FURY
By EDMUND GOULDING
A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers New York
Published by arrangement with Dodd, Mead & Company
Printed in U. S. A.
COPYRIGHT IWf,
BT DODD. MEAD AND COMPANY, In
M TWI w. . *.. r
AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED TO MY MOTHER
AND BABY SISTER
2084195
FURY
CHAPTER I
HIDING in black nights . . . alone . . .
emerging with the sun . . . year in and
out . . . The Lady Spray rode on, con-
suming billowy distance with a pride bred of her
courage, sex and custom.
Looney Luke well said of her:
"Stormy night, or sunny day,
They're all the same to The Lady Spray."
Luke loved this ship; he loved the sea; and all
men and God.
He could not even hate his captain, Dog Leyton.
He'd said so once, and the crew had laughed. And
then Dog Leyton had heard, and he laughed, too.
And is it any matter of wonder that the sea roars
with seething laughter as she rolls up on the sands
of land to see you and me?
She laughs; and with a swift movement of her
body sweeps that fat woman's fat husband down,
under and away. Then, as we stand horrified, she
laughs back at us: "Come in, little man, God's
greatest creation!"
3
4 FUKY
Perhaps we do not understand her roaring voice ;
and so we strut pleasurably back to land and life;
to chat, to breed, to cry and laugh, waking and
sleeping, working and playing, living and dying,
in mansions and mines, developing the human race
to the glory of God. Is it any wonder that the
sea laughs as she rolls up on the humans' land?
Some of us, perhaps, have heard the sea calling
within us and have thrilled, looking up into
truth; and a furious love of life has possessed us
. . . and we have laughed with the sea.
But then ... we have forgotten again, and
leaned away from truth.
So, through time, Man's laugh is dying . . . and
only the sea can be heard, far down along, curl-
ing upon the winding shore . . . seemingly eter-
nal.
Thus Dog Leyton's laugh had died. And Dog
Leyton was a captain of the sea. The Lady Spray
was his ship had been for thirty years; and she
was still as trim a windjamming girlie as you'd
want to find. She got a bit saucy sometimes, but
ain't that the way with all women?
Dog had been caught up in one of those cyclones
of passion, broken vows and lies, which blow only
on land; and he'd taken his brooding out to sea,
and she, womanlike, had jibed, and laughed, and
taunted, until . . .
But then he'd never inspired that tender solace
which only the sea can give. On the contrary, he'd
never understood the sea. He'd never known the
FURY 5
glorious line of her form, her endless laughter, her
passion, her tempestuous moods of play, or her
moon-kissed sleep. Bah ! To him she was the soup
always the soup! Damn the wash! Damn the
wind ! Damn the clouds ! Damn the endless miles
of green distance! . . . Damn God!
And the damn God, with grim humor, had amus-
edly dabbed on his timeless palette, and detailed
Dog Leyton's hating face, while the sea swept her
swishing skirts by and smiled serenely up into that
face, the face that hated her, the face with streaks
and hollows of mental pain, traced ruthlessly
under the seafarer's tan.
The mouth, that seemed never to have smiled, was
a thin line. The brows might never have been
raised they seemed to be growing down. He
seemed to have been in need, by his outward ap-
pearance, of a physical and mental outlet for some-
thing smoldering within him.
Four obsessions were his : a ship, his son, a fight
and his rum. An ideal master, hard, cruel and
quarrelsome, but understood by his crew; and is
not understanding the basis of system? And does
not system mean a good ship? And The Lady
Spray was certainly that.
The sea's a man's life anyway, whatever you say.
It takes a man to understand her moods and love
her and ride her! She is startling in her moods;
her smile, when she wakes in the morning there's
nothing like it in the universe; and her rage God
help you, if she is against you ! She's attuned to
6 FURY
God, and if you love her and your life is with her
and you're as true and as straight as she is, she'll
introduce you to him direct as a friend, as a
master, and you will need no church.
And through the sea you learn to know yourself
and all men. In the boundless mirror of her shin-
ing face you get a clearer vision of yourself, and
of the things that happen out of the longings and
storms and passions, and loves and hates and sins
of men. And she makes the drama of it all play
before your eyes and you're never lonely. No,
you're never lonely, if you play square with the
sea, and she likes you well enough to introduce
you to her Captain God. . . .
The sea had always loved Boy loved him from
that memorable night. The wind had teased her
all day and kept her awake all the night before.
She was letting her pent-up temper go, and the
rain and the wind were answering her back. The
Lady Spray was put to it to keep her nose out of
trouble.
The woman aboard was Mrs. Leyton, Dog's wife
and as good a seawoman as you would want to
find anywhere poor girl
Dog Leyton was himself born on the sea and he
wanted his child to start the same way. So that's
how she happened to ship. The crew took kindly
to her and well, that night there wasn't a man
aboard who didn't mumble something or do some-
thing unusual, such as men do when they're sight-
ing death even when it's well to port. And Mrs.
FURY 7
Ley ton, she just sat and trembled, white-lipped
and still-eyed.
A gale has always been a good excuse for Dog
to take a couple more than usual. Damp affected
his rheumatism; and it had often been said that
The Lady Spray would have kissed Davy Jones
long before but for Dog's uncanny sea wit and the
ferocious fighting hate of opposition with which a
couple of extra rums always endowed him.
When he saw his wife that night, as he came in
dripping, saw her sitting there still and white, he
called her "yellow," and accused her of transfer-
ring her cowardice to the child that was to come.
But she knew her man. She stood up and
smiled. She knew her man, drunk or sober. She
walked out on top, the rain beating down on her
breast.
"Who's a bloody coward?" she screamed. "You
want a kid like yourself. All right; we'll make a
bullet-head out of him like his "
Before she could finish The Lady Spray, over-
hearing, pitched her down, head first, into the
scuppers.
It was Morgan, the young first mate, who picked
her up and carried her back; it was Morgan, the
first mate, who looked Dog Leyton in the eye in a
way that the skipper never forgot; it was Morgan
who took her burning hand, and whispered gruff
comfort in her ear with a voice that carried in it
something that made her open her eyes suddenly,
almost forgetting her pain.
8 FUEY
Then Mr. Hop, the ship's doctor, entered. . . .
It was just breaking dawn and, like some
naughty coquette who has had a spree the night
before, the sea lay back smiling, breathless, wait-
ing for a tropical day on' which to doze.
The skipper had walked all night, and no more
drink had passed his lips. He was sober, morose
and ashamed ashamed to face the woman he
loved ; ashamed in his soberness to look at her pain-
racked face; ashamed to kiss her and ask her to
forgive. And Mr. Hop came to him as the first
streak of light peeped through the mist.
"It's come, Captain a boy."
The Captain did not move. He stood there,
transfixed and ashamed, as with the first ray of
light upon her lips, the sea smiled her welcome to
Boy. Dog was ashamed! And at that moment
from the cabin, Morgan, the first mate emerged,
a queer look upon his face.
And when dawn was full up, Dog Leyton stood
over his wife, the woman who had loved him until
then; and he looked down on her still, sleeping
form ; and the face of Boy looked up into his . . .
and crinkled and . . . perhaps, smiled . . . for-
giving.
CHAPTER II
BOY Boy Leyton, second mate of The Lady
Spray, the captain's only son was a child
of the sea, weaned upon her rolling bosom.
Her song had sung him to his baby sleep and her
soft voice had taught him the only prayers he ever
knew. And had he not been fathered by Dog, the
roughest, toughest ever?
He had lived up to all that father's expectations,
in details of seamanship, diligence and discipline;
but in his eyes could be perceived a vague tender-
ness, a whimsical inquiry.
It was this manifestation of his character which
constantly broke the even course of his sea-faring
existence by sharp and cruel conflict, for Dog
Leyton attributed this strain to the wife, the
mother, the woman who after the boy's birth had
made life outside his ship a closed book to him,
the woman he now hated who was gone.
It was Boy's revelation of his softer quality, his
unspoken hunger for love and sympathy, his innate
ability to deal with brutality, with compassion and
kindliness, which had created the smoldering con-
flict between father and son a, conflict that fore-
boded tragedy.
Nor was Boy, although physically hard and
brave, understood by the flotsam crew chosen by
9
10 FUKY
Dog Leyton to man The Lady Spray. In truth he
did not quite understand himself. Violence, vice
and blood spelled to him indescribable agony. He
was a recluse and a dreamer and yet at times for
long periods he would gaze, as if wistfully, out to
sea, sublimely oblivious to the life about him.
Yet his immediate sense of humor, the virility
with which he attacked his work, his buoyant and
laughing attitude towards the crew, proved him
Dog Leyton's son, with a pride in who he was, a
pride manifested in his stride as second mate.
But now and then, when in the very act of imitat-
ing his father splendidly, he suddenly would spoil
it all by a tender act or word.
Intense and natural, he was a man among
men, his very normality automatically high-lighted
against the abnormal hardness of the captain,
mate and rew. The hardening process to which
Boy had been subjected, as persistently prescribed
by his father, had failed. His physical perfection
was balanced by a certain influence of soul, but
he was without subtlety. He took life and indi-
vidual circumstances exactly as he found them and
dealt with them upon natural instincts and im-
pulses.
Therefore Boy was natural, strong, tender and
brave; and if one ventured to criticize his moral
make-up, one might point to his hypersensitive
attitude towards his own tender and truer side,
which he had learned to term within himself his
"yellow streak."
THE sea lay back, languid, under a hot sun.
Her even, contented breathing swayed The
Lady Spray with a gentle grace. It was
like one woman lending another her mirror and
The Lady Spray smiled quietly to herself. She
felt dressed for the afternoon, her decks white and
trim and her crew for the moment too hot to shout
and sing.
Boy, stretched upon the deck, face down, resting
upon his elbows, was talking quietly to Noah, a
green and red parrot in a very nice cage.
"G'wan, yuh damn fool," he said politely, urg-
ingly. "D'ye want yer dinner? Do yer?"
A muffled scream from Noah.
Muscles under a brown skin rippled as Boy
swung into a sitting position.
"Say 'Minnie, I love you!' Come on, now!
<Min ' "
Noah turned quickly. A third had joined them ;
a twisted, curious thing, a man with an abnormally
large forehead and very blue, transparent eyes.
Boy looked up.
"Blimey, Luke, you try yer 'and ; 'e's got to say
it proper before port."
Luke smiled. "Suppose Noah says *I love ye' all
day. 'I love ye I love ye,' and then you come
11
12 FURY
back an' say it; it won't be such new music for
Minnie's ears. Wimmen's ears are made to wait
for things they like to hear ... to wait."
Boy scratched his head as the logic of this ob-
servation hit him suddenly. A row of white teeth
bared spontaneously.
"Luke, ye're right. Ye arn't 'arf a one! She'd
be 'earin' this blinkin' fowl all day and when I'd
come back from trips
A sudden movement from Luke interrupted him.
A sheet of paper, sweeping along the deck in a
breath of warm wind, had been deftly caught.
Luke's blue eyes missed nothing. In a moment he
had seen a written phrase or two. He hesitated
and quickly handing the paper to Boy, moved
away.
With or about Luke, the unusual always hap-
pened. It was a moment before Boy looked at the
fluttering letter in his hand. Then glancing down,
he read, as it had been penned by a crude, heavy
hand:
"Dearest Minnie : I been thinking of you all day."
But the paper was rudely snatched from him.
Boy, scrambling to his feet, faced Morgan, the
first mate.
Certain temperaments are in natural opposition,
certain men are born to face each other, look into
each other's eyes and hate; and these two hated
with an unspoken, agonizing hate ; a sullen, sailors'
hate.
FURY 13
Morgan, with his six-feet-three of sinew, his nar-
rowed eyes and lantern jaw, hated Boy; and Boy,
though trembling, feared not Morgan but his own
insane, surging desire to kill this man who now
stood with the paper crushed in his hand, looking
down at him, silent but for the hiss of indrawn
breath.
Then suddenly another's voice, raucous:
"Get out of it there, Morgan ! I called yuh."
Dog Leyton, red-faced, was yelling from the
wheel.
"Aye, aye, sir."
Without a word Morgan turned away, the letter
still crushed in his hand; and Boy, gazing after
him, wondered.
His heart was thumping. He turned. Noah
was a dull thing now in the reaction.
Looney Luke watched him and smiled. He saw
hidden meanings. No external incident ever
brought change to his twisted features. He was
Looney Luke, the cooky's mate; he read the stars,
he told your fate.
Boy stood beside him now and asked a question,
but Looney Luke did not answer. His attention
had been attracted elsewhere.
Morgan had taken the wheel. The Skipper
leaned heavily on the rail, wiping his forehead.
His figure sagged as if physically fatigued. His
head turned quickly.
"Did ye speak, Mr. Morgan?"
Morgan did not answer.
14 FURY
The eyes of the older man blazed. The sagging
figure stiffened suddenly. A stride and he stood
beside Morgan, whose face was averted.
"Were ye mumblin' something Mr. Morgan?"
The other answered suddenly, sullenly, without
turning :
"I remarked it wa'n't my watch."
Here it was, an outlet, an excuse. With light-
ning stimulus it functioned. Leyton's body quiv-
ered and his voice thundered : "Are you objecting
Mr. Morgan?"
"No, damn ye, I ain't"; and Morgan swung
around, speaking down into the broad, crimson,
twitching face, thrust up to him viciously.
Again, one of those unspeakable moments; a
moment of hate.
Boy made a movement forward. Luke laid a
hand on his arm, restraining him. Together they
watched.
Leyton lunged suddenly. Morgan stepped back.
The savage impetus of the blow swung the Skipper
around against the wheel. The other walked for-
ward fearlessly sneering:
"Ye're Captain, don't forget! Ye're "
A backhander checked further utterance.
A herculean feat of mental control shook Mor-
gan's huge frame as he stood, a sinister figure,
facing an old man, who at that moment slumped,
clutching at the wheel.
The Lady Spray nervously fluttered in her
course.
FURY 15
Boy with a cry started forward and was again
restrained. He knew ... he knew !
Mr. Hop stood beside Dog Leyton, patting his
back briskly.
The old man was gasping for breath, betraying
every symptom of apoplectic distress. Morgan
watched silently, as the Captain, with an ef-
fort, straightened, stood erect, spat and walked
away.
Mr. Hop and Morgan exchanged quick glances.
"He'll be killin' some one or himself in one of
them fits."
And Mr. Hop, about to reply, started suddenly.
Morgan looked with him.
"Get out o' me sight, ye moon-faced calf!"
Together they watched Boy turn slowly away
from his father. He had followed only a few steps
and in a low voice asked : "Are you all right now,.
Father? sir?"
Boy walked to Looney Luke; again he asked a
question and again Looney Luke's face was turned
away, absorbed.
Boy's gaze followed his to see something that had
happened five times before in his fifteen or sixteen
years of conscious memories. He spoke, clutching
Luke's arm.
"He'll make 'em fight the mood Vs in, 'e will !
Make 'em fight! An' one of 'em" (his voice low-
ered to a whisper) , " '11 go under. Look !"
It was true. He had told one of the secrets of
the sea; a secret carried in the heart of The Lady
16 FURY
Spray; his father's law; something that justified
vague whispers ashore. Fight it out!
Zeis, the Greek cook . . . some garbage on the
deck . . . and Yuka, the burly Russian blonde
. . . the skipper between . . . "Who dumped
this?" ... a torrent of foreign words growing
louder, shriller, as two sea haters of seven
voyages full of smoldering aversion, stood facing
each other. Zeis knew the Russian lied the gar-
bage wasn't from the galley.
A whistle, shrill, penetrating.
"All hands up!"
"A fight a fight !"
Eyes had been watching. It was the first fight
since the giant Lascar, Jumbo, had been brained,
two years ago and by this very Zeis . . . Jumbo
had died of pneumonia according to Mr. Hop's
log.
And now Yuka!
What a fight! . . .
Hoarse shouts and scrambling feet . . .
"The old 'un's gettin' blood mad again . . ."
"Five bob on Zeis!"
"All up!"
And the white decks of The Lady Spray suddenly
seemed to shudder.
"A chair for the Skipper."
Mr. Hop came forward busily, with a bowl of
water and some towels.
"A bigger ring! Give 'em room! Back! Get
back, there! Farther!"
FURY 17
"Look at that bloody man, I ask yer. He'll eat
'im!"
Yuka, bared to the waist, his straw mop answer-
ing dully to the light, smiled at the speaker. He
pawed the ground with a naked horny foot. His
knife flamed in the sun. His was the confidence
of a giant.
Zeis the Greek, lithe, sparse, still, very still, his
thin pointed features unmoving, waited, knife
gripped in his steel-like fingers, its blade under
his wrist, turned up towards the elbow.
"Silence!"
The Skipper took his seat and unnaturally stuck
an unlighted pipe in his mouth.
The sky, blue with flecks of white, looked and
whispered to the dozing sea, but only Looney Luke
noticed the faint puff of warm interest that stirred
The Lady Spray uneasily.
"You two wanted this an' now ye've got it, and
whatever's the outcome, ye'll govern yerselves and
yer tongues accordingly. Ye're all parties to this
'ere scrap. D'ye understand?"
A roar of hoarse "ayes" ... a rumble of dis-
cordant excited voices . . . the rasp of bloody
speculation . . . hushed whispers of advice.
"Wait! Stop!"
The Skipper rose and, hand to mouth, shouted :
"Boy!"
And Boy, but a dozen paces away behind Num-
ber 1 boat, stiffened suddenly. His eyes sought
Looney Luke's appealingly and met blankness,
18 FURY
changing to a whimsical smile of cynical encour-
agement.
"B-O-Y!"
Boy walked forward heavily and Looney Luke
gazed after him, the boy he loved . . . and turned
his head away.
Why why was Boy a coward? Why was he
yellow . . . this healthy boy a product of the
sea and scared to see a scrap and a good one
why?
Morgan smiled from the wheel as he looked
down upon the curious scene before him. It had
happened so quickly but that is the way of the
sea. And now look at Boy, that dead-faced brat!
The old 'un's makin' him set on the deck by his
chair and the old 'un's voice b-i-t-e-s.
Its tremolo of excitement went up and kissed
Morgan's ears.
"I said all hands up, Mr. Leyton! Damn ye,
can't yer obey? . . . Sit down! . . . Here!"
Morgan smiled again as the crew grinned and
Boy, white faced, took his place beside his father.
And at the first breathless "Oh!" as two naked
bodies smacked into action, each glistening, sweat-
ing, before its blow was struck, Morgan felt him-
self strangely aloof.
He still retained a spark of ambition. Exactly
what that ambition was he didn't know, except, of
course, that he wanted to be master of The Lady
Spray if the devil would only be kind enough to
remove the old man.
FURY 19
He gazed down now at that old man, craning
forward in his chair, with eyes like tiny beads of
fire, watching what?
The Russian was down, face upon the deck.
Under each shoulder his two hands gripped the
two of Zeis, who strained and panted above and
bit into the red, crinkled neck beneath a straw
mopped head that came back with force enough
against his nose to send drops of crimson wet upon
writhing shoulders.
And no one knew but they that the knife of
Zeis pierced an inch into the fleshy breast pressing
against the deck, until it moved in its warm socket
restlessly, as the Greek strained above and other
crimson evidence streaked from under the middle
of the two sweating, panting forms, who were
fighting for what? for what?
Boy's head turned away as another conscious-
ness shrieked the question in his ear, and the hand
of the Skipper came automatically down from the
side of the chair, to twist it roughly until it faced
again
Two figures, now risen for another rush.
The slap of their wet bodies, tuned weirdly with
the wash astern, so thought Looney Luke, sitting
behind boat Number 1, writing, and looking up
suddenly at the sky and down again to what he
had written.
"A man's a master of his world, who's captain
of the sea. He "
20 FUEY
A hoarse shout behind him and he listened and
Morgan started suddenly at the wheel.
Yuka pressed back, back. His throat bursting
with veins, the Greek's palm pushing at his upper
lip and nose and the gums, where teeth were, and
his knife slowly, surely descending.
Screams . . . silence . . . and then eyes . . .
perhaps two pair which could not watch murder,
turned away, then looked back suddenly.
Three figures are in the ring, two white and
one blue-black; and white lips scream, "No, no!
Christ, no!
Boy had kicked Zeis back, kicked him in the
mouth as he bent forward.
And Zeis, dripping, dazed, trembling, wondering,
waited, panting. The second mate stood before him
over the cowering form of Yuka, commanding.
The crew upon their feet shouted what would
they shout? And then silence, sudden and sin-
ister; and all eyes watched, fascinated, the slowly
approaching figure of the Captain.
Morgan craned forward. It was perhaps the
only time that he had ever derived pleasure from
the fact of Boy's presence upon the ship.
"Now he'll get it! He'll get it! Look!"
Father and son . . . and silence, Boy's eyes
speaking all he had to say; the crew taut, watch-
ing breathlessly; Mr. Hop bending over Yuka.
"Get inside!"
Boy turned suddenly, obediently, toward the
cabin.
FUEY 21
Just for a moment Dog Leyton regarded his
men.
The fight was over, the spell was broken. After
this it would be murder, not hot-blooded, but cold-
blooded. The faces of the crew asked a question
which Leyton did not answer.
He turned away in the footsteps of his son.
An ugly rush as the crew would re-start the
fight was stopped by a shout from Morgan at the
wheel:
"Get down there! Clear decks!"
Patting the slimy back of Zeis, they led him
away to a hot, stinking galley, a sweating, bleed-
ing victor, while Mr. Hop puffed a little as he
helped Yuka to a sitting posture and dabbed his
wound, pausing to glance up smiling in response
to an amused signal from his friend, Morgan, then
following the latter's glance in the direction of the
Captain's cabin, the door of which had been slid to.
Was it cowardice? Was Boy yellow?
Hard as nails, he had fought with men ashore,
and on shipboard, too, and smashed them, beaten
them <to a pulp. Last time they had had to drag
him off. You didn't have to draw him on, either;
he was there and ready. Perhaps a little too ready
with the readiness that comes of youth and sinew
and pluck ; but this weakness ?
What was this within him?
Was it his power to love ; to love with a tenacity
which was bigger than thoughts, words or blows,
22 FURY
bigger than himself? Was it his mother or God
from whom this legacy had sprung this ability
to love with the steadfastness of the sea?
And whom did Boy love?
. . . The cabin spun before him. A fist, knotted
and cruel, with a ring on the big little finger, had
caught him squarely over the left eye.
When his vision cleared he saw his father, roll-
ing a bristly, unshaven jaw, round and round, the
chin stuck out in sinister invitation, distorting the
bleared puffed eyes above.
"Come on, ye yeller rat! Hit me! Hit me! I
hit ye; hit me!"
This, accompanied by an irritating backhand
flip across the mouth, not too hard, carried with
it almost a finesse, with just enough tickle in it,
to send the blood mounting.
Boy answered. His fists closed; they were
coming up.
Then the fingers opened as a vise might. They
would take that red throat before him and choke
the life out of it.
Passion swept a mist before his eyes, a mist
personed by a horror a beast that always had
been at him.
Then the mist cleared and Boy no longer saw
a beast, but some one whom he loved his father,
the old dad the dad whom they all said was half
dotty.
Boy's hands dropped to his sides; his taut face
FURY 23
*
melted into softening lines; his eyes shone gently
again; he swallowed quickly.
"I'll knock the dirty woman out o' yer hide!"
The words were bitten off, edged by hated
memory.
"She was me mother, anyway, wasn't she?"
"Yer mother she was, and a low, dirty . . ."
"Stop that! Ye can't say that! Ye shan't!"
Again those fingers opened to choke and again
that bristly jaw went round and round, below thin
lips with white foam in the corners, hissing: "Hit
me! Hit me!"
It sounded like the chant of a demon urging to
kill and then:
"You've got her cow eyes hers ye're her, in a
man soft, slimy, yeller!"
This was answered by a cry, and two pairs of
fingers pressed and choked the rest.
The figure of the father was brave, unresisting,
waiting, triumphant. At last, at last Boy showed
fight!
Would he go on? Would he? He could stop
him if he wanted to. Would those fingers press
tighter on his throat? Would he try to kill?
Was the beast loosed at last? Had that woman,
that cow, that yellow streak been killed in him
forever?
A moment's breathless pause and pressure of the
fingers ceased; Boy's eyes raised from the throat
and saw the face above his hands, its eager, savage
24 FURY
gleam of madness. He let go suddenly and spoke.
"Ye ain't right, Father; ye're sick."
"Sick me, hey?" this with a savage blow
across Boy's mouth.
But the sound of the blow was dull. The act
was dull. Life had left the scene, because Boy
stood still, very still, looking at an old man, sud-
denly convulsed, crimson, apoplectic, pathetic, who
tried to speak, and fell a tumbled mass upon the
floor.
It was Mr. Hop who, having entered noiselessly
a moment before with a bowl of water, plaster
and towel, helped Boy to lift the limp and ghastly
weight to its bunk; and then he left without a
word, as though one of these fits was the logical
reaction of the excitement of the fight.
Boy stood looking at the prostrate form. He
loosed the old man's collar and from the sweating
forehead brushed back the gray and matted hair.
As he did this he was startled by the falling of
a drop of blood upon the hand which but a moment
before had struck him, then another . . . pat . . .
pat. . . pat. . . they came.
He had turned away before he realized that they
were from his own forehead where that ring had
cut him.
Boy took the roll of plaster which Mr. Hop had
brought and tried with his clasp knife to cut a
piece from it He found this difficult. His hands
trembled. He tried to tear it with his teeth.
FURY 25
At the sound, the old man turned, watching; a
curious, strange calm upon his face.
Boy turned, surprised, as without much effort
his father rose and stood before him.
Not a word was uttered as Dog Leyton took the
plaster and wetting it with his mouth placed it
gently on the wound and said:
"Ye bleed easy, Boy."
A pair of eyes caught his, large, welling,
woman's eyes, brimming with love and under-
standing.
"It's nothin', Father. I love ye all the same."
A moment's pause ; a hoarse shout.
"There ain't no such thing as love."
The crash of a bowl dashed upon the floor.
"Damn yer soft heart!"
The sea held the sun in a parting embrace, crim-
son, gold and purple. She was sobbing softly, Boy
thought, as he went to the side and listened, dully ;
and then the soft drone of music drummed softly
upon a single string and Luke's mellow voice:
"Wondrous are the women
What trips our sturdy beams,
Because they ain't here really,
They're only in our dreams."
Boy changed from one foot to the other and
looked out across his sea intensely wondering.
PART II
"It you've never been to Limehouse,
You've never been to sea;
It's the dirtiest spot in London,
But it's home, sweet home to me."
LOONEY LUKE'S POEMS
CHAPTEB I
MB. HOP was first seaman, boatswain, pay-
master, clerk, purser, doctor, on The Lady
Spray. He was short, fat and very dirty.
He did not look like a sailor, but as a point of fact,
was a particularly good one. Every language
came nicely to his tongue, from the lingo of the
Lascar to the guttural of the Eskimo.
Mr. Hop wore over his undershirt a pair of
trousers and a waistcoat, and was never without
a large pair of pince-nez spectacles, hanging by a
startlingly fresh black ribbon from his neck. He
affected at all times a Homburg hat with a guard
of string tied to a buttonhole of his invariably half-
opened waistcoat, because this hat was always
blowing off. By manipulation of the string he was
able to flip it on very cleverly. He seemed never
to shave and yet his beard at no time appeared
to be more than three days old. For some un-
earthly reason, he shined his shoes.
It was this same Mr. Hop who entered the tiny
office of the Anglo-Scottish Tropical Navigating
Company, Limehouse, S.E., usually spoken of as
the A.S.T.N.C., with the pompous air of a man of
affairs, and sitting uncomfortably on an orange
box, wiped his brow and spoke one word:
"Damn !"
20
30 FUEY
"Sorry, Cockey," observed the clerk. "Where's
your old man?"
"I'm 'ere. Who wants me?" And sure enough,
in full shore kit, stood Captain Leyton, master of
The Lady Spray. Leyton looked well again; he
had shaved; he always did to come ashore, and
there was a white top on his cap.
The manager rose and approached him with
some deference.
"Sorry, Captain, yer fer Leith right away.
Orders just come down from the city."
"Damn !" said the Captain, just as Mr. Hop had.
"I've let the crew off. I'll lose a tide. What the
hell's all this changin' fer, anyway?"
"Orders is orders, as you as a master know full
well, Captain." The manager, a tall, thin Mr.
Petwee, with a drooping mustache, proffered a
cigar.
"Thanks, Mr. Petwee." The sea captain turned
automatically. "Mr. 'Op, will yer please razzle the
bunch an' get 'em back? I'll make the 8.15 tide."
"Aye, aye, sir." Mr. Hop and his books and his
hat left the office with a bang of the door.
That Captain Leyton was one of the quietest and
ablest masters in the British mercantile service,
as Mr. Petwee had often observed, refuting sundry
insinuations, but he admitted that Dog Leyton was
a hot 'un.
"He keeps 'is crew, don't 'e?" Mr. Petwee would
assert. "There's Morgan, 'is first, been with 'im
goin' on five-an'-twenty years."
FURY 31
Mr. Petwee liked Captain Leyton ; Dog appealed
to his imagination. He presented, ashore, the
quiet calm and almost polish of the British sea-
master of tradition; and Mr. Petwee knew a good
deal. Petwee represented to Leyton the Company ;
he was sound and one of the few landsmen who
knew how to handle seamen with the tact that
comes of long experience. The two had been
friends for thirty years, and Petwee's heart and
ear had been audience to his suffering that time
when Leyton's wife had left him. He was one of
them as could drink a glass or two of whiskey with-
out lowerin' his standin'. Leyton, mad drunk in
The Three Jolly Sailors, had poured out his grief,
his shame, his hate, his curse into Petwee's ear,
and the latter had never referred to the subject
since.
Neither had Leyton.
Petwee had said the right thing at -the time and
he had said the right thing since by saying nothing.
Thus, there was a bond between these men, and
that w r as perhaps why Petwee was now more than
anxious that The Lady Spray should make Leith
on this trip.
"I wanted 'arf a word with ye about Leith,
Cap'n. I got some news."
Quickly Leyton turned. "What news about
what? who!" He seemed to fill the tiny office,
suddenly.
" 'Ow about a spot o' comfort down at Thfj
Sailors an' I'll tell ye."
CHAPTER II
C LANCET, one of my Lady Spray's estimable
crew, who has not yet been formally intro-
duced, having warmed the inner man with
a couple of rums cold, paused, gazing up at the
somber, dirty structure known to fame as Mrs.
