“He’s a blighter.  Glad to get rid of him.  Hurry back.  And don’t stop at Mike’s or Johnny’s,”—­smiling.

“I never touch anything heavier than ale, sir.”  Mike’s or Johnny’s; it saved him the trouble of asking.  Tippling pubs where stewards foregathered.

His uniform was his passport.  Nobody questioned him as he passed the barrier at a dog-trot.  Outside the smelly pier (sugar, coffee and spices, shipments from Killigrew and Company) he paused to send a short prayer to heaven.  Then he approached a snoozing stevedore.

“Where’s Mike’s?”

“Lead y’ there, ol’ scout!”

“No; tell me where it is.  Here’s a shilling.”

Explicit directions followed; and away went Thomas at a dog-trot again:  the lust to punish, maim or kill in his heart.  He was not a university man; he had not played cricket at Lord’s or stroked the crew from Leander; but he was island-born, a chap for cold tubbings, calisthenics and long tramps into the country on pleasant Sundays.  Thomas was slender, but sound and hard.

Jameson was not at Mike’s nor at Johnny’s; but there were dozens of other saloons.  He did not ask questions.  He went in, searched, and strode out.  In the lowest kind of a drinking dive he found his man.  A great wave of dizziness swept over Thomas.  When it passed, only the bandannaed smuggler remained, cautious, cunning, patient.

The quarry was alone in a side-room, drinking gin and smiling to himself.  For an hour Thomas waited.  His palms became damp with cold sweat and his knees wabbled, but not in fear.  Four glasses of ale, sipped slowly, tasting of wormwood.  In the bar-mirror he could watch every move made by Jameson.  No one went in.  He had evidently paid in advance for the bottle of gin.  Thomas ordered his fifth glass of ale, and saw Jameson’s head sink forward a little.  Thomas’ sigh almost split his heart in twain.  Jameson’s head went up suddenly, and with a drunken smile he reached for the bottle and poured out a stiff potion.  He drank it neat.

Thomas wiped his palms on his sleeves and ordered a cigar.

“Lonesome?” asked the swart bartender.  This good-looking chap was rather a puzzle to him.  He wasn’t waiting for anybody, and he wasn’t trying to get drunk.  Five ales in an hour and not a dozen words; just an ordinary Britisher who didn’t know how to amuse himself in Gawd’s own country.

Jameson’s head fell upon his arms.  With assured step Thomas walked toward the corridor which divided the so-called wine-rooms.  At the end of the corridor was a door.  He did not care where it led so long as it led outside this evil-smelling den.  He found the room empty opposite Jameson’s.  He went in quietly.  The shabby waiter followed him, soft-footed as a cat.

“A bottle of Old Tom,” said Thomas.

The waiter nodded and slipped out.  He saw the sleeper in the other room, and gently closed the door.