rifle. Any amount of game here, if it was in the frig. When we got down to Lagos, Opobo and Calabar, the guests were nearly all native chiefs, and we had to entertain them. These chaps are big noises in Africa, and come down in their war canoes, pulling twenty paddles a side. The canoes are wonderful pieces of craftsmanship, and take years to build. It was a touchy business getting the different tribal chiefs to the gangway, and on board, without any fighting. They are all pretty warlike, and ready to jump at each other’s throats on the slightest pretext. At a signal from the officer on the gangway, up they came dashing to the side ladder (and they have a speed of anything up to ten knots) and if another war canoe were slow in getting away, they would think nothing of ramming it, and if that happened, then the fat would be in the fire. It was only by virtue of the tact of the white officer on the gangway that many a full blown scrap was nipped in the bud