Brent's Sailors' Rest. His song about an Irish
mother died upon his lips. He ascended the five
steps, pulled the string which passed through a
hole to the latch on the inside of the door, and
entered. Clancey had a mission, and that mission
was important and secret.
Mrs. Brent posed as the mother of all sailors.
Indeed, it was once remarked that she was large
enough to be mother of the entire British navy.
True, she was large, muscular and drunk always
drunk, and this good, Christian woman, running
a good Christian home, was a scheming old hypo-
crite.
Minnie Brent, Boy's Minnie, could have told you
without any trouble a lot more that Ma Brent was.
Minnie wasn't Mrs. Brent's real daughter. Every-
body knew she wasn't that. Had she been, far less
might have been said and thought about Minnie,
because "a woman's got a right to do as she likes
with 'er own child" at least, that was the view-
point of Lamehouse.
32
FURY 33
But Minnie wasn't Ma Brent's daughter and
every one knew it, though who Minnie's parents
were well, every one knew that nobody knew that
either.
The main large room of the Sailors' Rest, the
dining room, was the scene of an argument as
Clancey entered, and Mrs. Brent, taut, tall and
tipsy, listened with arms akimbo. She wanted
somebody to say something about Queen Mary or
Horatio Bottomley or Lloyd George that was all.
Let 'em start! She felt in excellent trim and
spoiling for a fight. But she was to wait in vain
because the six or seven nondescript resting sailors
were concerned at that moment with a heated dis-
cussion of the bootlegging possibilities round the
Florida coast of the States.
"It's seamen they want an' they'll pay good. Ye
don't mind gettin' killed if ye're paid fer it."
Mrs. Brent turned quickly as Clancey en-
tered.
"'Ullo there, Cockey wax! The Spray's in?
Where's the boys?"
Clancey glanced and spoke quickly. His was an
important mission.
"Mr. Morgan's comin' right down to see Minnie.
He sent me along to tell ya"
A broad smile labored across Mr*. Brent's vast
features.
"Righto, me lad! Get yenself a glass o' stout.
Ye know where to find it."
Mrs. Brent weighed anchor and steamed away,
34 FUKY
highly pleased because she had always liked Mor-
gan. But there, what woman didn't?
Morgan possessed a certain restraint that
matched his height. His knowledge of women was
uncanny and those that had loved him knew that
under that veneer, those set, subtle flatteries, that
quiet though tfulness, a ruthless cruelty dwelt en-
caved, waiting to spring out when tired of looking
at the fun, to deal a sharp-taloned, seldom-healing
blow.
And Mrs. Brent knew this. It had amused her
for years.
She liked Morgan, that was all there was to it;
and she felt she was the one person in the world
to whom his second and crueller nature would
mean nothing.
Why? Because she was scared of no man. One
of the main reasons for Morgan's appeal to her
was the possibility of a good mix-up. What a
Saturday-nigh ter he'd make, this Morgan! He
was the right height, and all. "Ye wouldn't 'ave
to stoop down to slog 'im."
So she bided her time and waited. If it was
Mr. Morgan's pleasure to cast an eye on Minnie,
well be that as it may, Min it should be; and
Morgan should see hers, Mrs. Brent's capable hand
in helping things along for him in that direction.
Every man must have a bit of fun, and Min, for
some unearthly reason, lay in the way of some
men's taste. Why Morgan, with his refinement,
FURY 35
should but, well . . . "Ye don't know men, how-
ever well ye know 'em, but all sailors come 'ome."
If he wanted a bit of skirt like Min, if he liked
'em small with rat-hair and pig-eyes, well, what
of it? Tire him of the small ones and then his
taste would be for the large that was logic. Mrs.
Brent was large. She knew men. She knew her
man of the sea. Tell him nothing; let him do and
say it all. "Get be'ind a 'orse to drive it."
And now, glancing round the large, untidy
room, her mind worked quickly.
"Come on, some o' ye slobs, get this deck cleaned
up like good boys. I'm expectin' some private com-
pany. Make it snappy!"
Mrs. Brent had lately seen an American movie
and the "make it snappy" line appealed to her.
The sea gentlemen present looked up.
"Who is it, Ma? Yer Sunday-go-to-meetin'
bloke?"
This was followed by a general bustling to obey.
Clancey emerged from the next room with a
large glass of stout in his hand, and glancing
round furtively he flicked some froth from his red
mustache.
His mission was not yet complete; at least his
most private mission wasn't, so while the resters
cluttered round to straighten up the backless
chairs and pools of brown coffee on the table,
Clancey drew one man aside and asked quickly:
"Where's Min?"
36 FUEY
"Wasliin' up in the sink." His informant jerked
a thumb in the direction of a half -open door at
the back of the room.
Clancey noted the direction with his eyes and
paused thoughtfully. The road wasn't clear. Mrs.
Brent, changing her apron, was moving toward the
mirror, a long coil of lank hair trailing down, wait-
ing to be rolled up again in evening fashion. She'd
be done in a minute and then . . .
CHAPTER III
SAILOES eat eggs an' jam for tea at five o'clock
on shore an' eggs an' jam sticks to dishes.
Soda in the water gets the marks off plates
quick, but then soda blisters an' wrinkles yer
hands an' if it 'appens to be the day that the ship
with yer bloke on gets in, the extra trouble of
rubbin' is worth it.
So Min was rubbing hard. A mountain of
cracked plates of all colors and sizes towered al-
most to the ceiling; and the clouds of steam were
so thick that you couldn't see the top of the moun-
tain. Min had thought of this once and had said
to herself, with biting sarcasm: "Ain't nature
grand?"
She paused to look into a cup before dipping it.
It was a Queen Victoria's Coronation cup, the one
that Mrs. Brent always used, and the tea leaves
sticking to a thick layer of undissolved sugar pre-
sented a striking pattern. What a fortune to-day !
Yesterday, the cup had fallen into the water and
Min couldn't read it, and things had gone wrong,
because she had not been pre-warned, but to-day,
look!
Lummie! a line of tea-leaves worked their way
down to what was that thing? A sewing ma-
chine? No! A twist upside down. What was it?
37
38 FURY
Something unusual, but look! it was, it was
hooray ! Look !
And there before Min's gaze, at the bottom of
the cup, stood the most perfect hearse. There were
two horses and a driver in a topper.
Ma Brent was going to die! No, that was too
good to be true. But cups never lie. Damn her!
Hers was coming to her at last! She was going
to peg out and Satan was going to drag her and
her fifteen stone of blinkin' misery down, down to
. . . and Min's lips came together and her odd
'brows contracted. Her thin body shook with
ecstasy as the Queen's Coronation cup sank sud-
denly too suddenly below the suds, struck bot-
tom and cracked.
And then the thought, the tragic thought in
Min's mind : Would Ma Brent die before breakfast
to-morrow? If she lived only that long she would
see the crack. But perhaps even if she lived she'd
be sickenin' for that funeral and wouldn't have the
strength to clout and curse and tell Min what she
was.
Min knew that well enough. She didn't need no
tellin'. She was of uncertain origin, a product of
sailor-town. What more could be said! Slight,
cheeky, whimsical, seventeen, she knew a lot more
than "what" she was in fact, she knew everything
there was to be known about men and women ; and
it was, perhaps, because of this definite knowledge
that Minnie was a "good girl."
Every one didn't think so; in fact, most people
FURY 39
thought and said differently when discussing Min
and Mrs. Brent's penchant for paste jewels and gin
and the money she spent and the tick she gave to
sailors she liked.
"It's a crime what she makes that Min do down
at The Rest," they would say.
But Min knew she was good ; and it wasn't Mrs.
Brent's fault neither, not by a long sight, it wasn't.
And her Boy knew, because she had told him so,
and if Boy knew and Boy loved her, come rack,
come rope, she didn't give a tinker's dam for
nobody.
And then again, Min knew that there wasn't a
really bad sailor in the world. She knew a sailor's
heart the heart he found at sea, when hope and
love and a tiny spark of God stole out of the vast
silences into him and made him long for home and
kids and think how he'd protect them and fight for
them.
And then the sailor knowing, perhaps, that this
could never be, would lock those thoughts in a
treasure chest and to that Min had the passkey.
When drunken arms seized her, and rough hands
tore at her blouse, she just whispered:
"I ain't as strong as you are, matey, an' if I
was yer own kid, ye'd fight fer me, wouldn't ye?
Ye'd kill a bloke what bruised me!"
And a pair of watery green eyes would seek eyes
rum-crazed, and hold them, and command them,
and the treasure chest within the man would open
and . . and .
40 FURY
Did you know that sailors wept?
And Min would kiss the rough hand and say,
"Blimey, matey, yer my idea of a man an' I wish
ye were me daddy."
And a man would rise and walk away; and Min
would look after the retreating figure of a new
champion clad in armor, a gentleman with her
silken glove upon his lance; and she would watch,
breathless, until her knight disappeared into the
foggy shades of Limehouse.
Minnie Brent knew what she was. Mrs. Brent
didn't have to keep telling her. She also knew
what she really was: a girl, a "good girl," who
could work and cook and love and wait wait for
Boy, her Boy, who loved her.
And he was due home to-day, or to-morrow,
and . . .
She looked up as Mrs. Brent wafted into the
steaming scullery, exuding a strong odor of musk.
She had lots of it now ; Marty had brought her in
a lot from the last trip t
A glance at Ma's tidied appearance and Min
knew something was up. The Coronation cup was
well hidden away. Ma glanced at her and hic-
coughed loudly. A glass of stout lends body to a
woman.
"Clean yerself up, The Spray's in. Mr. Morgan's
comin' down."
"What, Morgan? 'Im again?"
"Yes, Mister Morgan. What the 'ell 'e sees in
you, I can't imagine; but Mister Morgan it is.
FURY 41
And drop that cloth an' finish these after. Turn
yer gas down an' leave yer water on. Take my
blue shawl out o' the cupboard an' get them curlers
out o' yer 'air."
This was a death-blow. The steam would take
out the curl after, and those curlers had been in
for a week, waiting for Boy.
"I'll put me 'at on over 'em."
"Ye'll do as yer told! Another word out o' yer
cheeky mouth an' I'll . . ."
Ma's strong fingers had seized a Hinds curler
full of soft, mouse-colored hair.
"Get 'em off before I pull 'em off. An' get a
bite o' soap to work on that neck. What any man
can see in yer skinny . . ."
"Argh! G'wan, shut up; I'm doin' it, ain't I?
I don't want no Morgan to see nothin' in me."
But Ma Brent had left, and Min with a wisdom
born of hard experience followed the line of least
resistance.
Boy was home home from the sea and he
should see her with her hair curled and the blue
shawl, if she had to duck for it.
Boy seldom came to the Eest. Mrs. Brent didn't
cotton to him, and he didn't like her. He'd shov/
it by not talking, and the only thing Mrs. Brent
feared was silence. Then, there was that grousy
old dad of his, teaching Boy to hate everything,
every one.
The door opened and she turned. Clancey
sneaked in.
42 FUEY
" 'Ullo, Minnikins ! Boy says Vll be off watch
in 'arf an hour. He wants you to meet 'im in
Lock'art's."
Min twisted a curl of hair into place and throw-
ing her head back with mock drama, she placed
her hand upon her heart.
"And did me lover send 'is love?"
Of course, she knew she was going to meet Boy
at Lockhart's. She always did. Boy didn't have
to send to remind her; but that was like Boy, he
was always so careful.
" 'Ow's Boy keepin' himself, Clan?"
"Foine!" And Clancey watched her, interested.
Min wasn't pretty, but she had a way with her.
"You'll hexcuse a lady performin' of her toilette
before ye, Mr. C."
Clancey would excuse anything.
"Pipe the bleedin' lamb bein' led to the
slaughter."
He looked up quickly at this. "You mean, Mor-
gan? He's on ye, ain't he?"
"He ain't on or off, 'e's nowhere."
Clancey's eyes twinkled mischievously. "You
love yer Boy though, don't you, Min?"
"What, Boy? my Boy?" And two green eyes
filled suddenly. "Blimey, you said it!"
CHAPTER IV
THE sitting-room, the holy of holies where
Mrs. Brent received her private company,
was on the other side of the hall. It was
a beautiful room, over-furnished and difficult to
get around; an oppressive, musty-smelling cup-
board. Pictures of sailors were everywhere; wax
flowers vied for prominence with china anchors.
Mrs. Brent's own dear, dead father hung side by
side with her first and second dead husbands.
There were also three pictures of Our Saviour;
a text "Rock of Ages Cleft for Me"; horsehair
high-backed chairs, that cost easily a quid apiece;
a rug from Persia; curtains from Spain; cushion
covers from Japan.
Oh, but then, of course, a woman of Mrs. Brent's
refinement and taste must have somewhere that
which would bespeak her character.
It was here that the Reverend W. F. P. Vane
called monthly to thank her for her gentle, Chris-
tian home and her uplifting influence upon the
lives of "our dear brave sailors." It was here,
upon that very couch, that Montague Brent had
proposed and his, the fifth, with the third and
fourth husbands' pictures would have been hung
above it, but that she was afraid to remove the
three pictures of Our Saviour.
43
44 FURY
It was here, into this stately room, that the tall
figure of Mr. Morgan was ushered.
He looked very much "the lad," so Mrs. Brent
thought, in his brown cap and his brown suit to
match. His bright brown boots creaked a bit so
Mrs. Brent told him he could get the squeak out
in water. While fastening an Indian leg ornament
around her wrist for a bangle (just a little pres-
ent) he remarked, casually, that it was raining
outside and he'd walked up, and yet the shoes
weren't cured. Mrs. Brent remarked she must be
wrong and what a "one" he was to pick her up
so quickly "has to the haccuracy of her statements
with regards to his boots," which were just the
gentlemanly color.
"And Min's downright glad about your comin',
too, Mr. Morgan."
Ma Brent beamed upon him as he sat suddenly
upon the high-backed sofa for two and drew out
something wrapped in tissue paper.
"Minnie's a lucky girl. I was tellin' her so."
Mrs. Brent was furtively eyeing the package.
"What'd she say to that?" The question was
hard and sudden.
"She cried with joy, Mr. Morgan; straight she
did; and I cried with 'er. Ye're very dear to me,
Mr. Morgan, ye know that yerself."
He glanced up, a strange look in his eyes.
"Well, when Min comes across fair ye'll have a
nice little somethin' comin', Ma, and ye know that
all right, all right."
FURY 45
"A glass of stout, Mr. Morgan?"
"No tar, Ma, it affects me breath, and . . ."
Mrs. Brent screwed up her eyes and coyly
pointed a fat finger at him. "Ye ain't 'arf a lady's
man, ye ar'n't. . . . Lucky Min, I say, lucky
Min!"
She turned as Morgan rose suddenly and
"Lucky Min" stood at the door, her curls and coils
of hair in bewildering directions glistened in the
incandescent light from the hall and the shawl
thrown round her shoulders in a certain yes, Min
had a way with her, all right; she wasn't pretty,
but she had a way.
"Good evenin', Minnie dear," Morgan broke the
momentary silence with a very heavy bass voice.
He walked forward with confidence.
"How are ye, Mr. M.?" piped Min, and walked
forward with equal assurance.
Mrs. Brent paused at the door. If ever she hated
Minnie, it was now.
"I trust Mr. Morgan won't 'ave cause fer com-
plaint as regards his reception, Minnie dear."
Minnie's eyes came round. She looked like a
mouse posing for its profile. "Oh, don't mensh',
Ma dear."
The door closed and she was alone with Morgan.
"Minnie, ye look fine!"
"Do I, now, Mr. M.? That's nice of yer to re-
mark that, so to speak."
"I mean it, Min. I find words difficult to ex-
press in a social manner o' speaking, so I posted
46 FURY
ye a letter with a lot o' me thoughts in it, as re-
gards you. You'll 'ave it in the morning."
"Pine! I like letters to come."
Morgan bent a little forward, stiffly. His hand
stole scrapily down the horsehair stuffing, seeking
hers.
Min had been to the movies more than once and
all the heroines seemed to carry a little handker-
chief in their hands; thus, the hand that Morgan
sought, sensing its large, red pursuer, closed round
a tiny pink handkerchief and went all the way up
to Minnie's snub nose and paused just under it,
while Minnie sniffed unnaturally.
Min's eyes turned suddenly at the rustle of tissue
paper, which was wrapped round something upon
Morgan's knee. She watched she wasn't inter-
ested, not a bit! Not in nothing he brought.
"Min, I picked this up in Gibraltar," Morgan's
voice was a full tone louder. "I felt it would suit
your type." And a high Spanish comb came into
view; a beautiful piece, with several diamonds in
the top.
Min's head was perfectly still as Morgan rev-
erently, almost delicately, pushed the five large
teeth into the most important coil of her hair, and,
with almost an effeminate flick of his finger, ad-
justed a hairpin that became dislodged during the
operation.
"Minnie, it looks great. Take a look at yourself."
Then Min, feeling at least seven feet tall, and
walking forward with a steady balancing motion,
F U E Y 47
like the muffin-man who carries his tray on his
head on Sunday afternoons, glided to the glass and
looked at another Min. The diamonds flashed, and
Morgan's voice seemed miles away.
Min, Minnie Brent she knew all along that this
Morgan didn't want to marry her ! She knew that
Ma Brent knew that, and she knew that Ma Brent
knew there was no getting Min any other way than
to try and trick her. She knew, also, that there
had been a foul bargain between Morgan and her
foster-mother, unlikely, improbable, if you like,
but too true.
Morgan was piqued by Minnie's indifference. He
was after her. She sensed it. He showed it in
everything he did; in every breath he took.
For peace and quiet and policy's sake she had
given in to Ma Brent and now sat in with him,
but this bloke didn't mean anything more than
that he wanted her and he was going to get her
somehow, and in some way her foster-mother was
going to profit by his success, if he had any.
So here she was, looking like the bloomin' Queen
of Sheba . . . and Morgan coming closer, looking
like . . .
"Wanderin' 'ands . . ."
She could trick him, too. She didn't want the
bloody comb. She didn't want nothing that Boy
didn't give her no; nothing.
But Boy was home and she'd got to have a
chance to see him and she didn't want no row,
now; not by a long shot.
48 FURY
They were seated again on the couch, and Min
sighed lightly looking across, sideways, at a ship
in glass on the table, at her elbow. She wished to
the bloomin' Lord she was in glass at that moment.
Morgan was speaking. "Some'ow, I feel, Min,
as you can't stand me at any price."
She turned and looked into his face. She was
the lady in the movies now, a kiddin' of some bloke
as she didn't want; and he? Anyway, it didn't
matter about the plot; she was the lady kiddin' 'im.
That was sufficient.
"Oh, don't feel that way, Mr. M. Was you wish-
ful to splice me?"
"Would you get spliced, if I arsked yuh? Would
yuh, Min?"
"Mr. M., yer so sudden."
"Min, ye've got me on a string. Ye've got me
fair an' proper, baby. Ye've . . ."
So this bloody calf was trying to kid her ! Her,
Min! Minnie Brent! He's got his nerve! Hark
to him, what muck! He was still talking.
Now was the time to sigh again and look away.
He was kidding her, and she was kidding him.
What swine men were!
And then a rough hand fumbled under her
shawl. . . .
There was a snarl like the yelp of a dog, a crash
... a ship in glass hurled ... a diamond comb
under little heels . . . the slam of a door . . .
and Morgan was alone.
CHAPTER V
THE Three Jolly Sailors was one of the nicest
pubs round Noak's wharf. Mr. Brisley, the
proprietor, had been there for forty years.
He was a town councilor and a Buffalo in good
standing. He prided himself on the clubby atmos-
phere of his saloon-bar. Under the portrait of
Edward VII over the mantelpiece, Mr. Brisley
himself smiled forth from two frames; one with
himself as an oarsman and the other of himself
just about to start on the London-to-Brighton
walk, seven years back. So, of course, The Jolly
Sailors was naturally a place for a quiet, confiden-
tial talk over a glass of whiskey.
At a table by the window, Dog Leyton, draining
his seventh, listened intently, looking away, a
vague look of distance in his eyes, while Mr.
Petwee, still on his second, talked with an elo-
quence which would have moved any one on earth
but Dog Leyton to tears.
The present subject had been commenced and
dismissed several times; generalities and shipping
had been discussed; and now Petwee had eagerly
begun again upon the first topic.
"Life's too short, Captain. I'm going to chance
your offense and tell it ye to yer face. Ye loved
49
50 FURY
her, ye know ye did. Whatever she's been, she's
a woman and ye love 'er still."
Leyton turned suddenly. "What else have ye
to tell me? Make it short."
Petwee moved his glass aside and bent forward
eagerly. "Only to ask you to search within yerself
fer yer own 'eart. Be the real big feller that ye
are and forgive. Go to her she needs ye."
"Go to who? . . . Why?" Leyton swung round,
facing him.
"You either can't or ye won't understand."
Leyton's hand commanded silence. He spat de-
liberately and flung his cigar-end away, drained his
drink, his eyes half-closed, and rose and carried
the glass to the bar.
Mrs. Brisley beamed. "Another spot, Captain
Leyton? One on the 'ouse? Yes, do."
A curt nod answered her, and leaning with both
elbows upon the bar, the sea captain lowered his
head and gazed into the sawdust ... as if search-
ing there for something.
Petwee came and stood beside him. "I have
written the address in case you relent It's up
from The Thistle on the waterfront."
Leyton looked up suddenly. The paper and the
drink had arrived simultaneously in either hand.
He drank first and then read what Petwee had
written :
"MacFarlane's Rescue Home,
Waterfront,
Leith."
FUKY 51
"I never thought to ask what name she was there
Tinder. They're very nice up at the 'ome there.
They worked miracles for 'er. Put it in yer pocket,
anyway." And Petwee gently pushed a hand
which trembled violently.
Leyton put the fragment of paper in his pocket
and turned brusquely to Petwee. "Ye're way
be'ind. Come on, drink up!"
"Fill 'em up, Ma."
And again the arms on the bar and again that
head down, searching for that something in the
sawdust.
Some one asked Petwee for a light and Mr. Hop
came in and spoke to the Captain.
"All O.K., sir."
Leyton looked up suddenly and only Petwee
would have noticed a tinge of irony in Mr. Hop's
tone as he said: "Feeling all right, Captain?"
"Eh? What? What?"
"Mr. Morgan'll be right down, sir. He was up
at The Rest. I give 'im yer orders. The men are
gettin' aboard."
Without a word, Leyton turned his back on Mr.
Hop, who left.
"Good health!" and two glasses raised.
It was Dog Leyton who suddenly broke the
silence that followed. In a peculiar manner he
gripped Petwee's arm and lurched towards his
ear. "Who . . . did she get away with? . . .
You know."
"Who?" Petwee pulled away a step.
52 FUEY
"You know who. You dirty liar, you do? Who
was it?"
The grip on Petwee's arm tightened painfully.
Petwee knew his man. Dog was dangerous when
he was like this; that ferocious fighting hate of
opposition; that . . .
"Tell me, Petwee, who? Who?"
Petwee straightened up. He was no funk; he
was the kind of thin man who marches in at the
head of strike-breakers.
"Get off my arm !" He shook it free.
Leyton's eyes sparkled quickly and then dulled.
"Drink up. Come on."
"Certainly."
"Who was it? Come on, ye know. How'd she
get to Leith? Is that where she went first?"
"I don't know. All I know is that whoever 'e
was, 'e deserted her."
"Threw 'er out, eh?" Leyton's hat tipped to the
back of his head as he wiped his brow.
"That's about the size of it. She'd been drinkin'
heavily fer years. It had got 'er proper."
"So 'e threw 'er out, eh?"
"I don't know. Go yerself an' ask 'er."
"Threw 'er out, eh?"
"Ye'll know when ye ask 'er."
"Me? Me?" Leyton stood two inches taller.
He slammed the bar. The glasses rattled.
Mrs. Brisley touched her husband's arm.
Leyton turned to them and executed a reassur-
ing gesture; then he spoke again to Petwee in a
FUEY 53
hoarse whisper: "Me, go to 'er? Yer mad! If she
was lyin' in the gutter . . ."
Petwee turned away suddenly. He had heard it
all before, on that memorable night years back.
Leyton caught his arm and swung him roughly
around, "Petwee, fer the love o' Jesus Christ, tell
me the name o' the man that took 'er from me."
Petwee shook his head. "I don't know, Leyton."
Leyton spoke slowly. "I'll find 'im one day. I'll
find 'im an' when I do, I'm goin' to . . ."
Petwee was looking across his shoulder at some
one who stood there.
Leyton turned quickly. "Hello, Morgan."
And Morgan explained that it was all set for
Leith ; and his captain called for drinks for three ;
and when they came Morgan said: "Good health,
Captain"; and his captain replied: "Good health,
Mr. Morgan."
CHAPTER VI
N OAK'S was one of the oldest wharves in
Limehouse and it looked it. The Anglo-
Scottish Tropical Navigating Company was
an old-fashioned firm. Thus Noak's wharf was
dirty, cobwebby, smelly in summer time and dank
in winter. Folk around looked old and grimy ; and
only very daring, dirty, disreputable cats visited
this wharf, because the rats flourished fat and full
of fight.
But our Lady Spray was clean and white. She
was no chicken. She was a neat, spruce old lady,
whose master took good care of her; not that he
loved her, but a creature of The Lady Spray's
figure and temperament gave smoother and better
service when she felt clean and fresh.
She always conveyed in a subtle manner her
delicate boredom and alternate horror of Noak's
wharf. Her nose in the air, she reminded one of
a great lady in silks, slumming against her will.
When the tide was out, she would lean away side-
ways, upon the mud, the personification of disdain-
ful shipdom. When the tide was high, she would
tug restively, fretfully at her moorings.
When the supreme sailing moment came, she
shook herself like a greyhound, as her sea laughed
into the mouth of the Thames, washing her white
54
FUKY 55
sides considerately, and whispering a swishing,
breezy welcome.
The sinking sun bathed Lambeth in a celestial
light; up from Wapping came the gray mist of
evening; and with the tide rose The Lady Spray,
higher and higher, with increasing dignity and as-
surance, white and beautiful.
Across her decks washing fluttered and through
this Looney Luke, seated for'ard, looked up and
off and then back to a poem of his immediate
creation.
"If you're about to start caressin'
Of the girl whose lips you crave,
Be careful of your dressin'
And don't forget to shave."
He changed the words "about to" to "going to,"
which sounded better.
He looked off and up again at the subject of his
latest inspiration. His blue transparent eyes
opened wide, glistening with amusing thoughts.
He loved what he saw. It whispered of youth,
hope, love, and beauty now suddenly resolved into
something which, though still beautiful, was
marred by the shameful, man-made habit of trying
to be different from what you are, the habit of
destroying your natural free line to look your best
and thus, often, succeeding only in looking your
worst.
The Boy of Looney Luke's affection was rough-
haired, open-throated, with a superb litheness of
56 FURY
the belt-line, and now he watched him as, before
a bit of broken mirror, he put the final touches to
his shore toilette. Presently he stood back, the
curl, a grand affair, carefully tongued and greased,
rolling down like a bursting wave, broke just un-
derneath the long peak of a checked cap. Round
his throat, twice round, a red and white kerchief,
just too tight, swelled the blue-brown, clean-shaved
neck and chin enough to destroy the pleasant,
strong line. A double-breasted suit of blue serge,
with nice, spreading, bell-bottomed trousers, black
highly polished shoes, a heavy watch chain hang-
ing from his buttonhole and disappearing into the
outside breast pocket, whence a new packet of
Player's Navy Cut cigarettes peeped out dressily,
were the externals.
Boy sighed. It was well. He was satisfied. The
two hours' work upon himself had repaid him. He
had bathed with Sunlight soap in fresh water. He
glanced at his nails and opened the small blade
of his knife.
He heard the distant, muffled booming of Big
Ben, the clock of Parliament, strike the hour.
Promptly as the echo of the last throbbing boom
had died away, some one appeared to Boy a
plump, short she-person, who appeared to be
dressed for some unusual occasion. The climb up
the steep narrow gang-plank from the wharf had
fluttered her somewhat and she gasped a breathless
question.
"He's over there forward, your lover is, Marian,
FURY 57
a-waitin' for ye." Boy towered over her, impres-
sively, and gestured with great dignity in the di-
rection of Looney Luke. " 'Ow's things?"
"Nicely, an' the same to you, Mr. Boy."
So Marian, still fluttering, impatiently passed
on, gazing forward and tripping over sundry
things until she came to her Luke, who had risen
to meet her.
Boy watched them embrace, disengage and em-
brace again. He saw Luke take from under his
coat two shimmering paradise feathers and he
heard the shrill scream of delight from Marian.
"Luke, Luke! >Ow could ye? Oh, Luke!"
Boy mused. How alike all love was ! Soon he'd
kiss his girl like that and he'd kiss her twice like
that, and perhaps more; and he'd brought some-
thing for his Min, too. He turned at a step behind
him.
" 'Ullo, Clancey ! Did ye tell Min I'd be down?"
"The first mate's been down there sittin' with
'er. 'E took 'er a diamont comb."
"Who said so?"
"I seen 'im go in and the boys were talking of
the comb 'e bought 'er." Clancey lowered his
voice. "There was diamonts in it an' all."
"Diamonts, me eye!"
So Morgan had been down. Mrs. Brent was
working with him ; Min had said so, before. Damn
that swine! What was he after, anyway? He
knew she was Boy's girl.
The handkerchief tightened round his neck.
58 FUEY
Then he spoke with breezy confidence. Why let
a hand see the news had hit him? They all knew
every one knew, but Dog, that Min was his.
"I don't care if he gave 'er the Kaiser's gold
tooth. Wait till ye pipe what I got for 'er." And,
smiling, he turned below.
Clancey walked forward to where Looney Luke
was arranging the two beautiful feathers in Ma-
rian's hat.
"'Ello, Clancey! Don't this take the cake?
Take a look!" And Marian stepped back as
Madame Pompadour once did.
Clancey paused, impressed. "It's very Frenchy,
I will say." Then with a tipsy step he stood beside
Luke and spoke dramatically. "Luke, me old
sport, it is such men as ye what makes England
what she is to-day."
Luke glanced up proudly as Clancey continued
with a gesture toward Marian, "Blimey, Luke, ye
should be proud if I do say so."
Luke smiled again. He was proud. His eyes
dimmed gratefully. His twisted features almost
straightened. And Clancey, excusing it politely
to the girl, led him aside.
"'E's gone fer that chicken now, Boy 'as.
Ye'd better be there, Luke, an' talk Boy up a bit.
Ye've got the knack. 'Ere 'e is now."
And they looked up together as Boy emerged
from the companionway with a covered cage in
his hand. He laughed gayly and beckoned them.
FURY 59
"What ho she bumps! 'Ere's a present what
lives!"
Both men drew near in silence, waiting.
With a flourish Boy flicked the cover from the
cage and looked. "Come on, now, speak yer line
for the gentlemen."
No answer came; he looked again, and then his
lips trembled as dumbly he gazed at a sticky mass
of blood and feathers, red and green. . . . Noah
was dead!
Boy's teeth came together. With a spasmodic
movement of his body he wildly flung the cage and
its tragic contents out, out to a place where the
mud and river met.
"Blast 'is dirty soul, I'll kill 'im fer that!"
He knew who had done it; of course he knew;
and the others knew, that Morgan had "had an
accident" with Noah's cage.
Clancey, who had seen the whole thing the day
before, had told Luke how as Morgan passed, the
parrot had called, "Minnie, I love ye," and how
Morgan had turned, lifted the cage and gone away,
to return a few moments later with the same cage,
still covered, and a curious smile upon his face.
Clancey had wanted to tell Boy immediately
after the black thing had happened, but Luke had
counseled otherwise, with "Let him find it." And
Luke knew best yes, Luke always knew.
Now, without a word, Boy walked to the rail, his
head averted from them, and Clancey searched
60 FURY
Luke's face. He wanted to ask what they should
do. But Luke was looking away. . . .
Peeping over the top of the hatch from behind,
two paradise feathers fluttered gayly in the wind.
Marian, with her back to them, was waiting for
her lover to return.
He certainly was a "one," this Luke! Clancey
with amusement watched him as he stealthily
crept forward toward the waving feathers, and
smiled as a moment later he returned with them,
glancing back toward the hat where now no
feathered evidence of love waved.
Boy turned at Looney Luke's step behind him,
and gazed at the proffered feathers.
"These have filled their purpose, Boy," said
Luke. "It ain't what ye give a woman what gives
'er joy it's the fact that ye give it."
Boy, puzzled, was about to speak but then,
Looney Luke was always right. No one ever ques-
tioned the wisdom of Looney Luke. So Boy took
the feathers, almost eagerly, and stuffed them
under his coat.
"When I've given them to Min, and she's had 'er
thrill, I'll pinch 'em back for yer, Luke," he said.
But Luke had gone.
Clancey stole after Luke and heard a slight
scream, and a voice asking, naturally, "Where's
yer feathers, Marian?"
Marian's hands clapped suddenly to her hat.
"Blimey, Luke, they must 'ave blowed away."
"Blowed away?" Luke's voice rose in surprise.
FURY 61
"Oh, Luke, can yer find it in yer 'eart to fergive
me?"
And, oh, what a sweet moment for Luke to hold
her plump body to him, and whisper he would
always forgive her whatever she did, and feel her
thrill and quiver at his words! And then again,
looking over her shoulder, he saw Boy dancing
gayly down the gangplank, and he thrilled to his
soul. Luke knew the ecstasy, the glowing joy of
making some one happy every one happy. Looney
Luke, at moments, was very close to God.
Boy was happy. His sky had cleared. The re-
action from Noah's death and his rage, and the
touching gift from Luke, had set him tingling.
His head was whirling. He wanted to sing
aloud.
He was going to see Min, and, whistling gayly,
he stepped upon the quay. Strangely enough, a
lot of the crew seemed to be standing around and
two or three of them, as they saw him, started
down from Pea's Lane. Funny; what was the
idea? And then Mr. Hop stood suddenly before
him:
"All aboard ! We get out for Leith on the tide.
Captain's orders."
"Eh?" Boy gasped.
"That's all. There ain't no 'eh.' "
Mr. Hop walked on and Boy caught his arm.
The act was unnatural. He seldom spoke to Mr.
Hop, let alone touched him. Mr. Hop was hand
in glove with Morgan. He had helped to bring
62 FURY
Boy into the world yes ; but there had never been
any love lost between them.
"I got 'arf an hour, ain't I?"
"I told ye the orders. Take 'arf a year. It
wouldn't make no difference to nobody."
And Boy followed the retreating figure upon the
deck, where many of the crew stood around, some
tight, some sober, but all disgruntled at the change
of orders.
Mr. Hop bustled past them importantly, while
Boy stood irresolute.
Something was working against him against
him and Min. What was it? First, Morgan's
priority off the ship as first mate, then Noah, the
parrot, dead, and now . . .
And Min would be waiting at Lockhart's at this
very moment. It was ten past seven.
His body shook and then the father, the Dog
Leyton in him, sprang suddenly out of his eyes.
Passionately throwing his cap to the deck he
trampled on it; and one of the hands laughed.
Boy's fists clenched. . . . "What the hell are ye
laughin' at? You! You, I mean!"
"Can't I laugh?"
"No; you can't laugh at me, ye dirty !"
A quick movement forward; room made for
him ; the scoffer, still and sullen ; Boy, seeing red,
raised his fist.
"My 'ands ain't up. I ain't fightin' ye," the
sailor said, sullenly.
He did not fight this man, and there are such
FURY 63
men. Their chins recede a little and their ears
stick out. His did.
"Why won't ye fight?"
Dog Leyton, himself, might have been speaking.
There was the same phlegm in the voice.
And then Luke's voice broke in with: "Because
ye're an officer of the ship. That's why he won't."
A pause. A glance at Luke's face. A sense of
the utter futility of it all ; and miserable, very near
to tears, Boy pushed his way through the knot of
beer-breathed onlookers and went to the side to
look down at nothing, towards the misty quay.
Unutterably lonely, Boy could not have ex-
pressed it in that way. His heart throbbed
against his ribs. His throat ached. He felt sick.
His hands trembled and the immeasurable dis-
tance between himself and all the others became
tragically plain.
He suffered inwardly ; anguish tore at something
within him and made him ill. . . .
A sailor just curses at such things and shrugs
his shoulders.
Why not? He is attuned to the inevitable, a
disciple of fate.
But such a mental attitude was impossible to
Boy. His shoulders would not shrug.
The militant surging within him, restrained,
made him want to scream. It made him want to
roll in the black mud below. It made him want
to slash his throat. It made him want to ...
It was Morgan Morgan Morgan! that long-
64 FURY
legged, sinister, haunting, hating thing, that
dogged him! It was 'im 'im 'im
Boy's red hands gripped the rail at the side, but
it was not a rail they gripped it was Morgan's
throat. He had Morgan by the throat and Morgan
was gasping and choking. His eyes were rolling.
Red hands tore at his in frenzy. Morgan's eyes
were glazing, turned up at him. Morgan was
dying . . . going out . . . going out . . .
"Ooo-oo! Oo-oo! Darlin'!"
What was that?
"Dar-1-i-n!" came up across the mud in a shrill
crescendo, and a distant siren, like a beautiful,
vague obligate swept up as an accompaniment.
Through the mist Boy saw Min, his Min, waving
her hand, hatless, breathless, like a will-o'-the-wisp
blown from a summer field of corn onto Noak's
Wharf.
Boy, craned over the side, shouted: "Can't get
off. We're goin' out."
And he saw Min's arms come out entreatingly,
a misty, beckoning Eve. A forefinger worked back-
wards and forwards at the end of a thin, out-
stretched 'arm.
Boy was still. He might have been about to
leap the intervening space, so tense was his body,
and Luke's voice spoke softly beside him :
"A month without a kiss; a sin to miss!"
He turned and others of the crew stood near,
interested. "G'wan, mate, the lady's callin'
ye."
FUEY 65
"Ah, his papa'd whip 'im !"
"Well, he'd die fer a lady, wouldn't J e?"
And then Boy's voice, quick, excited : "Who're ye
kiddin'? I ain't no baby, see, see?"
"Oo-oo! Oo-oo! Boy-ee!" the delicious music
crept up faintly.
Boy turned and Min watched him come, hand
over hand down the moorings. A swing, a jump
and Boy, hatless, radiant, beautiful, stood beside
her.
Before the world she went into his arms and
rested there.
Then the feathers from under his coat ... a
shrill yell of delight and two voices speaking at
once . . . another kiss . . . Min's face red and
Boy's face white.
A moment's pause and a question from him.
Her voice lowered to answer it. "I'm busted
down at The Rest. I'm scared to go back. It was
Morgan. He tried to rush me, -and I saw red and
sloshed 'im, and ... he ..."
At that moment three men emerged from The
Three Jolly Sailors, one drunk and two sober.
One of the sober pair, bidding farewell to the
one who was drunk, lowered his voice to say:
"Don't forget what I've been sayin', Captain."
Without answer the one who was drunk turned,
lurching toward the other sober man, a tall man,
who had walked a pace forward. Together they
passed down towards Noak's.
Min had finished speaking and was waiting be-
66 FURY
cause Boy did not immediately answer. He was
thinking hard.
Here stood before him the one thing he lived
for. The sea? Yes, he loved the sea ; but she was
and always would be there. Nobody could bash
her about, grab, maul and curse her and make her
cry for want of somebody to take care of her. He
could always get the sea.
And then there was The Spray yes, but even
she carried for him a cargo of terrible memories,
and lately things had been getting worse . . . and
there was Morgan!
After this, any day, any hour, something might
rise up in Boy against his better sense and blind
him . . . and then he would be hanged for Mor-
gan's death.
And Dog was getting worse, drinking more, curs-
ing more. Those fits were coming oftener.
Really except Luke there wasn't any one aboard
The Spray he cared to even talk to much. Clancey
was all right yes, there was Clancey. Clancey
liked him all right. But what did he ever say
outside dirty stories and coarse wit? He was
funny enough, sometimes, but . . .
Boy's heart was longing for something. It al-
ways had longed. He had used to think it was
for his mother, that whispering shadow, that
nobody would tell him anything about; but lately,
that last trip or two, yes, since last Christmas, he
had known that it was for Min he had been
longing.
FURY 67
He felt differently when he thought about her.
He had told the sea about her at night, and the
sea had sighed and seemed to say she wished that
she was human ; but then the sea was in love with
her sun, and they met and kissed every morning
and every night, and even when you couldn't see
them at it, they did it behind the storms, with,
afterwards, the sea kicking up her legs, as much
as to say, "Ain't ye mad, ye can't see?"
Boy wanted his Min, at night and in the morn-
ing, in the open and behind the storm. What was
the use of hanging about? Life was too short to
wait for anything. Luke had said that many a
time, and who knew anything if Luke didn't?
Then there was the menace to Min down there
at The Eest; the kind of thing Min had just told
him about.
And then there was dad, old Dog. Boy's love
for his father was hanging on a thread. He just
didn't know about him; and then his hand went
up to the spot where he had only taken the plaster
off that afternoon, while dressing; the cut still was
apparent to his fingers. It was a pretty strong
thread, though, that love was hanging on. Boy's
eyes moistened as he remembered how Dog had
put that plaster on.
Oh, God, what a mix-up it all was ! What's the
use of standin' still and thinkin'? Ye can't do
nothin' whatever ye do. Other people had brains
to do things, words to say and plans to make.
What . .?
68 FUKY
"A penny for 'em." Min was looking up at
Mm, smilingly. "There ye go off again in one of
them bloomin' trances. Just fancy doin' that
when I'm 'ere!"
"They're worth more'n a penny, Min," and sud-
denly it was a man who spoke, a full grown man,
with a steady, hard voice, and a chin stuck out
underneath it.
"I'm gonna jump the ship an' splice ye!"
A gasp from Min.
He wasn't talking English; he was talking
Latin or something. No English words ever
sounded as good as that. She just watched. Boy
was fumbling with something at a belt, underneath
his waistcoat.
Boy drew out a flat packet of bank notes. "Five,
ten, fifteen, and there's eighteen!" Three five
pound notes, three single pounds, pressed into
Min's empty hand, the one that didn't hold the
feathers; and Min started off on a queer journey
in her mind, off to Wonderland or some place
where you go when it's all too good to be true and
you don't know what it's all about.
Boy began speaking, quickly, and Min listened
to his instructions, thought out, logical and won-
derful, on the spur of the moment.
Yes, what she'd told him about Morgan to-day
had done it with him, as far as he was concerned.
That is, they were taking the great plunge him
and her. He was going to jump the ship!
Min's heart fluttered and bumped and leapt and
FUEY 69
fell downstairs. It wasn't true but it was true!
Here was eighteen quid getting damp in her hand
to back it up !
She was to get up to Leith by train on a real
train, a flyer. You start when people are going to
bed and travel all night. None of your just-in-
and-out business, and she'd have a new hat to go
in, and a fish supper before she started, and one
of them new leather bags what they sold in the
Commercial Eoad.
And the ring she was to ask the man in the
shop for it, and pay for it and let him wrap it up
without her seeing it, and then go off up to Leith,
dashing through the night, looking out of the win-
dow at nothing, because it was dark; and when
she got there, she was going to wait for him. She
was going to Leith and to Boy!
Yes, she was to go there to The Thistle (it was
just off the docks, he told her) and take a room
and wait for him.
And when The Spray got into Leith he was
going to jump the ship and nothing was going to
stop him, he told her, nothing! He wasn't a kid
no longer . . . and he'd get another ship, or work,
or ...
Anyway, they'd get spliced before they'd do any-
thing, and . . . and . . .
Oh, he was talking so fast and his face had gone
red and they'd be spliced, man and woman, him
and her, and he'd kiss her all day and all night
and they'd get up just to go to the movies, and
70 FURY
they "could tell the blinkin' world to go to 'ell,
they could an' all," and her arms would be round
him every minute and she'd never let him go
never, never, never!
Her arms were around him now, straining with
excitement. She was laughing and crying. She
couldn't speak, and he was pressing hot lips upon
her cheek and neck, and her arms were round him,
and in one of her hands the feathers waved down
his back, gallantly, joyously, a symbol of their
pageantry. . . .
And then a scream and some one snatched those
feathers, and Min and Boy swept apart as Marian,
crimson-cheeked, pulled back and swung at her:
"You bloody thief!"
And then Min at her like a streak, hair, hats and
flying heels, and Boy, bewildered, shouting, tug-
ging, at two bodies, one plump and one thin, and
the crew laughing, cheering above. The bank
notes, the eighteen quid, fell on the ground and
blew towards the mud with Boy after them; the
crew cheering again.
Marian was down and five of the crew were hold-
ing Looney Luke back, above.
Then Boy into the scene again, his arms about
Min, where they should be, but this time pulling,
entreating a Min who would not rise no, not even
for him. "This cow had stole her present his
present, and . . ."
A shout, a rough hand upon Boy's collar, a chok-
ing sensation in his throat. He was lifted and
FUKY 71
flying through the air. He hit some kegs and lay
still, and Dog Leyton, standing over him, watched
blear-eyed, as Boy struggled to his feet.
"Get aboard!"
Boy looked off to where his father pointed, and
then down quickly at his closed fist, in which were
hidden eighteen quid; and something more was
hidden in that fist the first spark of revolt
sweated through its pores. He wasn't ready to
get aboard, just for a moment! He gazed at his
father and at his father's arm, still pointing, wob-
bling, to The Lady Spray. His eyes flashed a mo-
mentary defiance.
Morgan drew near and smiled, and Boy's lips
opened to speak words that would end it.
But how could he? Min dashed in, mounted on
her anger in full charge, a dragoon, fearless, gal-
lant, glorious ! She pulled up quickly. Her anger
reined upon its haunches.
"It wasn't Boy's fault, Captain Leyton. Ye can
blame me!"
"You? Get away! I don't want no dock sluts
around my son or my ship! Keep off! . . ."
A tiny fist drove clean and straight and hit his
mouth, and a broken, pointed boot kicked against
his shin, and Min, wild-eyed, screaming cursing
words that Boy never had dreamed she knew,
stopped only when Marian melted enough to help
Boy drag his panting little girl to a sitting posi-
tion upon a keg and hold her there by force. For
some reason Dog Leyton turned away.
72 FURY
Glancing after him, Boy hesitated.
Now was the time! Should he jump now?
There was a list in Dog Leyton's gait. He was
either drunk or sick; he was drunk. Boy had
caught his breath.
Wisdom whispered wisely, "Leith. You will
wait till Leith. You don't jump ship at sailing
time if you're a sailor."
And there was Luke. Luke had got to bless this
here thing this splicin' of him and Min at Leith;
and dropping the bank notes in Min's lap, he bent
quickly and kissed her head.
"See ye in Leith. Don't fail now, Min."
He turned towards the ship, strongly, the delib-
erate act of a man of judgment and resource, a
second mate of subtlety and purpose, a gentleman
who had evolved a plan for his advantage and ad-
vancement, and was carrying it out in a direct
fashion, the proper way.
All this was apparent in the gait of the second
mate as he stepped towards his ship.
While Marian hurried the other way, one hand
dabbing a fat lip and the other shaking out her
feathers, Min looked up dazed.
She should have fainted. She hadn't eaten
anything because of the excitement of Boy's
coming and because she was saving plenty of
room to fill up in Lockhart's; but she didn't
faint.
She looked up into the smiling eyes of Morgan,
bending over her.
FURY 73
"What a temper! Blimey, ye're hot, ye are!"
His hand fell on her shoulder.
She rose and shook him off. "Hands off, smarty,
me lad, I'm an engaged woman, I am! I'm Mr.
Boy Leyton's financy, and we're splicin' in Leith.
Put that in yer smoke an' pipe it!"
And with a sound that was almost a laugh, the
little will-o'-the-wisp, all ruffled, blew away as
suddenly as she had come, with a backward glance
at The Lady Spray.
There, in the cabin, Boy was taking off his coat.
Hearing his father enter behind him he did not
turn. He untied his neckerchief and laid it over
the coat as he heard Dog Leyton speak.
"I'd give a trip's pay to see some fight in you !"
Boy turned to see his father looking at him, with
genuine contempt upon his face. Dog was drunk.
Boy knew his father. Better say nothing and get
out.
He moved to do so and as he passed, Dog swung
at his ear.
Boy stopped and regarded his father, steadily.
It was a moment before he spoke. Never before
had he felt so calm, so confident. Never had he
felt so much at his ease before his father. The
reaction of the moment of defiance upon the quay
seemed still upon him.
"Does a real man hit his own father?"
The question was logical. Boy waited for an
answer.
Dog was surprised. Boy at least had precipi-
T4 FURY
tated something, even though it was only a ques-
tion, and he made haste to answer it with a step
forward. He, too, was under the reaction of an
emotion of that afternoon, and that reaction
colored his answer vividly.
"A real man kills them what slurs his women!"
The words were bitten out.
Boy regarded him steadily. It was hopeless.
There before him trembled a drunken, misguided
old man, who so obviously was suffering beneath
all he said and did, that Boy's heart went to him
in spite of everything. All his love swelled within
him as he said, simply:
"But I know ye, Father. Ye don't mean yer
slurs. It's just yer hate o' women."
At this, for some strange reason, Dog Leyton
smiled, a curious, vague, irritating smile. His lips
curled their contempt. He fumbled for something
terrible to say.
Boy watched him grope. He watched him
swaying between two emotions for in that moment
when he had smiled, Boy had seen a hole gape open
in his armor something had happened something
had happened that afternoon!
There had been a picture in that smile that
whiskey never could have painted.
Boy balanced between two emotions, defiance
and love, and the scale jammed suddenly down as
all his pent-up restraint broke in a flood of tears
that he could not hold, that rushed to his eyes,
blinding him, as helplessly, almost inarticulately,
FURY 75
he fought to express the gorgeous truth within him.
"Ye' re my father. Ye kin beat me; ye kin croak
me, 'cause ye're my father." His voice choked.
"Ye're my own father. See? . . . See?"
His hands went out and his two feet stamped
the ground, helplessly, all control gone. He tried
to stop speaking and could not. The still face
before him seemed every shape and color, distorted,
weird, distant, and his hands beat the old man's
chest helplessly, as though seeking to beat open
an old bolted door with rust upon its hinges.
"Ye're me father, see? And I know ye, see?"
Tears coursed down his face. His hands dropped
by his sides, and his head fell upon his father's
chest.
His father looked down at him, wonderingly,
amazed. He did not understand. Just a kid,
blubbering.
Yet, somewhere in the region of Dog Leyton's
heart, a whisper breathed that something bigger
than a blubbering boy was whispering truth to a
truth-starved soul.
When he looked down again, Boy had gone, and
Dog's face, which had been hard, relaxed. Then
very suddenly and strangely, an unexpected thing
happened. A tear appeared in one of his eyes and
glistening, swayed, as if ready to drop.
A moment later it dashed to the ground as the
tiny cabin shook.
The Lady Spray, unleashed, had turned her head
impatiently to sea.
"God's maddest dancing daughter she,
The one what every sailor fears,
The icy, love-crossed, mad North Sea;
To me she's just 'The Sea o' Tears.' "
LOONEY LUKE'S POEMS
CHAPTER I
THE North Sea is a peerless creature of pas-
sion, yet a daughter of ice, her fury unceas-
ing, foam-capped, shrieking, cold, eternal.
Your warm-blooded, tropical sea has her petu-
lant moments of temper, but then she rests. The
North Sea never rests.
Brief rays of sun steal fleeting kisses from her,
only to hide immediately behind gray clouds, as
if afraid. She will not flirt, this sea; love is not
for her!
God loves this daughter as He loves all that He
has made, but even He knows the uselessness of
chiding her she is a spinster, barren, sterile,
cruel.
Perhaps back, back in the great silence, love
crossed her. No one knows.
But since then, even though this be true, sailors
during centuries have cursed her, and she has torn
their tiny, warm bodies from leaping decks and
crushed them to her frozen breast, later to cast
them up, swollen and unlovely, upon rugged
shores, to fling them contemptuously upon frown-
ing rocks, in grim, unanswerable challenge to
puny, conceited, futile man.
The battles of England have raged for centuries
upon her bosom, and, if deep in her angry soul a
79
80 FUKY
faint spark of tenderness has ever flickered, per-
haps, only perhaps, it has been for this grand old
lady of another species, this wrinkled island, rich,
kindly, powerful among all nations, most defiant
of the dominating flood.
The Old Lady of the Land has now caught her
breath, pulled up her shades and in the warming
glow begins again to think a little hazily of God,
preparing for a new forgetfulness of Him to whom
a short time ago she prayed diligently. Again she
rouges her wrinkled cheeks, sends for the musi-
cians to play and decks herself with gauds, while
some among her children still are piling wreaths
around the Cenotaph and others drop flowers upon
the restless bosom of the Sea which claimed so
many of her gallant mariners. And all this
amuses the grim Sea.
Yet some staunch sinews of tradition still cling
together in spite of an almost intolerable strain;
some still believe that a good King rides beside a
Queen radiant with motherhood of splendid chil-
dren, that some wisdom still exists among men
who have struggled to successful refutation of a
maniacal assumption of divine right by a semi-
stricken, throned buffoon with power of murder
but not that of victory the shout of Wilhelm,
Me and Gott!
If the North Sea notices such trifling optimistic
signals sparkling faintly in the general murk of
a new century's first and (let us hope) most
disastrous quarter, it is not with a vivid interest;
FURY 81
she is not impressed. To the North Sea centuries
are seconds; well she knows that she must never
cease her warfare upon the creatures of this island
and on the land itself until the God of Gods in
His Millennium shall look upon her waters and
give for all Eternity that order which His One Be-
gotten Son once gave for a few fleeting moments
to another restless sea "Peace, be still!"
CHAPTER II
THE North Sea, now gowned in the black of
night, a million moon pearls glistening upon
her pulsing form, danced, to the music of the
wind, a wild bacchanal of icy passion. Her drench-
ing sweat of rain dashed into the face of Boy, sing-
ing at the wheel.
The misty moon had cast some gems upon his
glistening oilskins. His face tingled, his pulses
leaped with The Lady Spray's, caught in the dark
night in a riotous dance which made her pant, and
creak, and groan. "A halt I ... a. halt ! . . ." her
rigging shrieked. But no!
And Boy rode on. Life was a mad, wonderful,
dream-lit thing. He was going to Leith ! To Min !
. . . To Min and kisses! Ho there! Wash ho
there ! you wonderful Sea ! Boy dances with you !
Dance on! Sweep him on ... to port . . . and
Min . . . and love!
A pace away Luke's face, looking up at the
moon, shone with a curious light.
It was a wet moon. Luke's poem hummed dully,
harshly, through the wind. Boy suddenly remem-
bered it.
"When ye kin pipe the bloomin' moon
And yet the rain is fallin',
Then one of us is goin' soon,
It's Davy Jones a-callin'."
82
FURY 83
Boy did not shudder ; no ; he laughed ! Who was
going? He was! Ha, ha! But not to Davy Jones
to Min ! There wasn't any power on earth could
stop him nothing!
He gripped the wheel, and thrilled with that
faith that comes to men who know. Min! His
Min!
He spat salt water from his mouth and closed
his eyes. She stood there now his Min! She
spoke, saying, "I love ye, Boy. You're my boy,
ain't ye?" And her hand lingered tenderly upon
his cheek a rough little hand caressing a rough,
weathered face. Yes, her hands were rough, her
hands were. But he loved to hold them till they
dampened in the young warmth of his.
He could feel them now, though he stood there
on a tossing ship at night upon the grimly caper-
ing old North Sea ; and he could feel her little body
pressed against his firm muscles, and resting very
still. Always, he reflected, something strange
would come over him at such moments ... it
might be as if he wanted to cry. . . . No, not to
cry. For it was a feeling of curious joy that al-
ways had to end too soon with "Good-by; good-
by, Boy. God bless and keep my Boy for me!"
And the kiss! She always closed her lips tight,
Min did, when she kissed him. And then he'd close
Ms eyes!
It was like being drunk, when their lips met, and
if he'd open his eyes while he was kissing her he'd
see the green depths of hers filling with a different
84 FURY
sort of tears . . . different from sorry tears, you
know. He could see right through her eyes, when
they were that way, over miles of green . . . green
. . . green ... to a light that was . . . Mini
That was Heaven! Then their lips would part, a
tear would flick away, and: "Boy . . . Oh, my
darling Boy. ... I love ye. Darlin', darlin',
Boy !"
What a bloody mixup it all was! Luke's girl
got a wallop . . . pity! And that good-by kiss
had been a chill, quick thing. But he'd make up
for that, not 'arf he wouldn't! There'd be so many
that you couldn't count 'em, all day and all night.
He was going to have her all the time, and there
wouldn't be no more good-bys. He'd miss them,
though, those good-bys. They were wonderful;
something to think about, those sweet good-bys!
Eight bells clanged through the wind. The Lady
Spray leaped, as though it were a signal for a
change in the figure of her dance, and Boy, his lips
together, held her firmly in her course, and looked
off.
His sweeping eyes saw Luke, still looking up.
He could stay like that for hours no oilskins,
nothing, wet through just looking up as though
he had asked the moon a question and was waiting
for the answer : "One of us is goin' soon, it's Davy
Jones a-callinV
What a creepy thing that was ! Who was going
soon?
Boy commenced to sing suddenly:
FUKY 85
"Sweet Adeline. . . . My Artel-line,
At night, dear 'eart,
Fer ye I pine. . . ."
He could not hear himself, but he continued . . .
"In awl my dreams,
Yer fair face gleams,
Yer the pri-hide h' of my 'eart,
Sweet Adel-line."
Then the wind began to sing it, then the rigging,
then the wash. The night was alive with song.
". . . h' of my 'eart,
Sweet Min, Min, Min."
CHAPTER III
WHILE Limehouse slept, still wearing its
tawdry gleaming jewels of paste, and
shadows stole from their lairs, Limehouse
seemed to hear the faint bat of distant, dreadful
wings, and turning in its troubled sleep, it feared
to open its eyes and lay panting, still, afraid to
look . . . afraid to die.
A woman screamed, shrilly, and piercingly . . .
and then silence again, save for the gentle breath-
ing of the sleeping ships. Again the woman
screamed and it was Min's scream. "Let go o'
me, ye cow; I'll brain ye!" Through the partly
opened door of The Sailors' Best could be heard
a scuffle; then a low voice spoke:
"I was watchin' for ye. Do a bunk, would ye?
I'll see ye dead at me feet, first!" The voice of
Mother Brent rose to a shrill pitch as a man's
voice, gruff and commanding, spoke, trying to
interrupt.
" 'Ere, take yer 'ands off that girl. She ain't yer
child. You've got no claim by the law."
The voice was drowned by the woman's shrill
crescendo: "Ye got the law on yer side, but . . .
take that! Let go my arm, you dirty brute. . . .
She's . . . she's . . ."
The door of The Sailors' Eest suddenly opened
86
FURY 87
wide and two figures emerged, one very tall and
the other very short. The door slammed . . . and
Min walked quickly down the street from her late
residence accompanied by a tall policeman.
As they turned into Poole Street at the corner,
they heard, back in the distance, behind the door
w r hich had just banged, something that sounded
like a muffled, moaning cry, and Min, looking up
into the serene face of her tall benefactor, smiled.
Ma had fallen down ; that was a dead cert. She
was drunk and she'd taken a nice toss for herself.
Ha, ha! Over the 'at-stand in the 'all, more than
likely! And maybe she 'ad broken her leg one
of them fat piano legs of hers perhaps both of
'em, broke 'em off at the knee so that they was
-'anging by a piece of skin ('urtin' like 'ell, damn
her!) an' she'd 'op on a peg from now, an' when
she got drunk she'd keep fallin' down off it and
bangin' her head against door-knobs, all the rest
of her bleedin' life! Thank 'eavens, Min wouldn't
see her no more! No; thank Boy and the copper
who was speaking now.
"That's your bus. It's Number 24 ye want.
'Ave ye got a penny 'andy? I've one or two."
Triumph colored her piping voice as she looked
up. "Not 'arf, Cop. I got eighteen quid !" It was
the voice of Napoleon proclaiming the might of
his armies, of Lloyd George at the Peace Confer-
ence, of Harding on Inauguration Day. It was
the voice of triumph!
The moment mounted to a crest as the bus, a
88 FURY
great, red, roaring bus, stopped and skidded for
her, for Min.
She was causing things to happen. She had
emerged from suds and sighs and silence into a
world that noticed and obeyed ; into a world a par-
ticle of which belonged to her, to Min.
Perhaps it was because she had a cop with her
that the bus stopped, because they both signaled
together. She waved her umbrella, the new one
with the ivory apple handle on it.
Then the gentleman in uniform, like an attend-
ant blue hussar, handed her onto the step, and
another, in another kind of uniform, caught her
new brown bag.
"Good-by, Cockie, and ta for what you did!
Pinch that old cow if ye ever get a chance."
The bus leaped forward.
Some one inside the bus laughed and another
said, "Where you off to, Min?" The speaker, a
sailor, stopped asking questions suddenly, as a new
brown bag, caught him sharply in the abdomen
and something warm and living, with feathers on
the top, was plumped down beside him. It spoke;
it spoke in a very worldly voice :
" 'Ullo, Alf ! This is a bit of all right, ain't it?
I 'ad to go over the top for it!"
"For what?"
The feathers tilted and a flushed, excited face
looked up into his. "Not so loud, sporty. It'd
get into the society papers."
"What would?"
FUKY 89
"Guess."
Alf leaned forward and bathing her in beery
breath whispered something and hiccoughed know-
ingly. A moment's pause and she answered him:
"Yer right first go off, Alfie. I'm off to Leith,
and . . ." She stopped to hand a penny to the con-
ductor. And then . . .
No one else in the bus was speaking. They
swayed stiffly with its motion, amazed, watching
an unusual sight. Here they were in a bus, on a
wet night, going along the East India Dock Road,
feeling becomingly and respectably sober, or drunk,
tired and wet, and there, there sat a young girl,
with a flushed, happy face and dancing eyes, who
was telling that sailor that she was too happy to
talk and that life had only just started, and that
love was warm and beautiful and she never wanted
to die!
Blimey! What was the world coming to!
Min, breathless, stopped speaking and gazed
around at the dirty, shiny faces watching her.
Two were smiling, one was asleep, and the others,
utterly amazed, were looking at her.
And she sensed the feathers waving on her head,
and smelled the tan of the new brown bag, and felt
the ivory handle of the new umbrella soft and
warm in her hand.
She swayed easily with the bus, a queen in her
chariot, dashing forth through conquered lands,
surrounded by stately courtiers. She thrilled in
the w r arm glow of queenly well-being.
90 FURY
Was she not going in state to meet her king?
And in the rumble of the wheels she could hear
people her people, billions of her subjects cheer-
ing, as she and her imperial conveyance swept
along and around and . . . into the Commercial
Road.
CHAPTEK IV
THE wind song filtered into the tiny cabin,
lending a droning obligate to the voice of
the sea captain speaking thickly across to
the first mate seated in the half-shadow, just be-
yond the table upon which rattled the partly-filled
glasses beside a tall jar of rum.
A changed, weird, unseamanlike-looking old man,
with a lot of hair falling down his veiny forehead,
Leyton, his forearm upon the table, spoke through
the smoke, his eyes half -closed. Events and years
of drink were shaking him.
" so ya see it may be as I won't make the ship
out of Leith. An' in that case it'll be you what'll
be takin' her out agin. See?"
The man in the half-shadow assented in a "Yes,
Captain" without moving.
There was a moment's silence as Leyton drained
his glass. The stimulation of the liquor's bite
sounded in his voice as he spoke again: "An' it
may be as it might take my mind ter leave this
ship for good. See?"
"Yes, Captain."
Morgan's glass remained full; Leyton rose and
filled his own. Glancing from it to Morgan he hesi-
tated. He wanted Morgan to ask why he mightn't
make the ship out of Leith. And Morgan didn't
91
92 PUEY
ask. It wasn't like him to ask anything, that is,
with his mouth. His eyes were always asking
something everything. But now the Captain,
choking with something he wanted to say some-
thing that made his hand tremble as he raised the
thick ship's glass to lips which were peeling and
dry wished Morgan would encourage him by
word-of -mouth inquiry.
A pause, as the Captain's eyes searched those of
the first mate and Morgan's answered, challenging.
A duel of eyes! If Morgan had known that his
Captain was merely waiting for an invitation to
explain the reason for his break in plans, would
he have blinked nervously as he did, leaned for-
ward to pick up his drink and, with a saluting
movement, held it before his mouth, untasted,
waiting till the other spoke?
"A surprise to ye, eh, Mr. Morgan?"
Now Morgan drank, and placed his glass upon
the table where it began again to tinkle.
"I seem to have got beyond being surprised at
anythin', cap'n. You're the skipper and if yer
want ter jump ship you'll jump. That's how it
appears to my way of thinkin' !"
Leyton drained his glass, rose and, going behind
the table, stood before his first mate, his hands
deep in his pockets.
The motion rocked them curiously. They were
like children playing on a seesaw, only they did
not laugh and scream.
"You're a cold fish, Morgan."
FURY 93
"Well, you're 'ot enough fer all of us, Cap'n."
Leyton, absorbing to himself a subtle sense of
compliment from this remark, smiled. Sober, even
he could not have missed the underlying jeer; but
he was drunk, and quickly encouraged to impul-
siveness.
"We've been shipmates a long spell now, Mr.
Morgan." He sat down with an effort, gripping the
arms of his own special chair, breathing heavily.
"An' I'm goin' ter be 'otter, Mr. Morgan, 'otter
than I've bin, an' I won't deny as I've been 'ot all
these years since . . ."
He paused again as he approached his subject.
Morgan hadn't asked for it, as he had hoped he
would, but he was going to hear it all the same.
It was only a day or two now before Leith and it
couldn't be held. Some one had got to listen and
there was no one but Morgan. The Captain
breathed heavily, thinking; he looked up as Mor-
gan changed the crossing of his legs, the left going
to his right knee.
"Remember 'er, Mr. Morgan?"
"Who?"
" 'Er ! Don't ask who. You know well enough
who."
Morgan uncrossed his legs. It was almost as
if he was preparing for something that concerned
him personally. He was too much in the shadow
for the other man to see the change upon his face.
And anyway Leyton was looking off as if he had
repeated something that another self had whis-
94 FUKY
pered that other self that had stood beside his
chair for twenty years pouring out drinks so that
it might dull its suffering and protect itself against
the confessions which sober, unrestricted agony
might wring from a tortured soul by degrading
possible speech to drunken mumbling; the unseen
self that sometimes pricked his eyes until tears
came; that sometimes smiled but more often jeered
waiting waiting for what?
"Why, 'er I mean Mrs. Leyton 'er that I was
mad at. She liked you, Mr. Morgan. She always
liked you. You know that."
Morgan made no remark.
"I guess you knew she did. Yus; she'd always
got a smile fer yer, she 'ad sometimes, I remem-
ber, I used ter wonder why, 'cause ter my mind
ye was never nuthin' of a lady's man ye never
made 'em laugh ner nuthin'."
"She 'ad a pretty kind er smile, too, 'adn't she
a kind er pretty smile!"
Leyton looked away as though the other self had
touched him lightly on the shoulder and said
"Look !" and as if, obeying, he had seen a girl smil-
ing at him a vague and misty figure, but a girl
right enough with very large eyes and a lot of dark
hair blowing, and something, either it was rain or
tears dashing down her face. But she was smil-
ing; yes, she was smiling.
For a time neither man spoke. The mute Mor-
gan sat strangely somber, watching a silent old
man who appeared to be looking away at some-
FUEY 95
thing which made him blink his eyes, something
that Morgan could not see. He watched with a
cold steadiness as his Captain turned to fill his
glass again, this time to the brim with straight
rum. After he had drained it, he looked off again.
When he turned it was impatiently with a toss of
his mane and a fan of his paw, as though the thing
he sought he could not find and so, therefore, he
had given up the search.
The accompaniment of the wind changed its
tempo suddenly ; the cabin filled as if with the eerie
strains of oboes millions of them sounding like
one.
"I've 'ad news."
"Oh!" This time Morgan had to say at least
that much because the other waited with eyes fixed
upon him in even more intense insistence.
"I know where she is where she is now."
"Yes?" Again silence forced at least a mono-
syllable.
"You wasn't the only one she smiled at in those
days, Morgan. She liked you 'cause you were my
shipmate. That was natural enough ; but she was
smilin' at some one else. I guess yer know that,
too."
Morgan's eyes showed the gleam of growing
interest. He had found her. Well, how had he
found her? And what was he driving at now?
"Who else was she smilin' at, Cap'n? Who
was it?"
"What?"
96 FUEY
"I said who? Who was it?"
Leyton, his lips tight and white, poured out an-
other drink. Morgan's voice raised a little:
"I was askin', Cap'n, who else did she smile at?"
Still Leyton did not answer. Instead, he drank,
holding the liquor in his mouth before he swal-
lowed it and then sinking back into another silence,
which Morgan's voice broke heavily when he could
wait no longer.
"What's the news, Cap'n?"
"She's in Leith!"
"She is, heh !" Morgan's voice sounded natural
enough.
"Yes. And down and out and old an' drunk!"
The glass in the Captain's hand dashed to the table
and smashed, so that only one was left to sing.
Leyton did not stop speaking: "That's why I'm
gettin' off at Leith, that's why! Now d'yer know
why? Do yer?"
"Goin' ter take 'er back agin, Cap'n?"
Leyton's hoarse shout interrupted him: "Ye're
mad! Take 'er back? Ye 7 re mad! Never!"
He rose to get another glass and filled it. Then,
glancing at Morgan's glass, still almost full:
"'Ere, drink that!"
Mechanically Morgan drank, his eyes never leav-
ing the trembling sodden figure of the captain
while it sat soggily and spoke again :
"Yer think I'd take 'er back? Ever? Yer think
I would? ... Do yer? ... Do yer? . . . Me?"
FURY 97
The other leaned forward to set down his glass
and as he spoke his voice seemed casual enough.
"Yer said ye were goin' ter, didn't ye? I
thought I 'eard yer say that."
"Mr. Morgan, when she went, the day she went,
I pegged out I died. Me body and me 'ands and
stomach kept on goin' 'cause I didn't blow me
brains out or take a jump fer it; but I've been
dead for the whole twenty years.
"Yes, fer twenty years I've bin dead and now I'm
stinkin' stinkin' dead to 'er! I'd 'uv 'ad meself
buried, as I should 'a done, but I 'ad somethin' ter
do. D'yer understan' me? Somethin' ter get done
with first!"
Morgan sat low in his chair as the voice stopped.
Now he really was interested strangely. And less
worried, one would guess. It wasn't like the old
man to talk much about anything. Never had
been. But even the crew had noticed something
different this run. Something had happened back
in London. And now, getting drunk proper, he
was letting himself go. He was at it, talking,
talking !
"I couldn't get no track on 'er or 'im as took
'er. An' never 'ave since. They 'opped it clean.
Both on 'em. She was as artful as a cargo of
monkeys, that girl was. They never left a trace,
an' every one said ter me every one said, 'fergit
'em, Dog.' If yer remember, yer said that yerself
ter me, 'fergit 'em.' Didn't yer? . . . Didn't yer?"
98 FUKY
"Yes, I somehow call to mind I did." Morgan
leaned forward curiously. Why was Leyton
going to Leith if he wasn't going to take her back?
He'd started all this talk, calm and logical, about
him, Morgan taking the ship out after Leith. And
now here was the old man looking like some twitch-
ing red monster, likely to take one of them fits
again, talking like he used to talk years ago about
being dead, and her and him as took her. What
was behind it all? What was the old 'un driv-
ing at?
But he eased, mind and body tension loosening.
What did it matter? Leyton was stark mad. It
was only a question of time. Let the silly old
blighter rave! To Hell with him!
Leyton was leaning forward. "Now I've got my
chance; I've got it and when it's over, I'll kick
in and die proper, an' take a nice sleep and a long
one."
Morgan felt better now. Yes, the old ? un was
mad that was all. Here was the thing to say :
"Don't talk that way, Skipper, yer good fer a
long spell yet."
His voice had become throaty and light; as he
rose he poured himself out a drink, repeating: "A
long spell yet an' here's to it!"
And standing to his full height he nearly
touched the deck above with his head, as he raised
his quarter-filled glass. Ha ! Ha ! The old 'un was
mad!
And the old 'un sat still and pushed his glass
FURY 99
forward to be filled to the brim by his first mate;
his shipmate of twenty-five years; his shipmate
whose mind had now again reverted to its usual
cynical calm and who thought again, "the old 'un's
just mad drunk ready to take another of them
leaping fits that always look to be his last."
And he, Morgan, would have to take and pick
him up and get his breath and touch his sticky
flesh . . . and he hated the old swine!
It made him sick. He hated him too much. He
always had hated him, since well, since he'd been
and got in first with that crazy beauty, that mop-
haired wonder girl from Milwall the one that the
old 'un had just said used to smile at him, Morgan
the one that he picked up from the scuppers, in
the rain, an hour before the old 'un's brat was
born!
He almost trembled now at the memory of the
glow of warmth the touch of her body against his
had sent through him even in that freezing rain.
And that thrill had started something, hadn't it?
Yes, that business had started something all right.
Well, well, it was life, anyway. And look! Here
was the old 'un, that poor old bag of bones and
booze, still at it, raving! Hark to him!
"Mr. Morgan "
There was a new and a compelling note in the
Captain's voice that made Morgan once again look
sharply.
It was "mad" Dog Leyton speaking, now. He
had changed again. He had come back, red, ill,
100 FURY
but savage and all there, his brown teeth showing
white foam in the gaps between them.
"Mr. Morgan," he repeated, as with a sudden
lurch he seized tlie other's coat. "It's come at last !
I've got 'im in my hand!"
Morgan turned, looking down. "Who've yer
got?"
"The dirty swine that took 'er !" And a burning
grip of steel tightened on Morgan's arm. "The
swine I've waited for ter kill!"
Morgan's face did not change, but as his gaze
lifted carefully the other rose and spoke into his
face:
"I'm goin' ter find 'er and I'm goin' ter beat 'is
name out of 'er! An' I'll follow 'im, an' find 'im,
an' fight 'im "
"Oh!" Morgan relaxed tremendously within, a
little, even, on the surface.
Leyton, panting, paused. Then both hands
caught Morgan's shoulders and the voice was loud
and hoarse.
"An' I'll kiU 'im! . . . Kill 'im! An'"
The hands dropped suddenly. Breath came with
difficulty; but the Captain was almost calm again.
"An' if I don't make this ship out, you'll know
that I've been worsted. But it'll be a fight. It'll
be a fight!"
He looked through closing eyes away and saw a
courtyard paved with cobbles from between which
bits of green peeped ; and he seemed to hear hoarse
shouts of encouragement behind him; he moved a
FURY 101
foot which clanged with heavy armor, and both
hands grasped his sword.
He saw a hated thing with visor down and
armor black as night advancing towards him.
His body quivered, his grip loosened and the
sword clattered to the ground. He would kill this
thing with his hands ! He would crush this black
and loathsome specter; he would tear this sinister
thing apart with his hooked fingers!
And then it was gone, and the wall of the cabin
moved up and down slowly, before his vision ; Mor-
gan was picking up a glass that had fallen to the
ground when the sword did, and Leyton's voice
filled the cabin with a loud cry.
"I could almost see him ! He was there, stand-
ing before me there ! . . . I could almost feel his
throat like like "
And his red hands closed and gripped themselves
until his own eyes rolled, and he leaned heavily,
panting, against his special chair.
Then Morgan asked a question.
"Have you any suspicions as to who it is as to
who the man was what done this thing ter yer?"
As Morgan waited for the answer, for some rea-
son, he took a step back, so that his body might
balance, poised in an attitude which almost seemed
like physical readiness.
Eyes, red and blood-shot, met Morgan's. Expres-
sionless eyes, that gleamed suddenly . . . gleamed
suddenly and then went out again . . . and then
looked very red as the shaggy head shook violently
102 FUEY
and a look of searching wonder deepened upon
Leyton's face.
"No ! He'd be rotting, dead, now, if I did know !
If I had known! But I can't die before killin'
'im. ... I won't. ... I won't! That's why I'm
goin' ter find 'er and beat his dirty name out of
? er. And when she spits it I'm goin' ter find 'im,
an'"
The torrent ended in a gurgle. Something
choked him . . . and Morgan caught his Captain's
arm and helped him to sit breathlessly, his legs
swinging backwards and apart, his red, rum-
striped nostrils distending.
Bloody old fool! And above him Morgan's face
gleamed, smiling. Courage came; the courage of
the coward out of danger; and there was banter in
the voice that said, lightly, conversationally:
"So she's in Leith, heh?"
Leyton's hand went to his back trousers pocket
and drew forth a black purse with a tiny steel
clasp. He could not open it, because his hands
were trembling, so his shipmate did it for him, and
drawing forth a piece of crumpled paper, Morgan
read at a glance :
"MacFarlanete Rescue Home,
Waterfront,
Leith."
He laid it upon the table, before the old 'un, who
was sitting very still.
So she was there, was she? Some one 'ad been
FURY 103
doin' a bit of rescuin', and 'ad copped 'er fer a
prize packet! Kescued 'er fer what? What a
world this was! She oughter been dead! What
was there to rescue? And what for? Why save
her? She was all worn out and drunk and bent!
Rescued ! Hell !
And old doddering Dog, drunk, going to beat
'er! Ha, ha! Beat 'er fer the name of some one!
An' when she'd said it, old Dog, this drunken, tot-
tering fool, was goin' ter take the name and find
the bleedin' owner so's to choke 'im! Ha, ha!
Morgan's smile broadened to a grin and actually
held there, even when he saw that the Captain's
eyes were fixed upon him.
"What yer grinnin' at?"
"Grinnin'?"
Dog Leyton struggled to his feet. "Yes, grinnin',
damn yer!"
And then, with amazing audacity, Mr. Morgan
sat and crossed his leg, looked up and actually
laughed !
"What is it, Mr. Morgan? What's the joke?"
Dog's head lowered and two hard eyes gleamed;
there was no sag in the body that took a step
forward.
The smile on Morgan's face passed suddenly, for
a ferocious, sinister thing stood over him.
He had laughed too soon. This old fool had come
back. Dog Leyton for a long time had had a trick
of throwing off twenty years with his coat and
here he was. His head had gone down and was
104 FURY
moving slowly from side to side, and didn't look
any too gentle. There wasn't any one who
wouldn't be afraid of Dog like this. Yes; Morgan
had laughed too soon.
"What is it, Mr. Morgan? Speak up!" Ley ton
took another step forward. He could get no closer
now without
"I was laughing at the thought of Boy, when he
hears yer won't be at his weddin', Cap'n!"
"What weddin'?"
"The one in Leith. Ain't he told yer he was
gonna jump ship?"
"What fer? What?"
Morgan rose with difficulty, because the Captain
stood so near him. He brushed by his stomach
as he crossed to the table almost awkwardly. "Per-
haps I shouldn't 'ave said nothin', Cap'n, but she
told me 'erself!"
"Who?"
"That little tart what you warned off Noak's
last time we was in. She works down at The Eest.
The one what "
"What about 'er?"
"Yer boy's jumpin' ship at Leith to splice 'er!
So he ain't told yer?"
Morgan was pouring out a drink. It was his
third. Now he felt good. He talked on lightly,
chattily.
"A little eloping match. Father an' ship don't
seem to matter these days. Do they, Skipper?"
He raised his glass.
FURY 105
"Here's to the 'appy pair, I say, the Skipper's
son and the "
The glass was dashed out of his hand, and the
hoarse voice of his Captain gave him an order.
And he said, "Aye, aye, sir." And picking up his
oilskins, he pulled back the hatch and stepped out
into the rain.
But he was laughing . , . and the word went
forward that the old 'un must have told a joke
for Morgan had passed laughing.
"Garn. 'E was squintin'. The bleedin' rain
was in 'is eyes."
CHAPTER V
SO Morgan passed forward to where Boy stood
telling Looney Luke to write a poem about
him and Min; why not? It was better than
that moon song about somebody dying, and Davy
Jones. And Looney Luke asked about Leith, and
the leap to love . . . and smiled.
Men must strike for happiness, which if lasting
must be the bliss of achievement. To seize against
odds is to be brave! And brave men live long in
life and death upon their spoils. Bravery is a fact,
and facts do not lie. To be eternal, one must pre-
cipitate fact. Some facts are still-born and un-
worthy, others live and grow through time. And
Boy's happiness was to be the serene content of
conquest; his world, a large, small world; his
battlefront, a gangplank; his objective a girl!
So thought Looney Luke as Boy talked on, until
Morgan came and stood between them, the dying
smile still upon his face.
Without a word he took the wheel from Boy's
cold hands. Boy, puzzled, looked up quickly.
"Watch ain't up."
Morgan, putting his oilskins round his neck,
smiled again. "Something else is. Captain wants
yer."
106
FUKY 107
For a moment, Boy did not move. A vague
foreboding numbed him. What had happened?
Almost as if anticipating a question, Morgan had
turned his back.
Boy glanced at Looney Luke, who was gazing
up at the moon again.
There was nothing to say, so he turned away.
And the rain pattered around him as he went
down forward, and the wind sounded like a low
cry.
In a moment Boy's sky had become troubled.
He even forgot Minnie.
What was up?
He stood still and felt cold. Weather? Rotten;
but he never had felt cold before he never had
felt any storm before. Sick? He'd be damned if
he'd be sick ! You don't get sick sudden-like. What
was that? A lantern fell! That was all. It
sounded like
Hell! He'd got the jimjams a bad touch of
them.
What was Morgan laughing at? What?
Ah! He had heard Boy talking about Min in
Leith. That was it! And he was laughing about
it. Damn him! he would laugh.
He didn't know nothing about love anyway. But
it wasn't like the old man to change the watch in
the dead of night. Why hadn't the old 'un turned
in? It was after eight bells. Well, he hadn't
turned in last night at all. He'd been talking to
himself all night. Boy had heard him, and lis-
108 FURY
tened, and tried to make out what he was saying,
but he couldn't hear.
The old 'un wanted him now what for?
Lonely maybe! There came to Boy a vague
memory of a time, a long time ago, when he was
a little fellow, and his father had held him in his
arms all night and called him by a woman's name.
Boy always had remembered that because it
seemed to be from that time that the Captain was
after him, punching him, goading him.
A gust of rain hit his face and roused him. He
walked forward.
What did anything matter? He was going to
Leith, wasn't he? And it'd take a million Dogs
... or cats, or lions, or tigers to stop him.
He opened the door of the cabin and stepped in,
and as he closed the door, the wind thumped it
loudly, shutting it fast tight, as if to dare the
world to interfere with fate!
CHAPTER VI
MANY miles to Port on land.
A train was dashing into the wet night
a shrieking train, its fire glowing, the
curls of its white steam tresses stretching down
its straight glistening back in billowing whisps.
On the Yorkshire moors, from a distance, it
looked rather like a noisy caterpillar, bent on wak-
ing sleeping birds. And nearer cattle started to
their feet, blinking, glowering, at this roaring,
jeweled breaker of their dreams. An important
train, though through stations only the Scottish
Flyer the event of the night.
The proud engine raised her chest and screamed
her approach.
Some one had whispered to this engine, once, of
the speed and size of engines in America, hoping
perhaps to check her engine-shed vanity and arro-
gance. And the Scottish Flyer had tossed her head
and replied:
"My dear, they are like savages! Large and
swift, but, oh, utterly without culture ! They've no
refinement. Why, they are not even allowed at
main stations; they drop their trains some miles
from the city and an electric takes them in! Oh,
yes, I've heard of them. But what of them !"
And the aristocrat of English enginehood had
109
110 FURY
straightened her long neck and puffed with easy
self-satisfaction.
Oh, England ! Will nothing replace your grow-
ing disdain of "larger usefulness? The dogs upon
your streets walk slower, only because they are
English. Their legs, like those of other dogs across
the sea, are straight and lithe and built for speed,
but here, the English dog
"The world is moving too swiftly. It requires
the slow sureness and precision of England to calm
its tempo to normality and dignity."
Some traveling hound repeated this to an
American dog and he paused and thought for a
moment. Then he said:
"England is sure a wonderful country!" and,
laughing, ran away with a long, easy lope which
was grace itself and fast.
And there was something in his laugh that
caused a mother to draw a child to her quickly
and say: "Don't touch that doggie; he's upset
about something, dearie!"
Not for a moment that our Scottish Flyer could
or should have proceeded at a faster pace this wet
night. Oh, no. Her one fault was her engine-shed
vanity, and beyond that there is nothing but praise
to bestow upon this proud and useful thing, dash-
ing forward like a race horse into the north, into
the night.
The Duke and Duchess of Sutherland and a
party were going north to Dunn Robin; also the
Duke of Atholl.
FURY 111
Some osteopaths were bound for Edinburgh to
attend a bone-setting convention.
The mayor of that city was upon the train, tak-
ing without much patience Pussyfoot Johnson, due
at a prohibition meeting in Aberdeen the following
day.
Also there was Miss Minnie Brent, of London,
en route for Leith.
Oh, yes, she was violently consequential; a very
pompous affair, that Scottish Flyer, as she
screamed and roared, turned her slim shoulders
round a bend into York junction and finally came
to a reluctant and shriekingly protesting stand-
still.
In a third class carriage, Min, in a corner seat,
held out a trembling hand for the cup of coffee
some one brought her with two lumps of sugar in
the saucer, and smiled her thanks.
Above her upon the luggage rack, the umbrella,
the new one with the ivory apple on it, lay awake,
watching, musing, next to the new brown bag,
which was fast asleep. Bags were made to sleep
on trains; they are born travelers.
But the umbrella had heard the beating rain
outside, and longed to open up, and sweep along
blown ! A glistening new thing, banging into the
other, older, shabbier umbrella with a passing
sneer. Life called. Perhaps at Leith it would be
raining; and then perhaps it would not be.
What pessimists umbrellas are!
This one had summed up the character of its
112 FUEY
new owner and trembled at the thought that it
might never be open. Umbrellas are keen things
and . . . well . . . from a careful analysis of its
brief experience with the little human sitting just
below, its deduction was that a fight in which an
umbrella would not be such a bad weapon might
not be at all unlikely.
And then, again, this new owner more than once,
during their brief relationship, had referred to this
perfectly good, useful, beautiful umbrella as "Me
brolly." And that hurt! Every tradition of its
umbrellahood was violated by that vulgar refer-
ence, and so, uncomfortable and numbed, half
under the heavy sleeping, new brown bag, it lay,
brooding upon the possibility of a broken neck
should that brawl occur. That funny little owner
now in the seat below had opened it in the house,
early the night before, to show it to some sailors;
and every one knows, including umbrellas, that
that's unlucky!
And this umbrella was from a good, middle class,
hard-working stock, and there was no reason at all
that what was true of other umbrellas should not
be true of it. It hoped that the bad luck which
must come would have nothing to do with a brawl,
but
Umbrellas are bitter things when their pride is
hurt.
It dozed. Now it could not hear the rain be-
cause they were in a station.
FUKY 113
They were moving forward again. The guard
had shut and locked the door, because the man
who had brought the coffee tipped him, and Min
looked up at his face; he was the only other occu-
pant of the carriage.
He was a tall, sad man, who smiled, and rising,
gently placed a warm plaid rug round her knees,
tucking it briskly but quite respectfully under her
thighs.
Min's eyes never left his face. Her lips were
drawn tight. She was waiting waiting for what?
Here this man had been with her alone in the car-
riage from King's Cross; six hours. He'd given
her a book, slept a bit, taken a couple or more
swigs of Scotch from a flask, offered her some.
She'd refused. He'd slept a bit, closed the win-
dows, smoked like a chimney and spoken only once
or twice in a way that sounded as though he'd
known her all her blinking life and before that.
He'd undone his boots at the top, and the but-
tons of his waistcoat where his stomach pushed
against it.
He'd sung a bit in tunnels; she'd heard him
above the roar. He'd given her a white, clean pil-
low, which he'd got from a man with a lot of them
at King's Cross. He'd picked up her railway ticket
when she had dropped it and he'd fiddled with his
mustache a lot with the hand that didn't hold his
pipe. She had watched it all and waited waited
for what?
114 FURY
She had prayed inside herself while the train
was waiting at King's Cross that some one else
would get in.
Some one nearly had, but, on seeing this man
speak to Min about something, they had withdrawn
considerately, and so he and she had started off
alone, with a whole seat each, and Min had kept
awake watching, waiting for what?
The roaring night leaped against the windows,
wet with rain; and the wheels and rails echoed
with measured precision.
Min glanced up. Her feathers waved encourag-
ingly on the luggage rack above her and reminded
her of where she was going. She had almost for-
gotten in the tense hours that had just passed.
She'd only been on a train once before and that
was when Salty Barnard had taken her that Sun-
day last summer on the excursion to Southend, and
she remembered that once vividly. Missing the
excursion, they had taken a later ordinary train
back, and had had a carriage to themselves and
Salty had been drunk and, oh why think of such
things?
But the vision of herself alone in a railway car-
riage with a man had always given her a couple
of shudders. She'd used a bottle that night with
good effect but this 'ere bloke carried his booze in
a flask. The only club she'd have would be
would be er the new brolly up there. Pity it
was a new one, but what's a blooming brolly when
your honor is concerned?
FURY 115
And the umbrella above her, that could read
thoughts, like all other umbrellas, opened its eyes
and shuddered.
Her reverie halted suddenly as a voice spoke. It
was a low, soft voice, that reminded her vividly of
the Rev. W. F. P. Vane, when he used to call at
The Rest and say to her, "Good hahfternoon, Min-
nie Brent. His your mistress at 'ome?" The soft
voice of the man opposite was speaking now.
"Why don't you get a little rest? We've a long
time yet."
What was the lay? Did he want her to go to
sleep so that he could spring at her sudden-like?
Or or
Perhaps he knew that they were going to stop at
another station and he had got it in his mind to
hop it with her bag and feathers. Or ... or ...
Min only knew one kind of man outside Boy and
sailors, and Mr. Vane, and that was the man she
had read of in the Heartease Library and who was
on the stage sometimes in sketches down at the
Poplar Hippodrome and in the movies too the
bloke with a mustache, and the soft voice. And
this was one of them all right, all right! She
spoke up like the heroine:
"I ain't sle'epin', matey not with you aroun'!"
A cheer from the gallery as the wheels passed
over junction rails, and Min watched the villain
smile. He was the goods all right, all right!
A long, noisy silence and clouds of smoke poured
from the man opposite.
116 FUEY
"Pinkie," Min some time before had christened
him mentally because smoke came out of him like
it did out of that tall chimney at Pinks Jam Fac-
tory down where she used to live. "Pinkie." He
was a lad from the city all right; she felt his eyes
upon her.
"Is your home in Leith?"
She did not answer at once. He was a nosey
villain, this one was; a fly bird; and she snapped
out: "No, it ain't. D'you live there?"
Pinkie answered in a deep, polite voice : "No, my
home is near London, Croydon. Do you know
Croydon?"
Min shook her head and Pinkie continued:
"As a rule it's wonderful to be going home, isn't
it? I thought you were going home because you
seemed so happy."
How did Min know it was wonderful to be going
home? She'd never had one. But she nodded her
head. She liked listening to his voice; and then
again he was safer when he was talking.
But he had stopped talking and was looking
away out of his window; and Min, thinking some-
thing was up, looked out of hers.
Vague shadows and ghosts leaped forward and
past and frightened her, and her head turned sud-
denly back.
The villain had a handkerchief out and was blow-
ing his nose.
Min watched him curiously. Something whis-
pered that he hadn't only been blowing his nose.
FURY 117
That might be a drugged handkerchief and per-
haps he was going to rush at her.
But now something gave her a sinking feeling, a
thickening in her throat. She didn't know why,
but she felt sorry for him. He looked funny and
his eyes were watery. She broke the silence,
asking :
"What's up? Caught a chill?"
He smiled and shook his head. "No. You're
observant, aren't you?"
Observant? That meant something tricky. She
was suspicious again and yet she was interested.
This bloke was a queer kettle of fish. She liked his
voice and asked:
"What's observant mean?"
"When you're observant you are quick to see
things; quick to notice."
Min felt complimented. She purred. "I've
always been that way."
Pinkie smiled, and picked up the conversational
note: "I'm glad we're making this trip together."
"Why?"
"Because you're young and pretty, and fresh;
and you seem to be on the verge of something.
You're so full of hope and life."
Min flushed. "You're complimentary, I must
say." Yes, she liked his voice.
"I've watched you all the way and wondered
where you were going. Are you going to a new
situation?" And his eye glanced meaningly at the
new brown bag.
118 FURY
Blimey, what a nerve ! What'd he take her for,
a blinking slavey? She straightened up quickly.
"No; I'm an engaged woman. I'm going to
Leith to get spliced. I'm going to splice Mr. Ley-
ton Mr. Boy Leyton!"
Pinkie actually laughed. "Forgive me. And
allow me to congratulate you both !"
Min, still straight in her seat, inclined her
head.
"Thanks; same to you, matey!"
She waited and watched him put down his pipe
and lean forward. She drew back.
"Little lady, you're on the threshold of life's
sweetest journey. Be happy; love your man.
Keep him true and strong. God has given him to
you. He is your charge. All men are like babies.
They need a woman's arms. Her voice, tender al-
ways, her patience enduring. I envy you, little
girl, and your wonderful journey's end."
He was talking like a blinking book, but Min
liked his voice and it was the kind of gab that
didn't lead up to springing at her. His voice
lowered :
"I lost my love who was everything to me ! She
was my life. But although she has left my side
for a little while, she's with me every moment
whispering, guiding, comforting. You remind me
of her only you're much younger. She used to sit
on the seat opposite, just as you are sitting now,
and so we traveled many miles together. Just like
this. She and I. You will never leave your man's
FURY 119
side, will you? Come what will, you must hold
fast. He is yours; God gave him to you!"
This Pinkie could talk all right and Min under-
stood the last part of what he said. It coincided
with her attitude to her Boy exactly. He needed
her . . . always! She'd stick, right enough!
She looked away because the thought made her
feel like crying; and Pinkie seemed to be thinking
too. It was one of those silences that are beautiful
moments; and Min picked up the paper to check
her tears the one he had brought in from the re-
freshment room at York Junction.
Her attention was arrested at once by a head-
line
NEWCASTLE MURDEKER
DIES TO-MORROW MORNING
Thomas Morton, 28, Miner, Convicted of
Murder of Ernest Spurr, His Watch-
mate, to Pay Extreme Penalty of Law
at Dawn!
Min read on ; she liked murder news.
"The murder was the outcome of a long
feud between the two men, between whom
a woman's name was linked, and the mo-
tive pleaded was vengeance. . . ."
Min looked up. Like Morgan and Boy., she
mused. Thank God that matter was settled!
Morgan's bacon was well cooked, as far as she was
concerned She turned again to the paper :
120 FUEY
"Brenton the hangman from London
was expected. . . ."
That was a funny one Brenton! Half her
name, or rather Ma Brent's name. "Brent-on," a
hangman ! Probably an uncle who'd stuck a bloom-
ing "on" on, just to be funny.
The hangman . . . woo! . . . ooo! . . Min
shuddered.
She liked reading this. It was thrilling; and
she read on, devouring gruesome details of igno-
rance, passion, murder and inevitable punishment.
Later the paper fell from her hands as she
dozed, dreaming vaguely of the hangman's noose
and Dog Leyton and Ma Brent and Morgan, and
hated things, and the hangman's rope, and then
Boy as he sang to her (as almost always in her
dreams) "Sweet Adeline."
The song stopped suddenly because the train did ;
and a hoarse voice outside shouted: "Newcastle!"
Pinkie was getting his bag and coat. The guard
unlocked the door, opened it suddenly, passed on.
Min sat up.
"'Ere's yer rug, matey!"
Pinkie stepped out and turned back to her.
"You've some time yet, and it's cold. Will you
accept it as a wedding present? And don't forget,
little lady stick to your man! Love him and the
world is yours!"
Like the song, "Love me and the world is mine,"
thought Min. The door slammed suddenly and
Min rose and put her head out. Pinkie stood there
FUEY 121
in the rain beside his black bag. Two men came
up and one spoke:
"Good morning, Mr. Brenton. We were looking
for you down first class."
The newly alighted passenger started to reply;
and then as the train moved forward, he turned
and waved, calling: "Good-by, little lady! Stick
tight!"
But Min did not wave. She pulled herself back
into the carriage suddenly, her eyes wide with
terror. Picking up the paper which had fallen
to the floor, she scanned it quickly.
"Mr. Brenton, the hangman from London . . ."
Blimey! And that was Newcastle! She was a
Sherlock Holmes all right. Her brows contracted.
Pinkie! Pinkie! The hangman! And he talked
about love, and Boy, and sticking. She shivered
suddenly, pulled Pinkie's rug about her knees, and,
leaning back, closed her eyes.
She was out in the world all right! She could
hear Pinkie's voice now:
"Little lady, you're on the threshold of life's
sweetest journey."
Min sat very still, her eyes closed, trembling, as
the hangman's rug fell from her knee& to the floor.
CHAPTER VII
SOME men, like some bulls, are ordained from
birth to fight in the arenas of sport and life.
They are reared in health upon open places
and every precaution is taken to insure their fero-
cious and gallant resistance to the supreme ordeal.
But from the start it is all planned that that ordeal
shall be final.
Fate, the breeder of men, like the breeders of
bulls, knows from long experience that red blood
and courage must predominate in their lusty
charges if they are to fight in splendid agony and
die amusingly.
Fate loves its man-fight. The phantom matadors
of such a battle can have no equal in a mere bull-
ring; the picadors, the music and the blood upon
the sands of time, all are there in pompous pag-
eantry. . . . And perhaps sometimes God in His
Royal Box turns his head away, men seem to suffer
so, these fighting men, but Fate applauds from
tiers and sunnyside. And man fights on, a single
man against a bewildering multitude of crimson
shadows.
When a woman had dashed her cruel rosette into
his pulsing withers and the gate had dropped, Dog
Leyton had dashed into mid-arena, a towering,
maddened mass. White, whispering horses were
122
FURY 123
coaxed to flout his horns as folk bade him forget
and lowered their voices subtly. He had fought for
years, bellowing, pawing, thrusting, left and right,
right and left.
And now since Petwee's news of the woman in
Leith, he had sensed the approach of a glittering
matador, a man who hides behind a cape, with
glossy black hair a-curl, with full red lips such as
women love and the glinting eye of a thief a wife-
thief a body broad and long and slim below the
ribs . . . advancing . . . bent upon dispatch. . . .
He could not see this man; blood and rage had
blinded him ; it was his to wait and paw the ground.
Soon, soon the haze would clear, the cape would
lift or drop. There 5 d be no passes, no thrills, he'd
rip this bobbined upstart for the world to see . . .
rip and tear and gore. . . .
His head lowered and a foot came down. He
stood still, trembling, ominous, waiting.
But Fate loosed and decreed he was not tired
enough yet! Too soon for the matador! A little
cloak play yet, another shaft or two in those con-
gealing withers! Good sport, this fighting man!"
Good sport!
Zas! And the phantom matador paused and
turned aside into the shadows ... to watch a
while.
CHAPTER VIII
BOY found his father waiting, silent, by the
table. As he entered the smoky cabin and
tossed his dripping oilskins upon the Cap-
tain's special chair, he advanced with glowing
cheeks, still tingling from the wind.
"What's up, sir? Are yer sick again?"
For a moment Leyton did not speak. He ad-
vanced a step. Boy stood still, calm and waiting.
This was something out of the ordinary. There
was a hint of tragedy in the silence. And then his
father spoke:
"Any thin' to say?"
Boy hesitated, thought, then shook his head natu-
rally: "No; why?"
"Nothin' ter teU me? Me? Yer father?"
"No; nothing. Why?"
"Liar !" The sea captain's voice broke forth like
a sudden peal of thunder when the lightning is
overhead.
Boy stepped back.
"Who's a liar? Who? Who?"
"You !"
The father's face was very close now ; his breath
was upon Boy's mouth and his body quivered
threateningly. The breath, hot and liquored, of-
124
FUEY 125
fended Boy and something in the threatening figure
before him called his courage up. A changed,
strong Boy answered quickly:
"I ain't no more of a liar than you are, see? . . .
See?"
The other blinked.
Fine ! Here was an answer worthy of his mood.
Yes, Boy had answered back. Good !
Boy was still speaking. "What're yer gonna do?
Hit me? G'wan! What for?"
"Yer'd jump ship, would yer! Would yer?"
"Yes, I would . . . an' all ... an' I'm agoin'
ter, see?"
He could not talk any other way. The courage
of the sea, the courage of love, the courage of a
man spoke out.
This was not a father that stood ahead as though
to bar his way to happiness; it was an obstacle, a
grotesque, flabby obstacle. Had it been other than
his father in his subconscious realization he'd have
knocked that red face through the bleeding cabin
wall ! Yes, he would ! As it was, he just listened
as the obstacle spoke, spitting out the words:
"So yer'd jump ship, would yer, to get mixed up
with some dirty "
A young voice, vibrant, commanding, stopped
this.
"Get down ! Stop that . . . yer dirty drunk !"
And Boy's eyes flashed.
The man who spoke had fire in his eyes and
venom in his voice, with muscles below to back
126 FURY
them up. A young Dog Leyton was born suddenly
into a violent world.
"It's you what's dirty; it's yer dirty rotten
mind!" he spat out insultingly. "Yer dirty,
stinkin' drunk!"
And the captain, old Dog Leyton, blinked and
stepped back as far as the table, staring at a kid.
No ; not a kid. A man, young, eager, strong, whose
claim to manhood had been long enough deferred.
The sea captain blinked again. At last, after all
these years of intimate relationship, something
had happened to Boy, that easily dominated, cow-
eyed Boy, that Boy with her face, the face that
left him.
It looked him in the eyes now with a militant,
steady gaze, the exasperating firmness and the
maddening note of conviction in the voice.
Ah, the glove was down, was it? . . . Here's to
it! ... At last he'll fight!
But how long? Of what stamina is this new man
made?
And with a funny kind of shout the sea captain
threw his glass against the wall and backing to the
table squared his shoulders waiting. A fight, hey?
. . . How much of one? How long? This Boy
. . . man . . . what of him? How good?
Hark ! Talk, talk ! Any one could talk ! How
good was he?
Yes, Boy was talking. He asked a direct ques-
tion in the captain's face:
FUEY 127
"What did you ever know about women? A
dirty, blastin', cussin' drunk like you?"
And Boy actually walked forward as he spoke.
"Why, no decent woman would ever live with
you ! I don't believe yer ever was me father. No
woman'd ever know yer well enough to have a kid
by yer. It'd make 'er too dam' sick! . . . Yer
dirty, rotten! You don't know nothin' about
women except ter blast 'em . . . and yer don't
blast my woman! On yer rotten life yer don't!
See? . . . See? . . . She ain't dirty! I owe yer
one fer the last thing yer said ter her . . . an' I
owe yer a lot more'n that, too. Damn yer damn
yer see?"
A thousand trumpets rang a fanfare through
the wind as a gentleman of courage, a champion
of women, a lover of kisses and steel, galloped into
the open and reined up, his lance aslant, his glove
down to any, for the sake of honorable advance-
ment.
The sea captain walked forward and peered into
the face of his sailor son. . . . He was a drunken
botanist, who had found a black rose. He sagged
and fumbled for words, but found none.
And Boy waited too, but as his father did not
speak, began again, generating an almost spiritual
power as the words rushed from his lips. There
was no trace of hysteria in the voice; it was calm,
penetrating, cruel in its cold ferocity of denuncia-
tion.
128 FUKY
"Yer been on at me since I can remember. Yes ;
an' I'm jumpin' ship, see? I'm jumpin' ter get
clear of you an' all yer mean to me! An' I'm me,
see? I'm me; an' I ain't no part of you from now
on, see?"
The words rang with finality as, beating his own
chest, Boy stepped forward uttering his bitter con-
clusion :
"Gawd in 'eaven! Nobody ever could love you
. . . an' keep on an' on. . . ."
Boy spoke on, but his father could not hear him.
"Nobody ever could love you an' keep on
an' on!"
The words recurred and swirled about him,
making him giddy . . . now near . . . now far
away . . . hurrying back from the distance of
time like an echo swept up from the forgotten
across a vast, misty vista . . . from the past into
the present.
"Nobody ever could love you an' keep on
an' on!"
It swelled again that dreadful sentence.
A woman screamed it now. Dog's hands went
to his ears as if to check his hearing; but such
sounds do not come to ears; they shrieked within
his skull and echoed like the beat of eagles' wings
against the walls of a deserted church.
The latent fires in Dog Leyton's eyes flickered
weakly as he turned.
Boy stopped speaking and waited, defiant, as his
father came and said to him, almost quietly :
FURY 129
"It's 'er talkin' in yer. She said them very
words! . . . She did!"
Boy asked sharply: "Who did?"
"She did. I loved 'er then "
Boy pulled away, unmoved. His lips curled as
he spoke his sneer.
"You couldn't love nothin' but yerself an' yer
rum."
Dog Leyton sagged. The flood of memory rush-
ing had quenched the fire of anger, and left only
steaming debris upon his vision. He looked across
at his son, now no longer to him anything more
than an issue of some vague connection with a
woman in the distant past. He gazed across at a
stranger of his flesh and blood, but a clear-eyed,
convinced and dangerous stranger, pausing upon
the road to tell this old man who had lost his way,
that he'd better get into the ditch . . . and die!
That he was no good to any one, not even if he
found his way!
"Yer 'ittin' me at last, Boy ! Not with yer fists,
but yer 'ittin' me not with yer 'ands!"
"The truth 'urts worser, don't it?"
Boy's words lashed out. Why wait now? Why
talk? The old 'un looked such a silly old fool . . .
all soggy ... a sailor, a sea captain! Ha, ha!
Looked more like one of them old musicians what
busked on Saturday nights outside The Jolly
Sailors.
"Captain Dog Leyton Gawd!"
And he and others had actually feared this
130 FUKY
mumbling old sot! Why wait? It was over, for
good and all; and if there was any more lip out
of this old swine, he, Boy, would give him what
he had always asked for, a crack on that bristling
old jaw of his. Yes, and one on the raspberry nose
for luck!
Boy was picking up his oilskins. He'd finished
with the sea. He turned, as a sound escaped the
old -un, and looked back at his father.
Good cloak play this . . . but the man in the
arena was breathless, sagging. Would he drop
before . . .
The phantom matador, waiting in the shadows,
stamped his foot impatiently. Would death cheat
him at the moment of his triumph? No! No!
Because Fate yells, "The fire! ... The fire! . . ."
The old 'un turned back to the table and trem-
blingly picked up his glass. Pointing to the jar
of rum, he bid his son with a gesture fill it for him,
because he knew he himself could not. His hands
were trembling so.
And this was the Captain of the ship, and the
young sailor whom he addressed was second mate,
and so, of course, the Captain was obeyed and the
glass was filled by the second mate. It was drained
at a gulp.
Then the second mate again picked up his oil-
skins, swinging them over his arm with almost dis-
respectful jauntiness. But at the door he turned,
because his Captain spoke.
FURY 131
"Did yer know yer father was jumpin' ship at
Leith, too?"
"You are? Why?"
It was a moment before the answer came; an
answer that wept softly to itself.
"Yer mother's ailin' an' wants me!"
The young sailor started suddenly.
"Me mother?"
His mother! For the first time his mother. It
had always been " 'er" " 'er" " 'er" "that cow"
"that"
But now the sacred word of "mother" pealed out
in the tiny cabin like the throbbing note of an
organ in a church in the evening.
Then father and son gazed into each other's eyes
and the son watched his father weep, as the cruel
callous of years fell from his heart and stripped
him naked, leaving him ashamed.
The mouth opened softly and tried to speak and
tears coursed down a weathered, wrinkled face.
Bowed, helpless, tragic, weeping ... a man, a
big-framed man, a captain of the sea, standing be-
fore a tribunal of three ... a ghost . . . his son
. . . and himself . . . trying to articulate such
words as "forgive," "love," "mother," "wife,"
"son," "please," "mercy," . . . words he'd only
sensed . . . words he did not know and, like a
baby, could not speak.
Boy's voice, tender and soft, broke the silence :
"Me mother where is she?"
132 FURY
It was a moment before the answer came, while
Dog Leyton piped his slacking senses back to action
and stood erect.
"In Leith!"
Boy spoke quickly : "An' yer goin' ter see 'er . . .
in Leith?"
Dog Leyton was by the table, looking away ; and
then he turned suddenly, on fire again. . . . The
fire! . . . The fire!
The cape which had seemed still for an instant,
as if from pity, swung quickly into new activity.
The crowd had roared "The fire!" and fire it had;
the fighting man was in another frenzy. Fate
screamed its mad delight. Good sport, this man !
With a cry, Dog Leyton dashed the table on its
side.
"I'm goin' ter find the swine what took 'er, an'
left 'er, an' lied to 'er!"
Yes, he's quite mad, now. Gripping at an imagi-
nary man, he tears at the air; his hoarse voice
shouts :
"An' I'll rip 'im an' I'll tear 'im I'll "
Hands of steel had caught Foy's throat. He
cannot see who it is ; he is choking ; his strength is
as c. baby's.
The voice shouts: "Rip 'im, tear 'im . . . tear
'im!"
Suddenly the hands relax their cruel hold, the
sea captain catches at the collar of his shirt as
though to wrest away ghost fingers that are tearing
at his throat, and leaping into the air he pitches
FURY 133
forward, down upon his face! Down upon the
floor . . . and lies there very still!
Boy knelt down beside him. Sounds came from
him; stifling, sobbing sounds.
"Father! My father! Oh, father! Father!..."
CHAPTER IX
VAGUE, fleecy clouds swept past the pale
profile of a weeping moon. The wind
veered. The rain hesitated. The sea paused
for breath. And Looney Luke, who knew these
things, peered forth into a night of ghosts and
sighs, an eerie, moody night of things that passed
unseen.
He closed his eyes as if waiting for something;
his dripping shirt clung to his thin, warm frame,
its wet sleeves clapping ridiculously in the wind.
Looney Luke prayed.
"Oh, God, this night you're with us fer proper.
I feel yer breath upon me cheek. I feel yer will.
Yer needn't speak no more. But the lad what
comes to yer arms to-night . . . kiss 'is cheek and
hold 'im tight! Whether he is from The Lady
Spray, or a ship an 'undred miles away . . . for
Jesus' sake, amen!"
Opening his eyes, Looney Luke sighed, with the
sweet content of one who has laid his burden on
the shoulders of a strong friend. He knew the way
across the fallen leaves, into the peaceful glades
of perfect thought. He turned now at the sound
of voices when Mr. Hop spoke quickly to Morgan
at the wheel.
"Better come down right away. Quick!"
134
F U B Y 135
Morgan called Luke and after giving him the
wheel and a curt order, turned off down, asking a
hurried question which Mr. Hop was answering;
but the wind took their voices awaj.
Outside the cabin door they pushed past hands,
mysteriously informed that something had oc-
curred, standing taifrfag,, hatless, some coatiess, in
the rain.
Inside Morgan walked quickly forward to where
his Captain lay very still and looked down upon
the debris of a body.
In Morgan's glance there was nothing nothing
more than the glance one gives to a beetle just
crushed beneath a boot, its delicate, inert frame
sticking to the floor, its arms outstretched, plead-
ing to the Beetle God to end its agony.
Boy, kneeling by the bunk, had not looked up at
their entrance; but he had sensed the identity of
the tall shadows cast upon the wall beyond. No
one spoke until Mr. Hop looked up from another
brief examination.
"Can't do nothin'. Ifs just to wait, that's all!"
Boy would have arisen, but his father firmly held
his hand and lay there still, his eyes closed and
his face strangely blue.
"Whaf re yer a doctor fer, if yer can't do
nothin'?"
Mr. Hop did not reply. But Morgan spoke for
him. "There's times when the doctors themselves
can't do nothinV
Boy's head turned again to Ms father who had
136 FURY
moved slightly. He did not see Morgan glance
down upon the floor to where a scrap of paper lay
with an address written upon it, reach quickly
down, secure it and place it carefully in his pocket.
What did any one want with an address like
MacFarlane's Rescue Home? What
The captain's voice spoke softly, a painful
wheeze in it.
"Get out. I'll talk to Boy."
Without a word, the first mate left with Mr.
Hop.
Outside the men asked with their eyes: 'ad the
old 'un killed 'imself? . . . gone daffy? . . . dropped
dead?
That'd make Morgan skipper now!
The old 'un was 'ot, but this tall, silent, superior
cuss, . . . not much ! There'd be another ship ter
find fer some of them.
And they peered through the rain as Morgan,
talking quietly to Mr. Hop, passed along with
almost a jaunt in his stride, as though even now
he were master of The Lady Spray.
And she, herself?
The Lady Spray seemed to know that something
was changing within her. Her ship's heart beat
thumpily; ship-like, she shuddered irritably at the
light uncertain hands that turned her head again
and again from her course, which she could have
gone alone, she knew so well, as Looney Luke for-
got the wheel and the world to gaze wistfully at
the moon.
FURY 137
The weather started up again and with a ven-
geance. The wind set up a howl and sadness set
upon all sides as a black cloudbank veiled the moon
in crepe.
Boy, kneeling, heard the moan outside and shiv-
ered. His father, speaking almost easily, had told
him a lot, in measured, even phrases and he, Boy,
understood.
In those brief moments, his father's hand in his,
he'd met his mother. Her pale, sweet face had
been painted in Ms father's whispered words; the
tragedy of age touched his cheek and bleached
it. Boy was afraid to interrupt. He'd forgotten
that his father stood no more, but lay tired, breath-
less. He was painting vivid, definite pictures of
the might-have-been. It was a dream, all of it.
This was not his father . . < no! He had entered
a weird cavern where strange voices whispered of
things he vaguely knew about; where the two pale
ghosts of a girl and man kissed and peered away,
waiting for what? For happiness? No! It could
not be, because she swept away to leave the man
who loved her, but could not show her how much,
calling, an angry, agonized call.
And only the echoes answered mockingly and
then the man went mad and fell, and lay here
beside him on the bunk . . . and was bidding
him . . .
Leyton struggled and raised himself with his
arms.
He did not speak at once. His eyes were asking
138 FURY
a question, which was answered in the other eyes,
that said:
"Anything . . . anything yon may ask, father!
I'm your son. I love yon! Bid me!"
At length Leyton spoke: "I'm done, Boy. . . .
Some water."
The burning throat cleared gratefully as Boy
placed the empty glass upon the floor.
"Swear you'll find 'im . . . the one what took
'er . . . swear!"
The steady young voice answered him: "I
swear !"
"Swear on the soul of yer father, down below !"
A sudden cry, as Boy's head fell forward: "No;
no ... you ain't goin'! It's one of them passin'
fits. You ain't goin' ter die!"
With amazing strength his father lifted Boy's
head and held it between two rough wet hands, al-
most firmly.
"Swear you'll not marry no one, that you'll do
nothin' till you've found 'im !"
"Father, I swear. . . I swear!"
The oath broke off into a sob. "You look funny,
father ! I'll get 'Op Lemme go ! Lemme go !"
But the hands gripped him like a vise.
"You'll marry no one . . . you'll do nothin' till
you've found 'im and paid 'im."
Boy tugged at the hand that held his head.
"No, no! I won't do nothin'. See?"
The man on the bunk continued doggedly : "Hold
FURY 139
up yer 'and an' swear yer won't do nothin' until
you've got 'is throat like . . . like . . ."
A gurgling rattle . . . the voice trailed away
. . . and Boy laid his father back, calling loudly :
"Mr. Hop! Help!"
But the wind outside, laughing now, drowned the
voice.
He could not move because his hand was held
in the grip of death. He bent forward and over:
"You ain't gonna die! Yer goin' to Leith, to
mother! Yer goin' "
He stopped as two eyes opened and looked at
him . . . two calm, vague eyes but lighted. His
father spoke:
"Boy . . . I've loved ye all the time."
The eyes held, still looking up; dear, wonderful
eyes that must not go out; eyes, with fathomless
depths of love .
"All ... the time!"
Boy's eyes flooded with tears.
"No, no!"
Young tears dropped . . . pat, pat ... on his
father's cheek and mouth.
"Father! Don't! Yer can't. Yer goin' ter
mother! Ter mother!"
Then a heavy movement. Two big arms fell
around his neck and crushed, and pulled him
down, down against a cold, cold face, and a rasp
in his ear said:
"Kiss . . 'er fer me!"
140 FURY
Two burning lips found his, full upon his mouth,
and held . . . and throbbed . . . and stiffened.
One breath, a burning sigh, came upon his mouth,
and scorched. ... A tumbled, gray head rolled
back . . . down as from a mountain . . . back
upon his shoulder.
The moon cleared, full and white. A silver ave-
nue from the sea led to the skies . . . inviting, free
. . . and Luke saw a light pass slowly up and out
beyond ... a light that in its passing left Boy
huddled, and alone.
"Oh, God he is a funny bloke,
His moods they puzzle me
But always he comes smiling up,
At dawn across the sea!"
LOONEY LUKE'S POEMS
CHAPTER I
UNCERTAIN gray gave gentle place to rose.
The world seemed waiting. Far out to the
east, sullen black rollers, with whimsical
green smiles breaking 1 upon their crests, green,
white and gold. . . . Then of a sudden the world
awoke, as dawn flamed up.
And then it was, as Looney Luke wrote it the
following night in his book:
"This ain't a bloomin' poem, like the other things
I write. I don't know what it's going to be I'm
writing through the night; the kind of night that
follows on a day of tears and sighs, the kind of
night that seems to say, 'Man's finished when he
dies.' "
Here Luke's book showed a series of crossed-out
beginnings. And then, suddenly, the scrawl pro-
ceeded again, savagely, spitefully. . . .
"A gin-mad mother dropped 'er baby on its 'ead.
... I saw, I watched 'er silly grin when they
told 'er it was dead. I watched a muddy Malay
once slit his mother with a knife. And I stood
and watched at Tilbury when a sailor drowned
his wife. I see because I'm looking I want to
look at Life.
"My eyes dim very often and things have made
me weep, when I parade my living thoughts at
143
144 FURY
night upon the deep. But only once in all my life
I've asked my God a query. And I've been sick
like other men, and sad, in love and weary. But
what could Boy have ever done, that 'e should
suffer so ... when Dog Leyton went below?"
It must have been some time before Luke began
to write again, because the pages were wet and
creased. Then started a new page. . . .
"And now to set down what I saw at dawn, when
Boy looked down to find his father gorn.
"Slowly they came ahead . . . and Captain Mor-
gan led . . . and right behind his back . . . under
the Union Jack. . . . Dog Leyton, wrapped in
sack . . . and shadows played at hide-and-seek, on
the naked back of Zeis the Greek . . . and I could
hear the sweet-voiced sea sing 'Rock of Ages Cleft
for Me.' ... A hairy, heaving, troubled breast was
cool and still in death's deep rest . . . and night-
mare's torture turned to sleep . . . forever down
where sailors keep their peaceful watch in fathoms
deep.
"I smiled . . . Clancey riled . . . and kicked
my ankle as they passed ahead. ... I did not
walk. ... I do not follow dead. ... I stood
aside and watched them go ... poor, blinded hu-
mans walking slow ... in Death there's never-
ending joy. . . . But look! who follows last . . .
it's Boy!
"An' stepping round behind the hatch I knelt,
and prayed awhile, for him.
"When I arose the sun was blazin', out to the
FUKY 145
west the sea was hazin', as if in respect it had
drawn its veil. ... I turned I heard a long, low
wail. . . .
"The sea played the organ to Hop's thick voice;
Hop's own service had been Boy's choice . . . only
because he didn't know the difference from Allah
to Eskimo . . . and then Hop stopped and Morgan
spoke curt ... an order that cut, an order that
hurt . . . and figures walked forward . . . just
two. They knew what they were to do ... and
then of a sudden that awful cry . . . 'Oh, father,
me darlin', good-by, good-by !' '
Here many more pages were missed. And then,
draggily scrawled at the bottom of a page, words
seemed to wee . .
"I can't write no more to-night . . . winds
sighin' . . . I'm cryin' . . . poor Boy! poor Boy!
. . . rollin' an' turnin' . . . temples a-burnin' . . .
heartstrings a-yearnin' . . . comfort a-spurnin' . . .
tossin' an' moanin' down below. . . ."
Here the scrawl leaped suddenly to life. . . .
"Go on, Father, do it now ... in spite of yer
presence my heart does ache. . . . Go on, Father,
for Jesus' sake ... I can't write . . . me fingers
are thumbs. . . ."
Several lines were missed, and a hurried hand
had written strongly. . . .
"Thank you, my Father, here he comes. . . ."
And then, as Looney Luke said afterwards, Boy
came and sat beside him silently, the moon bathing
his white face, with a curious light.
CHAPTER II
THE blood of every man is salty like the sea.
But the Fury of these sea-drops of which
man so largely is composed has weakened
with time. He is glad to meet you whether he is
or not ; he is tactful to a point of secret dishonesty
to himself; he agrees when he does not agree; he
laughs when he is not amused; he bows over the
white hand of the woman he does not respect.
With man in these days policy supplants pas-
sion, finesse replaces Fury. Man's Fury is abat-
ing.
The British Fury of Ypres, the French Fury of
the Marne, the American Fury of Chateau Thierry
prove the contrary, you say? No; they were not
Fury, they were ordered and prescribed collective
energies, expended violently, to be sure, but with
method.
A war was won. A world (all said and some
still say) was made safe for democracy.
But it was not through Fury of attack or
counter. The war was won because orders were
obeyed. In the chronicles are admitted startling,
wonderful bits, isolated and individual instances
of personal Fury.
As the Americans in the Argonne who disobeyed
their G.H.Q. to obey their internal call; and their
146
FURY 147
triumph in that enterprise will go down into his-
tory. It was Fury.
The single French poilu skewering enemies upon
a bayonet; the little British raiding parties, of
three or four men at a time, and all the aviators,
were splendidly furious.
But with the collar and tie again have come the
smile and the lie.
Man's Fury is abating. He does not want to
fight.
Man's muscles of resistance against women and
wine, the bet on the race and the other furious
pastimes of his fathers, are replaced by laws.
Much exercise that might build social strength thus
is checked. Man no longer needs to train for life;
modern virile strength is principally of mind, use-
ful in mathematics, politics, Wall Street or stra-
tegic love affairs. Muscle of the body and glory
of the soul seem not to be considered necessary.
Life has become a generous sealed handicap.
Your true sportsman of the past would turn
away from the track of to-day the track, or the
ring, or the war, or the commerce, or the courtship
of to-day bored, annoyed and enraged.
The element of chance is in process of elimina-
tion. Another kind of race is on : the race to the
handicapper's ear. It is a race of whispered wit,
of sinister handshakes, of subtle traffickings in
honor, of sacrifice of sentiment for gold or the ad-
vertising modernly named Glory a race without
Fury.
148 PUKY
Sprinkled lightly about the world, however, are
to be found places where the sun of impulse still
shines upon plains, among mountains and espe-
cially upon the rolling decks of the real ships, man
still breathes and lives in the mental and physical
simplicity for which God made him, a creature of
truth, love, hate . . . and Fury.
CHAPTER III
SEVERAL knots of sea had whirled the log
before Boy spoke. Looney Luke watched him
silently . . . furiously. Boy's eyes, no longer
wet, glinted unusually ; his figure that had drooped
in sorrow now was straight ; the slow, grief -numbed
movement of limb had been replaced by quick, lithe
grace; and the voice, no longer thick, rang out
clearly.
"Luke, ye were fine! Thank ye, Luke!"
Boy's cool, firm hand gripped gratefully.
Luke's God answered prayers! . . . Boy had
never looked so splendid, Luke was positive, and,
as he arose, even the moon, admiring him humbly
played calcium and lit him to advantage.
Then her hero and Luke's in the center of that
tiny stage, the deck, stepped to the rail and looked
off.
The night was beautiful, perfect. The pulse of
Nature throbbed normally again. Boy and the sea
and the perfect night, Luke thought. But quickly
he knew better.
There was a new touch of marble; no, of steel,
in Boy's splendor, as Luke now comprehended it
. . . and he did comprehend.
Boy knew better even than Luke that large
things had happened in him.
A new-lit glint was in those eyes that peered into
149
150 FUKY
a future changed beyond the power of recognition.
It was as if, Boy thought, it was another's life into
which he had been shifted by magic.
Yesterday he had seen ahead Min and love no
further off than Leith. To-day they were immeas-
urably distant. For impending periods of uncer-
tain length he must do stealthy searching with a
killing at its end!
Really there was no Min, any more; there was
only another man, identity unknown as yet, who
must be found and forthwith slain because a
sailor's oath had been recorded before the Notary
of Death.
Hate in Boy's eyes as the puzzled Luke looked
at them? No! Passion? No? In them the calm
and solid look of a man resolved. It seemed, Luke
thought, to attract the sea, which, like a great lady
at an ancient joust, lay back and waved her fan,
and, smiling, blew a kiss to the fighter whom she
loved.
Luke moved away and hid in the dark fo'c'sle.
Boy, by himself on deck, also was conscious of
the sea's momentary lazy femininity. He, too, felt
that she was watching him with careless interest,
idly urging him along to the small tragedy which
must be so great to him . . . urging him while, at
the same time, another voice within his soul tor-
mented him by whispering: "Min . . . Min . . .
Min!"
Perhaps the greatest tragedy of every war is that
as each fighter marches toward Glory for a Cause
FUKY 151
the memory-ghost of some dear woman drags at
him and drags at him and tries to drag him back
to a forgetfulness of Duty, whispering in his ear
some musical, loved name, as something whispered
now to Boy, unceasingly (even while the other
words were whirling in his soul) : "Min . . . Min
. . . Min!"
"Swear yer will marry nobody, do nothin', until
" the wash repeated carefully, succinctly, never
changing a word by accident, trying never to leave
a second in which Boy might lay aside the burden
of his oath; but his soul's plea: "Min . . . Min
. . . Min!" was never drowned.
The voice of the wash was steady, unemotional,
persistent ; and Boy knew that that wash or some-
thing would say that forever . . . forever . . .
unless . . . No, no; not forever! Only until *
wife-thief gasped and paid!
The wash would know when Boy had kept his
oath; it always knew; and when it knew, then it
would say:
"Well done . . . well done . . . well done!"
And it would say that forever, too ; the wash was
fair.
Even when Boy, later, was wrapped tight below
and trying to sleep the stern sea ordered him:
"You've got it to do ! You've got it to do ! You've
got it to do!" and his dead father commanded:
"Swear you will marry nobody ... do nothin'
. . . until "; and through it all his own soul
sobbed in agony: "Min . . . Min . . . Min!"
152 FURY
Would the North Sea whisper to him after he
had trod the paths of tragedy: "Well done . . .
well done," and when he had lost all through the
fulfillment of his oath would it matter to him
whether it did or not?
Now, when his soul whispered, "Min . . . Min
. . . Min !" the sea along the freeboard, just above
his head, chuckled.
Min would be in Leith waiting, by now.
Why had Dog Leyton said: "Do not marry
until"
Had he meant, Don't marry Min? He had
known that Min was waiting at Leith for Boy.
He had known that, right enough, because he had
said he knew it. Why "don't marry?"
Death does not wait for waning Life to give its
reasons.
"Swear yer will marry nobody until ," the wash
repeated firmly.
And he had sworn the oath! Poor Min! Poor
Boy!
For a sailor's oath is a sailor's oath and when a
thing must be it must be. Yer don't blabber, yer
don't talk, yer just do ! That was that.
Following this reflection the wash was quieter,
as if it felt that it might cease its whispering be-
cause it had served its purpose perfectly.
Min would have to be brave, too. And she would
be. Min had been trained in Bravery's school.
Her curious courage had come to her from the
FURY 153
breast of that ghost-mother who had fought against
her tragic coming.
Yes, she'd be brave all right, Min would! She
had her honor, too; there wasn't no one in the
world with more honor than Min! And she'd
bow, swing her all ... her love . . . her hope
. . . her dreams . . . yes, and her babies would
be younger when she died in consequence, perhaps
a year, perhaps two , . . and then perhaps no
babies at all.
For him, either. No crinkling, wonderful pink
things to toddle to Boy and call him "Daddy !"
But Min would support him in the keeping of a
sailors oath; she was of the sea; of the deep sea;
and to one of the sea an oath to the dead. . . .
Yes; Min would bow.
Boy did not know that Pinkie had said those
things to Min on the train about sticking tight
and all that.
How could he? He was at sea when that had
happened and when Pinkie on land had pulled a
lever at dawn that morning, to pass on to God
another boy who had avenged. It all had hap-
pened at just about the time that Boy had watched
something else pass out of sight forever.
So of course Boy had not heard those last words
of Pinkie's to Min "stick tight!" At that mo-
ment he had been kneeling . . . swearing before
his dying father.
But he knew that if she did stick tight it would
154 FURY
be a grim and not a joyous thing as they had
thought. But he believed she'd stick.
He did not know that or anything; she did not
know; nobody knew. Who knows anything, any-
way?
Perhaps the sea does . . . and always has . . .
and did. At any rate now she whispered . . .
"Min! . Min!" . . and chuckled.
PART V
"I know now what the witches said
To Macbeth on the heath,
And why some people should be dead;
I learned a lot in Leith."
LOONBY LUKE'S POEMS
CHAPTER I
THE Thistle Hotel, Waterfront, Leith, Scot-
land, very old and very small, from the out-
side looked dirty and sulky in the drizzling
rain at seven o'clock of the morning following the
arrival of a certain lady guest from London.
But inside could be heard the cheery crackling
of a fire new lit in the saloon bar, the rattle of cups
and saucers and spoons, the general music of break-
fast, all harmonizing nicely with the distant voice
of the lady singing upstairs.
It smelt of stale beer and smoke; but still it was
warm and homey inside, even when the voice of
the lady upstairs fell into silence after a bang of
a distant door.
In the saloon bar, which was a room and not
actually a bar, Mrs. Ross, the proprietress, busied
herself with table cloth, spoons and marmalade-
pot. She was not fat, as she should have been,
this Mrs. Ross, and she did not wear diamonds in
the morning as the proprietress of an hotel should
have done. Instead, she was gaunt, and gray, and
dressed in black.
She placed on the table between a knife and fork
a piece of paper with something written upon it.
She was pleased. It had been four years since the
word "Hotel," painted large outside, had been jus-
is:
158 FURY
tified by The Thistle. Folk only came there to
drink and fight, in spite of cards hung promi-
nently, signed "Mrs. Angus Ross, proprietress," to
state the fact that one might also sleep for mod-
erate prices in the venerable building.
But now it was a hotel in truth again. Did it
not possess a lady house-guest from London? The
gallant Angus Ross, of the Black Watch, killed at
Arras for his King, the Angus whose picture in full
uniform hung over the fire, seemed to smile whim-
sically at his wife's pleasure. At any rate the fire-
glow played flickeringly round and about his firm
mouth.
The lady house-guest was a "wee, sparre bairn,"
and yet ate a large amount of everything. Lon-
doners were funny. They ate and yet they were
thin. They sang when they were sad (not that
the lady guest was sad ; oh, no ! ) but she sang all
the time and one cannot be that happy. They have
money which they take care every one shall see, and
yet bargain over a ha'penny cookie. Strange crea-
tures, truly, Londoners!
But people from other countries were different,
naturally. There was only one Scotland in the
world !
This lady guest, this winsome wee lassie, cer-
tainly was too happy for Leith. What was the
use of being happy? It only made your sadness
sadder when it came, as it was sure to. But then,
Londoners didn't know much anyway. How could
they? They're not Scotch!
FUEY 159
"Good morning, Mrs. Ross !" a piping voice said
seriously. "It ain't arf a mornin', ain't it ... fer
the ducks !" The voice laughed heartily at its own
joke and Miss Brent, the lady house-guest from
London, went to the fire and warmed her clean,
red hands.
"It's rainin' oot, lassie, ye were sayin'?"
"Yes; blimey, what a day fer the ole man ter
come 'ome ter 'is ole woman!" This thought
seemed to make Min very happy.
"An' what auld folk werre ye referrin' to,
lassie?"
"Eh?" Min looked blank. The old lady talked
like somebody falling downstairs. What was she
driving at?
And the very Scotch Mrs. Eoss left the room.
Why wait to hear the answer? It didn't matter.
The odor of bacon kissed Min's nose, and the siz-
zling song of frying eggs wafted in from the
kitchen, filling the entr'acte until Mrs. Ross re-
turned, with a large teapot.
"I will be havin' me oon breakfast her-re wi' ye,
if ye've no obje-e-ection, Miss Br-rent!"
Blimey ! This was the goods, all right ! If Min
had no objection! She'd lain in bed until hunger
bade her rise, and dressing with care, singing, she'd
wondered several times if it was all a dream. She
has also touched wood.
But here she was, smelling bacon, hearing eggs,
seeing tea, warmed by a fire, nothing to do but eat
a lot, sit by that fire, talk a lot, dream a lot and
160 FUEY
wait for Boy her Boy to come and splice her.
She had some brass in her bag, too; she could
buy something if she wanted to ; a beautiful hat if
she'd a mind to walk a bit; a brolley to push up
if it was still raining. This week's Heartsease
novel was lying, casual-like, on the bed upstairs;
there was a bathroom, with a bath in that you
could sit down in, for tuppence a go!
And Min had had her two-pennorth of that all
right, last night. Two hours for tuppence and
she'd nearly fallen asleep, there in the water.
She'd sat down slow, so that the warm wet came
up her body creepy like. She'd only been in a
bath that you could sit in once before. But
you've got to have it rough to get it really smooth
afterwards. And this was smooth all right. Here
was the lady what owned the place saying with her
own mouth to Min:
"If you've no objection."
If Min had no objection! Ha, ha! that was a
funny one!
Min didn't answer. You could have knocked her
over with a feather.
Mrs. Boss hadn''t waited for her to answer, so
Min sat down in the place, the one opposite from
the fire, and then Mrs. Boss entered with break-
fast.
What a breakfast! Bacon, eggs, scones, marma-
lade, tea and as much as you could get down of it !
Min ate in silence and Mrs. Ross ate one muffin
with some butter on it, and was on her second cup
FURY 161
of tea when somebody tapped with a penny on the
public bar, which was just through the door from
the saloon. Mrs. Ross rose and said, "Excuse me,"
to Min, who couldn't think quickly enough of the
right answer, so that Mrs. Ross, taking things for
granted, had left before Min said:
"Don't mensh, ma'am!"
Then she heard a woman's voice in the next bar
say: "Two of rum, cold."
Min shuddered. That was Ma Brent's eye-
opener in the morning. Only not two of rum, cold ;
oh, no, my dear six of rum, cold, if you please,
was far more like it.
She heard Mrs. Ross say:
"It's very early, Tillie, won't you take a cup of
tea instead? Have it on the house to warm your
stomach?"
She was a good old sport, this 'ere Mrs. Ross was.
"Tea!" the thick voice of the other woman rang
out, scornfully. "Tea!"
Then the voice muffled down and Min heard the
clink of a bottle and glass and the tinkle of the
bell in the cash register.
Min was still eating when Mrs. Ross returned.
"Another egg, lassie?"
Min, with her mouth full, nodded. She felt
warm, her ear was burning, the left one ; Boy was
talking of her.
Of course he was! What else would he talk
about? She caught sight of a piece of paper in
front of her, as she lifted her plate for the egg.
162 FURY
She picked it up with her other hand. It read like
this:
One Day's Board and Room 3/6
One Bath, Special 6
Heel of Shoe Repaired, paid for at bar. . . l/-
Accounts rendered daily.
What was the extra fourpence for on the bath?
Oh, well! The lady guest from London smiled
tolerantly. She smiled at the serious face of Mrs.
Ross, and said lightly:
"You ain't arf Scotch, all right, are yer?"
But what did fourpence matter? Pshaw! She'd
got a lot more fourpences left.
She pushed away her plate and leaned back with
a contented sigh. Her tummy pushed against her
waist belt. The clock struck eight. The penny
tapped again on the bar, and again Mrs. Ross left;
this time she did not say "Excuse me."
Heigh ho! What strange things manners are!
Sometimes you do, and then sometimes you don't.
Min didn't care much. Heigh ho ! She was up in
society; yes, she was that right enough; but when
you're full to the brim, contented, you don't worry
much about what any one does or says.
She sighed again. She felt so well. She could
hear the bottle and glass again in the public bar,
and then some more people talking. Men, sailors
by the sound of them. A boat was in. Then, sud-
denly the thought! The Lady Spray perhaps!
FURY 163
Peeping through the door she saw four strange
sailors and one old totter, the old lady whom Mrs.
Ross had called Tillie; crazy old thing she looked,
with her back towards her.
The sailors were drunk already and were chip-
ping Tillie, who grinned and said something which
Min understood well enough, but which made her
shudder, all the same; the kind of talking that
didn't go well on top of a beautiful breakfast and
a burning ear from the Boy what was coming
home to-day.
She turned away, and singing passed upstairs.
And her voice was the voice of the lady who was
singing upstairs earlier in the morning.
Across the bed in her room lay her trousseau
a nightgown, pink, with ribbons in it, and two other
garments that you don't talk of, let alone write
about, but very pretty all the same.
These latter had to be threaded with ribbon. So
sticking some dainty pink ribbon to the eye of a
darning needle, with a firm hand, Minnie started
to work, singing:
"Father got the sack from the water-works,
Through smoking his little, cherry briar;
The foreman said he had done wrong,
'Cause he might 'ave set the water-works on fire."
Minnie laughed. Bloomin' funny song that was !
Ha, ha ! She always laughed when she sang it, she
did. Her and Boy had heard it together, down at
the Poplar Hippodrome. A beautiful lady sang
164 FUKY
it, with feathers and ribbons, like . . . yes, just
like Min was now.
"'E might 'ave set the water-works on fire!"
Ha, ha! Bloomin' funny! She laughed again.
She always did when she sang it. When she
finished laughing she sighed. Gawd ! She was the
happy one, all right.
CHAPTER II
IT was three o'clock. The rain had not abated,
but The Lady Spray really was in. Morgan,
and Mr. Hop had gone to the company's office
and only a few of the crew were off. There was
little gossip about Morgan. He was due to be
Master all right.
Clancey caught up with Boy walking down the
waterfront toward The Thistle.
"What's up, Boy? You look as though you'd
broke a winder."
Boy did not answer. They were passing The
Robin Hood, a tiny pub where the beer was good,
and Clancey said: "Come in an' 'ave one, Mr. L."
Boy stopped. He did not drink, but he was
afraid to go on to The Thistle alone. No, not
afraid, but . . .
He allowed Clancey to take his arm and pull him
into The Robin Hood's stuffy bar.
Clancey said, "Hello !" all round and grinned at
the tall, blonde barmaid.
" 'Ello, Mildred oP girl ! I'm travelin' in society.
I got Mr. Leyton, second mate, 'long with me."
Mildred extended across the bar a large white
hand with rings on it and Boy, after looking at it
for a moment, took hold of it and shook it up and
down about twice.
165
166 FURY
"What's yer pleasure, Mr. Ley ton? Delighted,
I'm sure."
"Ginger beer, please."
"Stone's? Or White's? Which d'yer prefer,
Mr. Ley ton?"
"Oh, I dunno ; just ginger beerll do."
Clancey lit a Woodbine.
"We ain't pertickler, sweetheart. Make mine a
bitter in a tankard, will yer?"
Clancey felt pretty good. Why shouldn't he?
He'd like to know why not. He'd had a couple and
there wasn't a blinking cloud on his horizon, not
as he could see.
Never had been. He just went on, and drank a
bit, and swore all the time, shaved occasionally,
and loved the girls, old or young, according to the
degrees of his intoxication. Old 'uns would put
up with most anything. Young 'uns well, you
have to be alive ; you can be drunk, but you got to
be merry drunk. The young 'uns wouldn't hold
you up from falling down, unless it was one who
loved you, and then she'd hold on forever ; and who
in the name of Satan wanted any one in love with
'im hanging on all the time? And then who in the
name of Satan would be falling in love with
Clancey?
So there it was, and there was Clancey, talking
quietly to Mildred the bar-maid, and glancing again
and again furtively round at Boy who had stepped
over to gaze absently at some pictures on the walls
of ships at sea.
FURY 167
"We dropped 'is ole man over, a day ago. He's
a bit down, the boy is. Shove a good slog of gin
in that ginger beer; 'e won't know no differ-
ent."
Mildred had already noted Boy's eyes. She
liked dark eyes. She tried to darken her own.
"But if the young man don't drink, Mr.
Clancey!" she remonstrated.
Clancey spoke quickly: "G'wan, Mil, it'll do 'im
good. He's in bad weather, an' it'll buck 'im up
a bit. G'wan. Don't say nothin'. 'Ere's a shillin'
for it."
Boy came back to the bar. His throat was dry
and the ginger-beer looked wet. He drained his
glass. He was dry, all right.
"Give us a Woodbine, Clancey, an' fill 'em up
again, Miss, please."
"The same, Mr. Leyton?"
"Yes, I reckon so. W T hat about it, Clancey?"
"Oh, the same, my darlin' angel" ; and Clancey
leaned across and touched Mildred's red cheek
meaningly. And then turning to Boy he spoke:
"You're gettin' a reg'lar land lad, smokin' an'
every thin', now the old 'un's gone."
Boy turned. "Oh, it gives yer somethin' ter do.
A bloke looks stronger with a fag or a pipe in 'is
mouth."
Clancey thought for a moment. He seldom
thought, but he often looked as if he might be
thinking. He spoke conversationally, throatily, in
the voice he had used when he had said : "Thank
168 FURY
you all, very kindly, I'm sure," once, at the Buf-
falos' Lodge, in Limehouse. It was his best voice.
"Oh, I don't know, Mr. L. ; now ter my way of
thinkin' a cigar carried proper in yer mouth tops
yer off right like." He turned to the bar-maid.
"Give us a couple of tup'ny stinkers, Mil."
The drinks and cigars arrived together.
Boy's ginger beer tasted a little bitterer even
than before. Clancey's other shilling slipped
nimbly under the cigar-box, indicating to the very
fly Mildred that she must charge Boy only for one
bitter and one ginger ale, and not for the gin.
Then some one came and spoke to Clancey, a girl
with a certain kind of face, under a certain kind
of tam-o'-shanter drawn sharply over one eye, and
high black boots, dirty and with some buttons off.
Clancey put his arm around her thin waist, and
drew her forward to Boy.
" 'Ere y'are, Mr. L. 'Ere^s a picture for yer.
Love yer Clan, do yer? You're a bunny lassie, all
right. 'Ave a spot with Clan, will yer?"
The girl of course assented and Clancey com-
menced whispering to her. She struggled free and
giggled. He took a step to her and drew her away
from Boy, still whispering, with a look in his eye
that some men have sometimes.
Boy leaned against the bar. He was throbbing.
He did not drink; he never had; but now he had
and didn't know it. He only knew that he had a
burning desire to think, and his thoughts were con-
FURY 169
fusedly tumbling and pushing each other over and
around in his brain.
What was the first step? What?
He had not lighted his cigar; he would save it.
He felt different, stronger, less afraid to go to The
Thistle, The Thistle where Min was waiting.
He took mental reckoning and found where he
was now, but . . . still, he didn't quite know
where he was, although he had known that just
that very instant when he had taken his reckoning.
What would he say first to Min? No; he
wouldn't think of that part first. He couldn't
think of those things. You can't think about
them. He'd think of that when the time came.
But it didn't hurt to think of the job he was t&
do, to "find the one that took her."
Gawd! The bloke what took his mother! The
one that caused everything!
His father would have lived another twenty
years if that thing hadn't happened and would
have been a lot different, probably ; and Boy would
have had a mother to kiss and say "Mother" to.
Another ginger beer appeared at his elbow.
Clancey was treating again, and Boy was thirsty.
He drank half of it.
"I gave 'im a good one that time," Mildred whis-
pered to Clancey. "He looks so sad, poor laddie !"
The girl in the tam-o'-shanter looked across at
Boy who was looking at nothing.
"Now, now, flirty, flirty!"
170 FUEY
Clancey engaged her attention again; but from
the corner of her eye she watched, attracted by
Boy, who was perfectly still, looking at nothing.
A mother to kiss and say "Mother" to. Yes,
Boy would have loved that.
CHAPTER III
IN the dim days to come when school children
will hear about kings and titles that existed
through these ancient times when the flood
and the great war, Nero and Edison, lie snugly
together, page on page in future history books,
God, the King of Kings, will stfll be bidding
woman kneel and, touching her upon the shoulder,
will be bidding her Rise . . . Mother!
Thus then as now the greatest title of all time
(in the eyes of God Almighty and good men) will
still be spoken . . . Mother!
Men will leave her at home, they'll kiss her,
they'll forget her, they'll love her, they'll abuse
her, they'll worship her; perhaps, in those days,
even if she be one who, like Minnie's mother, fails
to register before God or the Law, the intention
of becoming Mother and get a license, they will
lift her into a great Parliament of all Parliaments,
an uppermost of all governing chambers, the House
of Mothers!
Perhaps they will, perhaps they won't. But
she'll be Mother all the same a good mother or
a bad mother.
The word Mother bridges the entire expanse be-
tween the elements of the best good and the worst
bad. Your good Mother is the nearest thing on
171
172 P U E Y
earth to God ; your bad Mother is the nearest thing
on earth to Hell and its governing power.
Oh, child, always her baby! Our Mother! yours
and mine! Look into her eyes, or ...
If she is with God, close your eyes and ask Him
to place her again in your memory as she was.
He'll lend her ; of course he will. She is still yours
and always will be yours, waiting for you, her arms
outstretched . . . those sweet limbs that perhaps
you yourself crossed upon her still, cool breast.
But when you find them waiting you will know
that all the time they have been warm and strong
(there in Eternity) for you.
If she still lives and you lately have not seen
her, go to her and look into her eyes and find there
that which you have longed for while you have
been out in the world. Hold her hand very gently,
pause a moment, then say these words:
"I love you, my Mother !"
She will turn and you will find that peace will
come and fears will pass. You will live again.
Is she waiting now to hear the voice of one of
us exclaim: "I love you, my Mother"? or to open
a telegram : "I love you, my Mother"? Or to hear
God say: ''Your son or your daughter have been
saying, down on earth, and deeply thinking, *I love
you, my Mother !' "
How can her parting diminish her use, her love!
She is your birthright; she is your Mother still,
always your Mother.
Her breath will brush your cheek and then that
FURY 173
cheek will rest upon her hair. She will tuck the
bedclothes around your back, if the night is cold,
and open wide the window upon summer nights
however many summers old you are and when
you tell her what you've done, and what you're
going to do and what you've heard folks say of
you, pride will light her eyes. She will not speak
at once, perhaps because she cannot, but always
she will understand and never will she think you
boast. And if pain racks you or you sorrow, if
you are in agony of mind or soul, oh, she will com-
fort you.
Then you want to doze to the music of her sweet
"Good Night, and God bless you, my darling!"
And she will tiptoe away and turn and look back
at you from the door.
Mother of God, Mother of you and Mother of
me, Mother of all men . . . gray, pink and white,
gentle, soft and beautiful! Her hands are warm,
however cold they are; to steal to her and kiss her
is to tiptoe up to God and kiss Him.
Mother, my own Mother . . . how I love you!
CHAPTER IT
A MOTHER to kiss and say "Mother" to ...
yes ; Boy would have loved that !
He drained the rest of his ginger beer and
stood up. He must find his mother first. She was
in Leith; he knew that; but why hadn't his father
told him where in Leith? There were so many
things he should have asked, but it was too late
now . . . too late!
In his pocket, a hundred and forty pounds, his
father's fortune . . . his ; but his father's first for
his task wherever that man was he must find him
and then . . . kill!
Kill? Did his father mean kill? That would
mean escape after; escape into silence; or perhaps
arrest and death for himself and a broken heart for
Min. Poor Min her heart was going to break,
anyway! Why . . . why?
Had his father thought that out? Was that why
he put the marriage thing in the oath . . . out of
consideration for Min? He'd called her dirty,
though.
Boy's mouth tightened. The gin surged and bit-
tered his mood.
Kill? What for? Two deaths didn't make a life.
Luke had whispered that. But Luke hadn't lost a
mother and a father through one man. And Luke
hadn't sworn . . .
174
FURY 175
If he broke his oath, he'd never be a man again.
And not even that would be fair to Min, because
she wouldn't marry a man if he broke his oath.
For then it wouldn't be a man she'd be marrying;
no, it'd be a scared, hunted lout, a funk, a dirty
funk who had gone back on his sailor's oath, who'd
lied to the dead (and the dead were waiting to
welcome yer or damn yer, Looney Luke said) and
he wanted to kiss his father again when he met
him, like the kiss he'd had before. . . . No; there
wasn't any way of being fair to Min, just now!
The die was cast. Min, love, hope, everything
must go. He must kill this man !
Shoot him ? No. His father had said, "Get his
throat!"
It must be a man-fight. God, what a bloody
fight it was going to be ! If this man was any size,
it would be a fight all right! Boy's muscles
tautened, his eyes blazed, he stood up. But he
must find this mother first.
Mother! What would she look like? What
would he do? What would she say? What would
it matter? He'd have to leave her right away . . .
to go and kill that man.
A good idea: He wouldn't let her know who he
was. Why grieve a mother you've just found?
He'd just find her and help her vanish to do his
bit of tragedy. Min . . . she'd . . . well, some-
thing would take care of that. Maybe his mother
and Min . . .
He moved toward the door.
176 FUEY
Clancey called after Mm: "Wait a minute!"
"Ask 'im if 'e wants a nice Scotch girl," piped
the girl in the tam-o'-shanter.
Clancey laughed. "I reckon that's just what 'e
does want. We may be back. A few more ginger-
beers ... eh? ... he will, anyway. 'S'long, Mil;
s'long all."
The door slammed.
Mil turned to the lassie with the certain kind of
face, under a certain kind of tam-o'-shanter.
"Get out o' 'ere, you! You ain't accompanied.
You know the rules of the 'ouse!"
Without a word the girl in the tam-o'-shanter
slunk through the door.
"The idea of a thing like 'er, lookin* at that
boy !" Mildred mumbled as she polished the glasses,
and mused: "He'd nice eyes, with a lot of dark
spots in 'em." Mil, like Min, read the Heartease
library. "Yes, he was a nice boy fresh and young.
A few more ginger beers like that an' "
Mil was over thirty, but she broke a glass
in her hand because she polished it so furiously.
CHAPTER V
LADY SPRAY was in; Red, off of her,
had been in the public bar of The Thistle
and had a couple. There Min had ques-
tioned him. Yes; he'd seen Boy coming off same
time as he did. Boy had most likely gone down
to the office, or, still more probably, had gone off
to buy something; a present maybe.
Red mentioned nothing of Dog Leyton's death,
perhaps because he was drunk; and then again
Red was the kind that wouldn't mention it anyway.
Min had had a wonderful day; a day kissed
every moment with tingling, wonderful anticipa-
tion. She'd had another bath, and shampooed her
hair with some perfumed powder from the chemist.
She'd looked at her little body in the glass in the
bathroom. She was filling out already, and that
reminded her; she tried on the new nightdress.
It was a bit Frenchy and low, was it too low?
She turned around before the little mirror. No,
she didn't think so.
And then those roses, three of them that she had
sent the cellar-man out for. They'd cost one-and-
six, a tanner each, but they were worth it all right.
Pink, they were, and getting lighter at the edges;
and the smell ooh!
Min had never before owned a rose; she'd seen
them at the hospital, though, and now she gazed
177
178 F U K Y
spellbound into the flowers, and she didn't know
why, but the color was so soft, and they were so
clean, with specks of water on (dew, maybe) that
they made her feel as if she was in a church. She
trembled and put them in a glass, the one that
she'd got from the bathroom and had cleaned her
teeth in.
Oh, there was that, too. She had got a brush
and some pink paste from the chemist; the paste
tasted nice and she wanted to eat it; and after
she'd cleaned them, Min's teeth looked white, ex-
cept the one which was a little bit gone at the side.
She'd been to the Dental Hospital once with
Mrs. Fels' eldest daughter, but some one had
screamed in the next room and she had run out,
and it hurt her gums to clean her teeth, so that
she'd never bothered.
But to-day everything had got to look white and
pink, like the bed and her nightdress.
She'd got into bed and held up the mirror to see
how she looked in bed, and turning on her side
she'd imagined Boy, her husband, lying there,
sleeping; and leaning over she pretended that she
kissed his forehead and he smiled in his sleep.
Dressed, she had donned those things that she'd
put ribbon into. They felt warm and soft next to
her skin.
She'd scrubbed her hands and touched her face
with some flour from the kitchen. Now then,
would she leave the roses in the glass beside the
bed and her nightdress ... or ...
FURY 179
She went to the door and opened it, pretending
she was Boy. What would he see, when they came
up together? Pink and white! Pink and white!
Well, she'd go both ways; she'd wear them and
then when they came up ... after the marriage,
when she started to ... undress, she'd slip them
again into the glass next the bed, all pink and
white, as she'd be in a minute . . . then!
Everything was coming that way ; there was old
Pinkie . . . she shuddered. A shadow seemed to
cross the room and his low voice vibrate she
could almost hear him again; and he was right,
all right, that Pinkie!
"You're on the threshold of Life's sweetest
journey; stick tight . . . stick tight!"
Then some one knocked at the door, and a voice
outside told her that some one had asked for her
downstairs.
It was Boy Boy at last.
She trembled violently. At last!
She sat down on the bed for a moment to steady
herself. She took a deep breath, and rose and
crossed, and put on the hat with the feathers on.
CHAPTER VI
"T TT THAT a game! We pull out to-night for
%/ Y London," said Captain Morgan as he
left the office with Mr. Hop at his side.
Morgan waited while Mr. Hop asked some one
for a match to light his pipe. Captain Morgan did
not smoke, and he fidgeted restlessly upon the
corner until Mr. Hop, tucking his books carefully
under his arm and exuding clouds of smoke, came
forward beaming.
"Congratulations, Captain."
They stood on the corner, chatting, one very tall
and one very short. Morgan spat.
"Boy's first, you're second mate now "
"Yes, Captain, I gathered that from Mr. Rogers
while I was waiting. I expect you spoke a good
word for me, sir?"
"I did. And I reckon it won't be long before
ye're first mate. I'll buck Clancey up then. I've
give him your berth for now."
"Things are changin' quickly." Mr. Hop looked
up.
"They ain't changin' as they're goin' to change."
Mr. Morgan looked down. "If that brat ain't
already jumped, he soon will when I get after
Mm."
Morgan's eyes narrowed while Mr. Hop stood
and puffed complacently at his pipe.
180
FURY 181
Then Morgan spoke again : "The Company's keen
on the boy, so I'll have to take 'im back to London
with us, but after that it will be time enough.
Savvy?"
"I think I understand you, Captain." Mr. Hop
looked up. It commenced to rain again. "Have
a drink, Captain?"
Morgan did not answer; but he walked on. Mr.
Hop's short legs stretched after him.
"Kobin Hood, Captain?"
Morgan looked down. "The Eobin Hood's not a
master's house; you ought to know that."
"Oh, beg pardon, Captain. The Thistle then?
Eh, what?"
Captain Morgan walked on; he did not answer.
The rain pattered down about them, but men
like that do not notice rain.
They passed under a sign, "MacFarlane Eescue
Home." Morgan glanced up a tragic house, wet,
black, and dismal.
Morgan walked on. Men like that don't no-
tice .
CHAPTER VII
BOY, twiddling his father's watch chain, stood
before the fire in the saloon bar of The
Thistle and waited.
Two other occupants of the saloon talked quietly
and then stopped to laugh at something one of
them had said. They looked up as Mrs. Boss came
and spoke to them, and then they rose and left,
glancing at Boy curiously.
"I thought you'd like to be alone, Meester
Leyton."
Boy said, "Thank you," mechanically.
"Would ye care f orr a bit of quiet supperr after
the weddin', Mr. Leyton?"
Boy answered the one word, "No," mechanically.
To-day had been a singularly happy one for the
sad lady in black. The smoky air had been charged
with vital romance. Min had talked on and on
of love and of Boy and she had actually left her
lunch untouched, which, after all, was so much
saving for the house, and Mrs. Ross was Scotch,
even if sometimes sentimental.
"Saving room for tea with Boy," Min had ex-
plained. Then she had discoursed of things that
made Mrs. Ross disinclined to eat; and when Min
had skipped off for her bath, Mrs. Ross had spoken
182
FURY 183
quietly to brave Angus there, over the fireplace,
of the days when . . .
Yes, Mrs. Boss had laughed and wept (and
profited) that day, and here was the braw laddie
that she had almost learned to love herself.
How well she remembered when his father, Dog
Leyton, had brought him into The Thistle as a tiny
toddling boy, and Angus and she had given him
a scone with jam on it, and then he'd dozed and
his little wistful eyes had cried in the smoke, and
at closing time, he had been asleep and Dog
Leyton, drunk, had thrown this same Boy across
his shoulder and staggered with him back to The
Lady Spray and the laughing sea.
She had not seen Boy for some years, and she
thought him changed. She had been a wee bit
hurt at his failure to recall the scones and the ,
marmalade, when he came in.
He had been curt, almost rude. He had been in !
London, perhaps, and that had spoiled him.
Ah, but the little lass upstairs would soon j
change him ! She had a real soul, that lassie had ; j
she was a wee bairn wi' a dash o' God in her.
And at that moment the bairn with a dash o'
God in her entered with feathers waving in herj
hat.
"Boy-ee!" She stood framed in the doorway,
pink and white, with roses at her waist.
Boy turned.
"I didn't come to meet ye, Boy. I feared for]
me feathers in the rain."
184 FURY
She stood aside for Mrs. Boss to pass, smiling,
and the door shut upon them. They were alone
in the way she had looked forward to.
She advanced to him slowly.
He watched her, his face calm, nnmoved.
Ah, he was actin' a bit ! Playin' ; kiddin' at bein'
serious, bless him ! Here stood her Boy, her man !
She held up her face to be kissed. He did not
move. He just looked steadily down at her. Some
new chills were running through her such cold
chills. But of course that was nonsense.
"What's up, Boy? To look at yer, it looks as
though we was spliced already."
She waited, smiling. He was going to speak.
She knew he was, because his throat jumped, and
his Adam's apple moved up and down ; but it kept
moving up and down. He could not speak.
Ah, it was love; that's what it was! That was
it. He was scared, same as she was, upstairs,
when they told her he had come.
Bless him! Fancy a man gettin' the jumps!
But that was love, that was. Love was bigger even
than a man ; she'd read that in a book somewhere.
So to put him at his ease, she pirouetted happily
around and preened.
"Pipe me tit fer tat. It's chick enough to vamp
yer growsy old dad."
"Father's dead!"
The words came slowly, ponderously like a par-
son's.
" 'Ooray !"
FURY 185
|
Boy winced and did not move; and then in a
moment she was at his side, looking up, quick with
sympathy now that she knew he needed it, even if
she didn't understand how he could.
"Sorry, Boy. Sorry, matey. Straight, I'm'
sorry. I didn't mean "oorayP I meant 'when?',
What's up? Don't look like that!"
Boy was silent for a moment, and slowly he took
her hands; warm, eager little hands, trembling
with excitement.
"Min, I can't marry ye. ... Not now, Min."
A sunlit, fragrant garden became suddenly
black, vague and awful. Chilling gusts of spiteful
wind ruthlessly beheaded tall azaleas. Pats of icy
rain cut into pansy-faces and cruel gravel ripped
foliage that a moment before had smiled. A clap
of thunder; a flash; monuments tumbled foolishly,
and drenched waste, shivering, whirled in tragic
helplessness within the storm.
"Min, I can't marry ye ... not now, Min."
She stood before him, white and trembling.
She did not speak. How could she? Something
was banging in her ears.
His mouth was moving again, but she could not
hear what he was saying. How could she? And
then her cry:
"Wait!"
Her hands clapped over his mouth and the roses,
crushed against him, tore and fell, foolishly,
brokenly, out and under the table, where petals
fought by the draft from under the floor fled hur-
186 FUKY
riedly to distant, dusty corners, like little pink,
aristocratic girls scurrying from the clank of a
French guillotine.
"Wait!" . . . Boy! . . . Christ, wait! . . ,
Wait ; I can't 'ear what ye're sayin' ! . . . I can't
-'ear! ... I ..."
"Min . . . now be steady. 'Ere, sit down
'ere."
She was curiously, stiffly limp, as he sat her
down in the deep horsehair chair. He stood for a
moment, looking down into her little pinched face,
now dull yellow. He ground his teeth and sweat
stood out upon his forehead.
He was looking at Min, wasn't he? His Min!
And look at her ! She wasn't moving ; she was look-
ing funny ; she was looking up at him like . . .
No, no, no; it could not be! It could not be!
[ He must seize her in his arms and tell her he was
', kiddin' her. She'd be cross at the joke, but she'd
smile again, after. It would always be with her,
that fright ; but look ! she's ... a flitting smile
twitched the corners of her mouth as pink merged
I with the blue.
"Boy ! Boy darlin'. Ye ain't arf unkind to play
[with me like that!"
Oh, how easy now to say, "Forgive me, Min ; just
[ a bloomin' joke."
He knelt down suddenly and looked into her
(little face that was glowing again. Neither spoke
and her hand reached forward and touched his
father's heavy gold chain.
FURY 187
"Ye ain't arf the smart lad . . . are ye, darlin'?"
And she fingered the chain, delicately, tenderly.
It was not a moment for words. Her sails were
up, waiting for a wind to sweep her home into his
arms ; her trust was in the sailors' God . . . truth
. . . his love.
Boy glanced down at the golden chain in her
little fingers. How lightly she touched the heavy
old seal and all the significance of that touch
came upon him in an instant.
He was veering his course!
A woman's hand was upon his wheel, turning
him toward shoals and pleasant island shores
where were birds of happiness, soft ease and peace ;
but the sailor must keep his course ahead, ahead!
He could hear the wash now the eternal wash.
"Swear you'll marry no one ... do nothin'
until . . ."
And Min, the woman, sat still, very still, calmly
watching him. The woman now, patient, waiting.
He should speak, when he was ready; he would
speak; and thus an awful quiet fell.
Boy quivered, as the toughest seamen do when
the tide is rising and loved ones stand silent, wait-
ing waiting for good-by !
There was Min, sitting there, patiently, helpless,
loving, trusting him, and he must ... he must . . .
His head fell forward, suddenly, and a stifled
sob broke from him as his face buried itself in her
lap. His tears dampened her wedding dress.
But she was silent still. What was there to say?
188 FURY
/ .
At such times such women do not speak; such
women do not ask; they wait, still, silent, patient
;. . . like God.
A burst of raucous laughter came hurtling in
from the public bar next door, after Clancey's voice
had rung out in the next room with : " 'Ave you
'eard of the lady from Gloucester?" and then had
recited something.
That laughter broke the silent spell with Boy
and Min, some way.
Boy rose suddenly to his feet and turned away
from her, toward the fire.
She rose firmly and came and stood behind him.
Ah-ha! Ah-ha! she had smelt the gin. Min's
nose knew gin. Ha, ha! Bless him, he'd been
celebratin' his weddin'! O-h, that was it! Just
stewed a little, and, nice boy as he was, he was a
bit ashamed over it, and took it tragic serious.
Gawd, as if she wouldn't look over that! Silly
Boy ! What kind of a man would he be if he didn't
have a spot on his weddin' day? Why, strike her
pink, to come down to it now, she'd have a swig
of gin herself! It would make her sick, but he'd
only got to ask her and then she'd be quits with
him. Silly Boy!
And gin does make people sad, Mrs. Pels had
said so; and Ma Brent cried something pitiful
during one of her gin-crawls.
Minnie spoke: "Why didn't ye have Scotch or
a drop o' claret, Boy? Gin saddens ye."
So Min helped her man.
FURY 189
In a moment Boy returned to Boy and the wheel
swung around, ahead upon its course. He swung
with it.
"Gin? What d'yer mean?"
"Oh, Boy, darlin', I don't care. I love ye. It's
yer weddin' day, ain't it?"
"No, it ain't!"
"Ah-h-h !"
He caught her arm. "What do you mean, 'gin'?"
"Ooh, darlin'; ye're 'urtin'. No matter; Min
knows. Min understands ye."
"What do ye know?"
"J know!" She smiled. Oh, what a bloomin'
sweet baby he was! She could handle him, all
right.
But then, if he was wishful that she shouldn't
know, then she didn't know, did she?
He spoke again, gruffly: "What do ye know?"
"Nothin', darlin'."
"Ye said ye did know somethin'." The grip
tightened on her wrist, painfully.
"Ooh, Boy, ye're 'urtin', darlin' !"
For a moment he regarded her in silence and
then released her wrist. Mischievous sparks
danced happily in her eyes.
"Ye ain't used to it, darlin'; but ye gave me a
fright ; you did, straight ! How do ye like me 'air,
Boy?"
Taking off her hat, she laid it upon the table.
"Ye ain't arf a card, Boy. When ye said 'I can't
marry yer', oh, lummy; me stomach went ooh!
190 FURY
"It's too bad about yer dad. When I saw Red
to-day he didn't say nothin' about it, What'd he
die of, Boy? Booze was it?"
"No ! Ye got booze on the brain, ye 'ave."
"No, I ain't, Boy. I was just askin' a question
like."
"Well, it wasn't booze, see. And I meant what
I said, see. I can't marry ye. Not now. 'Cause
'cause I swore to 'im I wouldn't, before he died,
see."
A quarter of one minute's silence; then:
"Oh, ye did!"
The Toice that said, "Oh, ye did!" was a new
kind of voice for Min to use with Boy; it was the
still voice of Nurse Cavell, when she said, "I have
nothing to say!" It was the voice of martyred
woman through ages. "Oh, ye did!" And Min
stood there, calm and still, and listened, and
though his voice sounded miles away, she heard
every word he said.
Neither heard the voice of Morgan in the public
bar, gruffly telling Mrs. Ross that she had no right
to close the saloon bar when a ship's captain
wanted a quiet drink.
It would be all cleared in a few minutes, Mrs.
Ross' voice assured him, and then they might all
be invited to a wedding drink.
And when Clancey told him who it was there in
the saloon bar, Morgan laughed and decided to
wait, just to get a peep at the lovebirds for him-
FUKY 191
self. Good thing, too. They were getting out to-
night sharp at tide, and if the first mate wasn't
aboard, he'd jumped ship, that was all. And
bloody good riddance!
He repeated this thought to Mr. Hop, who puffed
a little. His rise had come and now it was going
to be a good rise, and here's to it; and he clinked
glasses with his captain.
As Captain and first mate, they'd have some
smooth trips together, these two, they would. Mr.
Hop knew Captain Morgan as Mr. Hop knew every-
thing ; and Captain Morgan did not know Mr. Hop,
which made Mr. Hop easy to get around with.
Morgan felt tall and strong and calm. "Captain
Morgan of The Lady Spray" eh? Good enough!
There was a little woman he knew of in London,
near Aldgate Street she lived, who had said once,
not so long ago, "I love captains, and wait until
the time comes," and all that sort of stuff that
women say when they're urging for time and get
scared of the jump ; when they're hooked and don't
feel like being landed, yet. He'd have a new suit
on when he saw her again, he would, a captain's
uniform.
Clancey spoke at his elbow : " 'Ow about one on
me, Skipper? Fer luck."
"Why not?" Morgan nodded, condescendingly.
Clancey had the crew pretty straight. "Why not?"
Looney Luke came in. The bar set up a roar.
Good old Spooky ! Good old Luke !
192 FUEY
Luke smiled shyly as he looked around and
Clancey shouted: "A glass of pigeon's milk fer
Looney Luke!"
A sudden clap of laughter.
It was because of that that no one in that bar
heard the scream next door, the scream of Min
when Boy had said:
"I've got to kill 'im first, Min, and then I'll come
to ye and we'll go off together and hide. It'll be
rough on ye, 'cause there'll be a kind o' shadow
over us. I shan't care fer meself, but it'll be hard
fer you if they should come an' take me away an'
'ang me."
Of course Min had screamed.
Hang . . . Boy!
Up to the time of those words she had been calm ;
she had listened patiently to his voice.
Every word had cut her, lashed her, torn her;
but she had stood calmly as women will while he
had told her everything. She had not winced; but
now the awful truth had thawed her numbness and
convulsive shocks of reaction shook her.
"Boy, ye're mad to talk so! Think o' me!
What's yer father now? What is 'e? I arsk ye.
He's a stiff an' I'm alive. Boy, ye've only thought
of one side of this. Ye ain't right about it. Let
me tell yer; let me tell yer; let me tell yer, Boy!
Yer duty is to me! 'Cause I'm 'ere an' I'm alive,
an' I've waited for yer. Oh, Boy! I've waited so
long! Ye can't go off; ye can't leave me." A
curious pause. She had thought out a way of com-
FUKY 193
promising with that awful promise to Dog Leyton ;
it seared her; but this was Boy her Boy. "If ye
don't splice me, that . . . that wouldn't matter, but
I love ye, and ye can't be 'anged. 'Anged! . . ."
Pinkie! Christ! Pinkie! "Stick to yer man.
He's yours. God gave him to you."
Boy was going to speak, but she tore at his coat,
frantically.
"I ain't gonna let ye, see !" she said tensely. "I
ain't gonna let ye, see ! Boy ! Boy ! Boy ! Look
at me! Boy!"
Only for a moment Boy swung again in the
balance, and when that moment had come to its
terrific end he turned away. He could not look
into that straining, pain-distorted face, into those
eyes from which the tears 'were leaping out.
As Boy turned away Min's dress, her wedding
dress, ha, ha! caught on a chair and rent. At
the sound he turned again; the crisis was passed.
He threw down a wallet upon the table.
"Father left me some brass. Ye can take the
lot."
She did not see him ; she did not hear him. She '
just kept on. Reason had left. She just kept
on.
"Boy ! Boy, I ain't gonna let ye ! I ain't goin'
ter . . ."
His mind worked quickly; something had to be
done. Min would go crazy or something. She was
looking funny now.
She was still talking a torrent of words, words,
194 FURY
words. A frantic pleading that did not speak
sense; she was tugging at him, tugging at his coat
. . . and at his soul.
But it must be done. He was deadly calm; the
eerie calm of crisis was set upon his face.
Min, stop it!"
"Boy, ye can't go; ye can't go ! I ain't gonna let
ye. Ye can't go, Boy, ye can't. Didn't I say ye
don't 7 ave ter marry me? I'll fall fer ye anyway,
I will."
His eyes narrowed as his thoughts solidified.
His was a mission of misery ; a task of cruelty. He
must apply to her the furious procedure that task
implied.
"Stop it, damn ye! Shut up! I'm goin', see!"
He was the surgeon, giving a life in exchange for
a limb which, however precious, was worth less.
The knife was in his hand. He used it, brutally.
Better this way than to leave the member hanging
by a shred.
"And ye'd better be brave, because it's over; you
an' I. Finished ! There's the money. Look 'round
fer some one else. Ye can't fall fer me, ye know
that! 'Cause I won't have ye that way. And I
can't marry ye, see! So buck up an' don't howl
like some . . ."
Cruel, bitter blows; bitter blows.
"I thought ye'd got pluck."
Min stopped crying suddenly. The note in his
voice had found its place. It had hit its mark.
It had functioned. Silence . . . and then a tight-
FURY 195
ening of lips, a convulsive shudder that shook the
world; and then:
"Go on, matey. Get ont! I ain't 'oldin' yer.
Don't trouble to come back."
He moved to the door quickly; but foolishly he
turned.
Lot's wife! The face behind him had changed.
The city was aflame. Vividly he saw, painted over
Min, the mouth of the girl in the certain kind of
tam-o'-shanter; the girl who had passed out,
beyond.
"Go on, matey. Mind the bleedin' step."
"What's up, Min?"
"The bleedin' sky, ain't it?" She laughed.
He paused, hesitated. "What ye gonna do,
Min?"
"Do? Blimey, what d'yer think? 'Ere's a nice
'at, and 'ere's a nice bit, a girl what hasn't been 'ad
. . . and there's some men out there, ain't there?
Ain't there. . . . Get out! Take yer bleedin'
brass with ye."
The purse hit the glass partition of the door and
smashed it but fell back inside.
The men in the bar turned.
"Blimey, the lovebirds scrappin' already?"
The door opened, and Boy, white-faced, came
towards them.
A burst of laughter that sounded like a cheer
of victory, as he took his place by Clancej.
He did not see Captain Morgan, followed by Mr.
Hop, pass forward into the saloon bar and close
196 FURY
the door. He did not even know it was Clancey
who caught his arm when he staggered against the
bar, mumbling.
"Give us a drink. . . . Don't matter, anything.
. . . Give us a bloody drink."
Words were whispering in his ear. How could
he hear what they were saying? Mrs. Ross was
talking, miles away, across the bar at him.
"Come on, give us a drink. I'll smash the bloody
bar down."
Clancey quickly put Captain Morgan's and Mr.
Hop's drinks together in a glass. They'd gone,
hadn't they? And gin and rum's a good mixture,
ain't it, for a sailor what's mad about something?
"Fine! How goes it, Mr. L.?"
Boy drained the glass and his eyes flamed their
answer; an answer that none could read save
Looney Luke, who had drawn near.
What Luke read in those blazing eyes was . . .
fury!
CHAPTER VIII
SHOULD God Almighty order "world-au-
gratin" as a casual side dish for an evening
meal, the evening of a million moment-ages,
would we form one of the ingredients of a sort of
cheese dressing, bathing and floating as a gravy
from one piece of light crust to the other, slowly
cooking before the sun, sometimes boiling over in
volcanic eruption, revolving steadily upon the spit
of Time until nicely browned as prescribed by the
celestial cookery book?
And when eaten and enjoyed, what then of the
Russian Ballet? What then of your new winter
hat? What then of Boy and Min?
What of Boy and Min !
Had they been smart folk, protected by a pre-
natal sophistication, as Reggie Mountainhurst and
Cynthia Charteris, the whole affair would have
been too delightfully thrilling such a pity, but,
oh, too gorgeously novel!
But Boy was Boy; and Min was Min, wasn't
she?
They were real; too real perhaps. Pitched
against the concrete floor of their existences they
had bounced and bounced, waiting to be struck by
the bat of Fate in the game of living ; while Moun-
tainhurst and his girl, unsought by the grim
197
198 FUEY
goaders, lay restfully in the cool shade of pleasant
flowers.
But King's counsel had taken brief in their
trial.
God's delicate salvage for those without advice
had imposed itself upon their subconscious vision.
Thus Boy, to spare Min, to cut free, cleanly, had
risen and spoken bitter blows upon her defenseless
head worthy of a modern David Garrick. Thus to
call forth in her that twist which might in retro-
spect help her to help herself by hating him. It
would be unjust of course (that hurt him) but
what would it really matter if it helped her?
She might go wrong . . . yes, and he'd done it ;
. . . yes.
But going wrong alive was better than going
right plumb into a silent cavern of black memory
misery, a dank tomb for a broken heart.
That may have been the way Boy reasoned it.
At any rate it all made for fury.
Everything blazed and roared in color; every
fiber of the situation moved, had vitality. It was
life! It moved; and moving things come to some
conclusion, sometime.
But Mins don't go wrong; they can't.
Their faces the other way, turning always to
right, light and love. Circumstance never has been
forged with cunning or edge enough to make such
an event remotely possible.
So our minds are at rest as far as this same Min
of this same history is concerned.
' , . FUKY 199
Min . . . wrong? Never! Never! An uncon-
trolled right was hers, the right of simple thought,
of eyes weeping, perhaps, but looking up, always
up, to where hope hid for a moment behind fleeting
clouds which were but vapor, however solid black
they seemed. Mins look up.
Now, at this instant in events, Boy's Min turned
and looked up from the chair in which her head
had been buried when she heard the door close
again and Morgan's deep voice saying :
"Cryin' on yer weddin' day, Min? That's un-
lucky."
Min laughed and sat back squarely. She did not
speak, but regarded them smilingly as they pon-
derously took seats and Mr. Hop's fat hand lightly
touched the bell upon the table.
Morgan stretched his long legs and regarded her
with the silent amusement of one who sees a black
kitten, who has fallen into the milk, frantically
licking itself black again.
"Startin' in right, eh, Min? Petticoat govern-
ment for ye, eh?" Morgan observed, solicitously.
Mr. Hop laughed. Not that he was amused; he
never was ; but his captain had spoken with a view
to levity.
Claques like Mr. Hop stimulate a dull play and
Morgan was a bad actor.
"Women's rights, I say, eh, Mr. Morgan?"
"Captain Morgan, now, Min."
"You!" and Min laughed again, as Mrs. Boss
opened the door.
200 FUEY
"A drop o' port, Min?" Morgan's voice was
light.
Min smiled as Mrs. Asquith must have smiled
when, like our Saviour, she had been offered the
world . . . from the roof of New York's Wool-
worth Building.
"Not for me, matey. One boozer in the family's
enough, ain't it?"
"Is Boy boozed?"
"Who said so?"
Morgan gave his order for rum and Mr. Hop
said the one word "gin."
Mrs. Ross left in silence and the little party in
the saloon bar settled down comfortably. The
conversation became impersonal and did not be-
come too engrossing. Min saw to that. It was
what naturally would mark an occasion when a
captain of the sea sat for a quiet drink along of his
mate and a calm, composed, informed young lady
of the world . . . and Limehouse.
CHAPTER IX
THAT institution which is called the British
public bar seems strangely old these days.
Resilience it never had, but it looked new
once and once smelt freshly painted.
Now it is desperately old. It is not unlikely that
news overseas of the tragic demise of its rich
cousin, the American saloon, has given it one of
those annoying sinking feelings. A wonderfully
rich cousin it had been, it had died without a will,
and its funeral service was impressive: a requiem
sung by millions on that memorial night of July
6th, 1920. Somehow it made one stop and think.
With the jeering tenors and basses mingled
vaguely in a kind of tenderly triumphant har-
mony the delicate altos and sopranos of American
mothers.
And to those whose ears were clear that night
came from over somewhere the deliriously hopeful
treble of unborn Americans.
Music at that funeral of Johnnie Walker (now
gone very weak) and all the rest? Yes; plenty.
It was a splendid service to a most important dead ;
a service of optimism, a service of fervor, a service
of prayer for the complete repose of the departed
spirit (and the wines and beers) whose monument
towers higher than stately Liberty upon her island,
201
202 FUEY
and has tablets made of American memory and
chiselled very deeply.
Perhaps fleeting ghosts still haunt the paths fa-
miliar during the old life. Ghosts do such things.
But Americans are not afraid. They do not trem-
ble; they do not flee; with characteristic courage
they pursue, shoot, capture, give welcome to these
clinking, awful spirits, as their respective office,
state, taste or opinion may direct.
At any rate all bars are spiritualists. They
both materialize and communicate with dead. In
seances lately the voice of the American dead has
whispered to the bars of the whole world (includ-
ing those on the British waterfronts) the very un-
certain hereafter which awaits all bars. Thus, the
public bar of Merrie Britain, without hope of any-
thing at all like immortality after life (though
goodness knows it has not lived its life without
some attention from the clergy), without achieve-
ment other than the protruding abdomens of its
human sponsors, some merriment, some prison-
terms, some flashes of genius and millions of black
eyes, waits old and dirty, very fearfully, for the
day when it must join that dead American cousin
in the tomb. Now and then it bucks up into cheer-
fulness, but soon it sags, remembering.
The Thistle Public Bar was no exception among
bars. In its morning emptiness hope smiled and
it looked eagerly for new youth to enter through
the door left open by the cellar-man to admit air
while he cleaned the step with hearthstone and
FURY 203
gave the whole place a new floor* of clean sawdust.
Such vitalizing treatment will make a British
bar feel almost young again; will make it, so to
speak, shake itself into freshness; but age is age,
and booze is booze, and five o'clock in the after-
noon found clouds of shag fumes, the stench of
many beer puddles and the shouts of much drunken
refuse from docks and stately ships within The
Thistle's public bar.
"What th' hell does old Luke want here?"
Clancey demanded of Red, who had just returned
through a little door back into the bar. "Sittin'
there drinkin' tea like some old woman! He'd
shove a damper onto anything, he would!"
Red agreed drunkenly with his shipmate's criti-
cism of events.
" 'Ello, Luke, me old Cockywax, does yer
mother know yer out?"
Luke smiled up at Clancey, who lurched toward
him, continuing in shouts :
"Get back to yer ship, matey. This ain't no time
fer a pretty thing like you to be out."
Luke's smile held as he gazed steadily into
Clancey's face, looking down, very near. Then
Red's arm swung around and Clancey fell, thump I
against the bar.
Red spoke; he seldom did. "Let 'm alone!
Wha's matter? 'E's got 's right 'ere, 's much as
you. Boy's shick."
Clancey did not hesitate, but walked almost
firmly to the little door from which Red had just
204 FUEY
emerged. However, as he touched the knob the
door opened suddenly and Boy stepped out, his
face very white.
"Ailin', Mister L.? Why didn't ye say ye was
sick?"
"What?"
"Feel better? Blimey, a first mate sick in
weather like this! Never 'eard of such a thing."
Boy grinned. "It's bin cuttin' up pretty choppy
for me, mate."
They had reached the bar and Boy leaned in
exactly the same spot that had been his for half
an hour now, a half hour in which he had drunk
continually and confided everything to Clancey,
who now again placed a double Scotch beside liis
elbow, handily.
"Ye'll feel better now. Ye've got room fer more.
Good 'ealth, Mister L., and may ye git what yer
after."
Boy hesitated. His stomach leaped revolt at the
pungent fumes beneath his nose.
It had cost Clancey nearly half a quid to get his
first mate halfway cheered up and sick. Blimey
he couldn't let him lay down on him now, could
he? Not if his name was Clancey, he couldn't!
He spoke quickly: "G'wan, mate. I wouldn't tell
ye wrong; straight I wouldn't. I've seen a bit o'
life in my time, I 'ave. Take a tip from yer Uncle
Clan now. Drink up an' tell the world to go an'
. . . choke itself."
Boy did not drink immediately.
FURY 205
It all was a new experience. He had never been
sick a moment in his life before; and now, sud-
denly he felt strangely fit and eagerly strong again.
Out of his cleanliness Nature had seized, over-
powered and flung the poison from him. He could
hear Clancey much more distinctly . . . before
he'd caught only snatches of this worldly sailor's
advice; they had been vague, but of sinister sug-
gestions; now they had more color and were con-
cise enough to promote a curious, tipsy acqui-
escence with views born of much experience on
many seas and in many ports.
Clancey was still talking, quickly.
"Ye've been too pent up. A man's a man, ain't
? e? And 'e's got to live, ain't 'e? I know 'ow ye
feel.
"I was in love once meself with a barmaid down
at Lambeth. She got in trouble an' I kept clear.
But it caused me a couple o' shivers to keep away !
"She was pretty, all right. Ye know what I
did?"
Clancey paused and tinkled his glass signifi-
cantly.
" 'Ad a couple o' drinks, found a blonde, because
the other one was dark, and blinkin' well fergot
'er in arf an hour. That's life, Mister L. If ye
want to get out o' love 'ave a drink or two an' a
gal or two an' forget."
A gal or two!
That part of Clancey's advice hit Boy curiously.
To Boy a gal or two meant something he had never
206 FURY
had, but had heard a lot about. A gal or two!
Yes . . . he'd often wondered. But the thought of
a gal or two, as applied to himself, always had
seemed a kick in the face for Min. Black curls
and dancing eyes were all right in songs, but not
all right for him while Min loved and trusted
him. So a gal or two, a million or two gals, had
lain in their soiled, lazy lace, unconscious of the
fact of Boy.
But now there was no Min, was there? And
Clancey might be right.
He loved Min, though. He would always love
her. Of course he would. And without her he was
only half of himself. He felt different, alone.
Drink had only made him sick.
He must do something. Clancey might be
right.
A gal or two. ... A gal or two. How bloody
silly it sounded ! Like a fag or two, or a sandwich
or two, or a bottle or two. But this argument of
Clancey 's half held his interest, for which he was
subconsciously grateful.
So, he drained his drink and felt it burning
down. He would have a look at a gal or two
no more than that; no; no more. But he'd got
some brass. He could afford that. Clancey had
picked up the wallet for him where it had lain on
the floor, waiting to be pinched.
There might be some fun a lot of fun some-
thing to laugh at, something to make you forget,
in that idea of a gal or two! Let her go! Come
FURY 207
on, what's the use of standing around moping!
Hell!
The whiskey functioned.
Come on, trot out the fun! He'd got to kill a
man and find a mother. Some blinkin' fun first;
what say?
And that staunch friend Clancey warmed he-
roically : " 'Ere's to it ! Blimey, the lid's off !
Fill 'em up! To hell with the ship! If she puts
out, well, there's more than one bloody ship in the
world, ain't there?"
"Not arf there ain't," Boy said, trying to be
enthusiastic.
He then lit his cigar, the one that Min had bent
a bit when her fingers had caught the top of his
pocket. Cigars burn the mouth; this did, prop-
erly, as it should have done; and the drink burned
it on top of that; and his hands and ears burned.
His conscience went up in a burst of flame and
lighted up the world. . . . But . . . Hell!
" 'Ello, Clan." The girl in the certain kind of
tam-o'-shanter stood beside them.
"Talk o' the devil!"
Yes, she'd take a drop o' Scotch. She oughtn't
to because she'd had no dinner and drink on an
empty stomach, you know . . . but . . .
"A sandwich for the lady. Come on !" Clancey
was no poor sport. "Ham, and cut it thick!"
Clancey's eyes met Boy's. His glance was the
smiling beam of a Rolls Royce salesman. "A bit
o' real Scotch. . . . Bonny, ain't she, Mister L.?"
208 FUKY
"I reckon so," and Boy, confused, caught dull
eyes on his; eyes that seemed to say, "I like you,
please" ; eyes that seemed to want to reach out to
this dark young man who seemed to stand on the
other side of the globe from her, keeping a dis-
tance that she did not deny by rights was his.
The lady raised her glass.
" 'Ere's to ,ye, Clan, and my best regards,
Mister."
Then the certain kind of mouth pursed, sucking
onto the rim of the thick glass; and as she drank
the certain kind of eyes peered up at Boy, who had
turned his head away, because a newcomer had
addressed him.
Therefore the lady's glass hit the bar danger-
ously and she spoke quickly, angrily: "Get 'er
away, Clan. Get 'er away. I won't stay if she
comes into the party."
Clancey looked up, as he handed her the sand-
wich on a plate and then crossed quickly to Boy
who had turned to the newcomer.
"Never mind 'er, Mister L. Don't have no truck
with 'er,"
Clancey stood firmly between his first mate and
Tillie.
Tillie did not move. She just stood there look-
ing up at Clancey's back. Boy could see the top
of her dirty hat, peeping over Clancey's shoulder.
^ "Get out, Clancey. I was talkin' to some one."
Clancey did not move, but continued quickly:
"Terrible, Mister L. ; bloody awful. Take a tip
FUKY 209
i
from me now ; I know. You'll never sack 'er. All
she wants is a gallon o' gin and a lot o' gab. I
know 'em. Leave it to me now, will ye, Mister L.?"
Boy answered him, a note of hardness in his
voice. "Well, blimey, don't stand in front of 'er
like that. She ain't no bloomin' fireplace."
Clancey moved aside, grudgingly. "Well, don't
say I didn't warn ye." And he turned again to
his own girl.
Yes, Clancey knew 'em. Boy looked down into
the face of Tillie, the same Tillie who had tapped
the bar at breakfast-time that morning; the same
Tillie who had given those sailors their answer
back, that answer that had sent Min upstairs, sing-
ing the filth out of her ears. Boy did not know
that, of course.
Tillie stood before Boy now, looking up, the yel-
low light upon her face catching a funny smile
that shone there steadily. She did not speak at
once, but took a faltering step forward as if to
diminish the possibility of another separation such
as Clancey's intrusion had caused.
"Ye've got manners, sailor boy."
Boy grinned. "Same to you, lady."
"Just like a little prince you are. A little
prince; and gracious, too, I say." Her thin strip
of a mouth stretched into a laugh that had no
sound.
"And what will yer Ladyship take fer refresh-
ment this nice evenin'?"
"At yer Royal Highness' pleasure, a drop o 1 gin,
210 FURY
cold," said Tillie, quickly in the spirit of it, pick-
ing up her skirts and dropping him a low curtsey.
But she shouldn't have tried, it after so many gins.
She overbalanced backward and fell upon the saw-
dust. Laughter roared as she sat there helplessly,
looking up.
It was Looney Luke who hurried to help Boy to
pull her to her feet and seat her in the nearest
chair by the nearest table, and Luke went back and
bent to pick up her old black purse at the same
moment that Boy did.
"Boy! . . . Boy!"
Boy looked up quickly at Luke's half confiden-
tial voice.
"What's up, Luke?"
"Come back with me, Boy."
Boy regarded him steadily for a moment. The
whiskey spoke furiously: "Who arst you to inter-
fere?"
Luke's eyes searched eyes that he did not know,
but Boy's eyes, all the same.
"Boy, come back along with me."
Boy's lips tightened. "Aw, get out an' let me
alone."
After a level-eyed but not persistent look Luke
left him alone, turning and passing out into the
wet street quickly.
When Boy went to Tillie's table a big gin and a
big whiskey had been kindly placed there by Ked,
and Clancey was bending over Tillie saying some-
thing which Boy could not help hearing.
FUEY 211
". . . Scotch . . . an' plenty of it. 'E's got
over a 'undred quid on 'im. . . . Keep sober, if ye
can. . . . Ye're safer than a young 'un. . . . I'll
be back, see?" Clancey stood up, saw Boy stand-
ing there, grinned and awkwardly returned to his
lady, who was amusing herself by pushing Red's
hand away.
Boy sat down quickly at the table beside Tillie.
"What'd 'e say to ye, that bloke?"
Tillie, noisily sipping her gin, looked up at him.
Then she stopped and lowered her hand, the entire
breadth of which clutched the gin glass wisely.
"Just a little prince you are."
Boy struck the table. "What'd that there bloke
say to ye about my money?" Suspicion edged his
words sharply.
" 'E was just bein' nice, sailor boy, that's all."
"Wha'd'ye mean, bein' nice?"
Tillie sipped again and held up her glass.
"Don't worry, sailor. Ye're safe enough along o'
me. Nobody won't do nothin' to ye while I'm
around."
Boy grinned. Silly old fool! He spoke: "What
would ye do?"
Tillie smiled with a supreme confidence of gin.
"Let 'em try; let 'em try. That's all, sailor; let
'em try."
Boy glanced up as Clancey left with his lady,
looking back from the door to wink knowingly.
Was Clancey after his money? He'd said some-
thing about jumping ship. He was a dirty tyke,
212 FUEY
anyway, Clancey was. He'd give himself away
proper by things he'd said. Yes; let him try, the
dirty swine; let him try! Boy was surprised by
the sudden consciousness that his mind was saying
the same words Tillie had used. He smiled and
raised his glass. Tillie flourished hers.
"Let 'em try, sailor boy."
Boy laughed outright. "Try what?"
Tillie was silent.
"Try what?"
Tillie looked up blankly. "I dunno, sailor, but
let 'em try. Let everybody try, I say. Why not?"
Her voice trailed down into her gin.
Mrs. Koss came, an unusual thing, and wiped
the table. She touched Boy on the shoulder.
"Laddie, I would speak wi' ye."
"Oh, ye would? Oy, ye would?" Tillie's voice
came up. "Can't ye see he's engaged with a lady?
He is. And he's a gentleman, too, an' he's proved
it, just like a prince !" And Tillie clutched for his
sleeve and held it.
Boy glanced up at Mrs. Ross. Something
warned him not to move. Mrs. Ross would speak
of Min and ... no! No! He couldn't listen to
anything serious; not now.
Mrs. Ross was used to reading still faces. Did
not the brave, dead Angus speak to her always
from his crayon portrait? And so she left quickly.
Boy looked after her.
"Bloody cheek women 'ave, ain't they? I hate
women!" Tillie spoke with husky conviction.
FUKY 213
Boy was silent and drank again, as the waters
of memory surged against a crumbling dam.
Tillie's gin gone, she leaned forward again.
"Buy another, sailor."
Clancey was right. This dirty old tot wanted a
gallon of gin and a lot of gab. Where had Looney
Luke gone? Boy wanted to talk with him. Still
he had been rude to him and he felt in no mood
to apologize or climb down about anything.
He half rose. But where was he going? What
else was there to do?
His eyes ached. He wanted to punch some one
in the nose. Argh ! What the hell !
"Will ye, sailor?"
"Aw, shut up!"
The cellar-man came and picked up their empty
glasses. Boy did not see him; he had closed his
eyes. God! he'd like to punch somebody in the
nose! What the hell! What the hell!
What was it all about? Where was Min now?
Now, at this minute?
Argh! His spirit was sinking fast. His eyes
closed tight and his head fell forward upon his
arm.
He did not hear Tillie say to the cellar-man,
"Two more large ones, Cocky." He did not feel
her hand upon his head and her voice inquiring
if he wanted to be sick. He did not see the little
face of Min peep through the broken glass from the
saloon bar.
How could he? Boy had died for a moment.
2U FURY
He did not know. In dying does one know?
Some believe and thus they know. But what could
Boy believe? He did not know.
He wanted to punch some one on the nose, with
all his strength. He wanted to fight ... to fight,
free, anywhere, out, out ... to where? And why
and for what?
Drink! Clancey's whispers had carried him
shoulder high towards lighted palaces, but he'd
been too heavy, so they dropped him off into the
gutter the largest palaces have gutters near them
into a wet, foul gutter foul and wet, but with a
foulness that assailed only his nose, and a wet that
could not penetrate a body made immune by the
fresh, clean spray of sea-thoughts from within and
the raw brine from without.
Yes, Boy had died for a moment ... in a
gutter.
Under stress some men, like runaway horses,
dash forward, and then suddenly to right or left
as obstacles or otherwise determine. The left may
be right or the right may be wrong, but forward
they gallop, as certain of stopping or being stopped
as the coming of the night.
Thus Boy had galloped and stopped, torn and
bruised. No frantic cape or stone wall had stopped
him ; he had just stopped. Had he been lighter he
might have dashed on ... to what ?
But Boy was heavy, too heavy with the ballast
of an inner truth.
The soldier in line to the swirl of the band
FUBY 215
senses that ballast. The man who has slammed
the curtained door upon a second unfaithful kiss
feels the greater thrill of truth clattering down
marble steps beside his feet. The smiling spy,
dying for an ideal, walks to the scaffold with the
light-heavy tread of his inward truth. The drunk-
ard, led forward in the rain, to kneel beside a
hoarse, dripping Salvationist, feels suddenly from
somewhere the steadying thrill of this drag of the
power of gravity beneath his feet. There is no
inch on earth where man can stand on snows,
ships, settled, happy land, or scorching desert
that does not hold in trust for him that answering
welcome for his weight ... of truth.
And God is truth, above, below and around.
Earth called to earth and then to God, and when
Boy had bent forward he had been dismantled for
an instant for divine readjustment.
The busy moment past, truth flamed, relit, in his
eyes that looked up suddenly into Time's . . . and
smiled.
CHAPTER X
THROUGH the broken glass Min watched him
smile.
There was that dirty, drunken old tot with
her Boy! And he was smiling! Sober? and smil-
ing ; the smile that had been Min's !
It struck her as rather funny and she turned
back into the saloon, laughing. She did not stop
laughing. She laughed and laughed, higher,
shriller, a furious laughter . . . that Mr. Hop,
who knew something about doctoring, diagnosed
mentally as hysterics.
He rose and, bending her forward, patted her
back. But she kept on laughing . . . laughing
. . . laughing.
"Ha, ha! Errrch! Ha, ha! He, he, he! Bloody
funny! That was . . ." She was fighting for
breath.
Morgan rose and took her hand. Even he knew
something was wrong.
Mr. Hop pinched her leg between sharp, strong
thumb and finger nails and ran a ladder up her
wedding stocking. " 'Ysterics, that's what 'tis."
"Something ticklin' 'er? Is that what it is, what
ye said?"
The terrible laughter continued. Fate was
216
FURY 217
amused. Fate's sense of humor is cruel. Min was
laughing . . . laughing . . . laughing . . . choking
with laughter.
"Herr" . . . "herr" . . . errrch! . . . Vs got to
kill some one! Ha, ha! ... What's the good of
a h-h-husban' what's bin 'anged?" She caught her
breath and coughed painfully.
Again Mr. Hop pulled her forward and patted
her back. Her head came up again and her eyes
rolled back. Her hands stretched out; she must
have been trying to say something which was very
funny, because she kept on laughing.
"What ha, ha! a bloody weddin' day!"
Mrs. Ross came in at that moment and crossing
quickly, took Min's arm. Her woman's ear had
caught that laughter and understood. She led the
laughing little girl from the room and the Captain
and Mr. Hop could hear the laughter diminishing
as Min went up and up and up the stairs. "Ha,
ha, he, he herrch!"
"Kill a man? >Im? 'E couldn't kill a rat!"
Morgan leaned back and glanced interrogatively at
Mr. Hop, who said:
"Another spot, captain?"
Morgan nodded. "Kill a man! 'Im? Agh! . . ."
Luke stood, a silent figure, across the narrow
alley that crept off from the waterfront, down
around beside The Thistle. From this point he
could see all doors. The rain beat down and The
Thistle's big lamp gleamed upon his bald forehead.
A man fell out and across the alley, in three
218 FURY
running, staggering steps, and Eed hit the wall,
rolled over, coughed and lay very still.
Luke did not look down. Men were warm, wet
bags of smell . . .
Was Luke quarrelling with that Mate to whom
he always prayed? His look suggested that as pos-
sible. He did not move; he seemed scarcely to
breathe. A suggestion of fearful suspension was
with him . . . wet, warm bags of smell . . . men
. . . men . . . and they were in His image!
Yes, Luke had questioned his God!
CHAPTER XI
BOY had heard Min's laugh, as perhaps every
one in the place had. But he did not under-
stand. She was happy, bless her! He
sighed. It all made him feel better, lighter, almost
composed. His drink sat untouched. Til had had
only one more. She had not spoken, so he had
been able to think . . . easy thoughts, colored by
the ominous fury of their import . . . the man he
was to find.
Yes, you've got to go ahead steady on a thing
like that. Red had told him about The Spray get-
ting out on the tide.
Well, The Spray would get out, but without the
first mate. Leith would hold him for a while, at
least, while he nosed around a bit.
Min? She'd go back most likely to London.
He'd give the money to Mrs. Ross, most of it. He'd
want a bit for himself to get away after the . . .
after the . . . killing.
A thought: the man might be dead already.
Then Dog would have seen him down in hell and
there would have settled him, for himself!
Still, even Dog couldn't kill a man what's dead,
not knowin' which damned soul he was; Dog was
dead himself, but even dead he wouldn't know the
man, unless the woman, too, was there, dead, too;
219
220 FUEY
and she wasn't, because Dog had told him that she
was in Leith.
Blimey, what a mix-up it was getting to be!
How did his father know she was in Leith? How
had he found out? There hadn't been any letter.
Boy had looked when he had gone through all the
papers left behind by Dog in the stuffy cabin of
The Lady Spray.
But the thought had a happy throb in it: The
man might be dead already!
But ... he rather thought he hoped he wasn't.
The matter had taken grim possession of his mind,
even of his blood corpuscles, as it had controlled
those of his father. He, himself, wanted to kill
this man now; he was set on it. Calm thoughts
now . . . terribly calm; the ominous mental
thunder of premeditation.
Min? Yes, if he was dead already, there was
Min. But even then, though she wed him com-
fortably, she would not be marrying the complete
man. No, in such a case, he would have been
cheated out of doing something that now he found
himself wanting to do, aching to do, that was essen-
tial to the perfection of his personality. His fists
clenched and suddenly he drew his breath in hiss-
ingly, loudly enough to wake Tillie, who had been
dozing.
She looked up, blinking. "What's it, sailor?"
He turned. He had forgotten her.
She sat there, quietly, her hand closed around
FURY 221
her glass so that you could not see whether it was
full or empty.
"Nothing. Want another?"
Tillie smiled, strangely. "Ye're a funny boy."
"Why?"
"I was watching ye. Do ye dope?"
"Dope? Me? No! Why?"
"Ye don't? G'wan, ye do! I shan't give ye
away. Tillie knows."
"Aw, shut up. Don't get saucy!"
Tillie leaned forward confidentially. "I know a
Chink what's got some; half a quid a go."
"Shut up there, will ye? I've been all right with
ye, ain't I?"
"Ye 'ave, I'll say that. That's why I was
tellin' . . ."
Boy interrupted her quickly. "What made ye
think I dope? Yer mad !"
"All of us is that, sailor; didn't yer know that?"
"You are. I ain't."
Tillie actually put her glass down. She whis-
pered the greatest secret in the world. "Ah, ye
think ye ain't, but ye are. All on us are."
Boy regarded her with new intentness. Blimey,
here was a funny one ! He asked : " 'Ave ye ever
been put away? 'Ave ye?"
Tillie paused and smiled, the wisdom of ages
upon her brow. "Yes, I've been away, but not for
bein' mad."
"What for, then?"
222 FURY
Tillie half closed her eyes and her mouth was
still smiling. "What's a woman like me put away
for?"
"Booze?"
Tillie glanced down at her half-filled glass. She
actually pushed it away. "No, but that had, allus
has, somethin' to do with it."
Boy sat right round now, very interested.
"What d'yer go up for?"
Tillie laughed. "Up? Ye mean down. Women
like me never go up; it's always down, matey."
And changing her mood, Tillie drained her drink
suddenly. "Down . . . just like that. Buy an-
other, sailor."
Boy rose and carried her glass to the bar, Tillie
peering after him. Just like a little prince he was ;
young, too.
Poor Tillie! The young 'uns were usually
pretty rough and the old 'uns too drunk to be.
But here was one who hadn't slapped her on the
back yet, knocking the breath out of her; one who
hadn't said, "Well, Til, ye dirty old doll, what
about it?"
Well, a sailor was a sailor, wasn't he? and gin
was gin. And here was a good double gin before
her now, placed there silently by the young prince,
who sat again. After a moment of dreamy inhala-
tion from the glass in her hand she commented
casually :
"Ye're all straight again. Ye ain't no boozer."
Boy smiled. You could bet your blooming life
FURY 223
he wasn't! He'd remember being sick like he was
a little while ago for the rest of his natural life!
His face straightened suddenly as Tillie aston-
ishingly counseled him: "Let it alone, sailor boy.
Take a tip from me."
Boy regarded her steadily. Now that he really
looked at it he saw that hers was a tragic face.
No; Tillie wasn't old, but . . . Boy or anybody
else could take that tip from her, all right! Sud-
denly he felt differently toward her.
<r Why did ye drink to-day, sailor?"
Boy looked away. Blimey, what a question!
,Why? If she only knew !
But of course he couldn't tell her . . . she
wouldn't understand. She was past all that.
She'd think he was soppy.
He answered, a dash of the real whimsical Boy
in his tone: "Oh, a bloke takes a drink once in a
while, ye know."
Tillie looked steadily at him. You may not be-
lieve it, but Tillie knew men. She knew life the
life that had kicked her. She had to know some-
thing about it even to try to dodge the boot, which,
at the best, seldom missed her. Her hand touched
his sleeve and she spoke so softly that Boy only
just heard: "I hadn't a right to ask. Sorry,
matey."
Boy shook his head, quickly. She wasn't so
dusty, this old tot, after all. She'd had quite a
nice voice when she said that. "That's all right,
ma'am. Ye've never been in love, have yer?"
224 F U K Y
Tillie laughed again; a laugh that actually
sounded; a laugh with depth enough to sound.
"Love? . . . Bah!"
"What's funny about it?"
"Love is!"
"Why?"
"There ain't no such thing." Her voice snapped
her conviction, and a note in it arrested him.
"I 'ad a father always said that."
Tillie nodded her head and banged her glass
down. "Then yer father was right, sailor; he was
right, all right."
Boy's eyes turned away for a moment, medi-
tatively. "But he changed his mind, though,
later."
Tillie's head was still nodding. "Men change
but women don't . . . never."
His thoughts flew to Min. She had changed.
She'd have to change back one day, when . . .
His thoughts reverted suddenly to his task
his mission. He moved in his seat.
"I got to go!"
Tillie's hand came again on his arm. "Don't go,
matey. Yer friend's comin' back."
"To hell with J im!"
" 'E's all right, that friend is. 'E likes ye. He
was motherin' ye 'round 'ere as though ye were 'is
child."
"I don't want no one to mother me."
Tillie smiled.
"All right, matey, if ye've got to go, go. And
FUKY 225
er yer friend promised Tillie a little something
fer takin' care o' ye while ye was . . ."
A pound note found its way into her hand. She
gasped.
Just like a little prince he was in every way!
Her eyes watered, her voice softly grateful.
"Thank ye, sailor boy."
He rose to leave but glanced quickly down as she
asked :
"Might ye 'ave any word for yer friend when 'e
comes back?"
Yes, that was a thought. He had better send
word to the ship that he was jumping. Nobody
had told him that Morgan and Mr. Hop were in
back in the saloon-bar.
He knew some one was in there, because he'd
heard Min's laugh. He rather wanted to peep in
through that broken glass, but how could he trust
himself to look at Min again?
Anyway, he had better leave word for Clancey
to tell Luke to take care of his things aboard. Of
course there might be time for him to get back to
Luke himself, for a moment, now, right away. But
then he'd have to apologize to Luke for what he'd
said and he didn't feel like anything like that . . .
not now . . . not now. He was calm enough . . .
but his calm included perfect readiness to go at
some one. He was going to be calm in just that
way until he found . . .
Where should he go first? What was the first
step?
226 FURY
There was Mrs. Ross ; he'd have to talk with her,
just as soon as Min had gone back to London.
Better not talk to her now, because she'd only
bring Min up to him.
But Mrs. Ross he was sure would know some-
thing about the people he was after. He'd talk to
her later.
In the meantime he'd nose around a bit down at
the Robin Hood and along the front, and then at
the Company's office, after The Spray was out.
The first thing to do was to leave the money with
Mrs. Ross for Min.
What a blooming crime it was to treat little Min
that way!
Where would she go now? Back to the Rest?
No; that wasn't likely. Where would he be able
to find her afterwards? ... if it came that he
wanted to find her . . . and he would want to,
whatever happened.
Ah, Mrs. Ross would get that for him, too.
Mrs. Ross was going to be pretty useful.
There she was now. He looked across and
smiled.
Mrs. Ross shook her head.
He'd got her all ruffed up the wrong way now,
by the look of it. He'd have a talk with her right
away, as soon as the saloon bar was cleared. Yes ;
that was the best thing to do.
He turned and stooped over Tillie. "Would ye
ask my friend, ye know which the one with the
FURY 227
souse on, that went out, with that girl to tell
Luke . . ."
Tillie blinked. He was dazing her. Tillie's days
of responsibility were long past. "Don't make it
much, sailor boy. I ain't got such a memory.
Now if ye wrote it . . ."
Boy smiled. Aw, she'd forget it or lose it, any-
way. . .
"Don't matter, Ma. So long!"
Tillie looked up quickly. She was hurt. Then
they both looked off and up as a voice spoke at
the door.
"Go's 'ere fra The Lady Spray?"
Boy did not move forward because Tillie caught
his hand so tightly that her nails pierced his flesh.
He glanced down quickly. Her lips were moving,
but she did not say anything. He looked off to
where Lamey, of The Spray, was telling the tall
man who had spoken to go into the saloon bar.
Boy shook his hand free and crossed to Lamey.
"What's e want, that bloke?"
"Skipper. 7 E's inside along o' Mr. Hop, 'aving
one."
Boy peeped through the hole in the glass and
saw the tall figure of Morgan talking to the man
who had just entered, and a convulsive shudder
passed through him.
Morgan! Morgan fitted into his scheme of
things damn well just now! He'd like a crack at
that big swine before he jumped The Spray! He
228 FURY
was big, Morgan was; but, oh God, how he felt
like kicking the lights out of him ! . . . Now !
And . . . he'd been in there with Min, hadn't
he? It might have been he what had made Min
laugh. He might have been ridiculing him, boy,
to Min! Would Min laugh at that?
By the last thing he remembered of Min she
would do anything, in the mood she was in.
And he had sat there all the time without know-
ing who was in there with her! What a dirty
snake! He'd creep in anywhere, he would!
Even now Min might have gone over to him.
She had sounded happy enough. . . . She couldn't,
though ; not with Morgan. She hated him as much
as Boy did.
He looked in again.
The three men were sitting and he couldn't see
Miu.
She had gone upstairs, most likely, to change her
dress. Did she have one to change? He didn't
know that.
Blimey, there were so many new things he would
have liked to know about Min !
Wouldn't he like to rush in there and tell Mor-
gan all he had wanted to say to him all these years?
There had been Noah, the parrot . . . and then
what Min had told him about that dirty . . .
His body shook. He wanted to drink again.
Should he? Should he crash in that bar now?
You've only to die once! The only thing was if
he was bested and Morgan had all the odds in
FURY 229
height and weight he wouldn't be so good for the
other one he had to find; the one he had to find
and tear to pieces . . . r-r-rip! His every muscle
quivered, and he turned impatiently as a voice at
his elbow: "Lady wants you over there."
Looking in the direction of his informant's ges-
ture he saw Tillie beckoning, but he turned his
back deliberately. To hell with her!
But somehow he felt a twinge of shame. No;
that wasn't the way to treat nobody ; not even her.
It wasn't right.
That whimsical softness latent in Boy's nature
could not be diminished even in moments of his
greatest stress.
So he turned back and waved his hand with a
gesture that said, "In a minute." She only
wanted another gin, of course; so he ordered one
at the bar.
While he waited for it to be handed to him the
laugh of three men came through the space broken
in the glass and above it Morgan's voice:
" 'E melted up all soft before 'e went. 'E
weren't so tough . . . not much more than a bag
o' wind."
Boy took a step in the direction of that in-
sulting voice. He faced the broken door. Was
Morgan talking of his father? Was he? . . . Was
he? ... Was he? . . . Blast him. "Bag o' wind!"
Something checked Boy. He swallowed and
choked down a cry that came to his throat. No;
he'd wait; he'd wait; and when he'd done the other
230 FURY
job (calm, terrible thoughts these!) . . . when
he'd done the other job and the police were after
him he'd come back here and he'd hide and wait.
If it were years, he'd wait.
And that waiting would be ended when he'd
murdered Morgan. a . a With his hands, he'd mur-
der him !
You can't hang anybody twice!
When his father's job was done he'd do a little
job for himself ... a little something on his own
account! . . . Yes, he'd wait!
He picked up the double gin from the bar
quickly. It was as if the sharp, determined action
sealed his mental pact within himself; anything
alert and positive would have served. And also
he had to wrest his eyes and thoughts away from
that door. He must recapture his original inten-
tion or before he had attended to it he'd reveal it,
he'd prematurely spring and smash and rip . . .
He placed the gin before Tillie with a hand
trembling from his tension. " 'Ere ye are. Is that
what ye wanted?"
Tillie patted the chair next to her and he sat
down.
"Are ye from The Lady Spray?"
"Why?"
" 'Cause I asked some one and they said ye was
inate."
"That's right."
She leaned across. "There's only one Lady
Spray out o' London, ain't there?"
PUEY 231
"There's only one Lady Spray out of anywhere."
Boy Leyton's own voice mingled vaguely but
proudly with the gruffer tone of the man in Leith
seeking vengeance.
"Leyton's Lady Spray ye mean?"
He glanced at her quickly. "What say?"
"Dog Leyton's ship?"
He nodded.
"Dog ashore?"
He shook his head.
Tillie was silent. It was as if she were treading
cautiously in a vague, dark place. Her thin frame
seemed strangely alive. She lifted her glass with
an abrupt, unnatural movement, not to drink, but
just to be doing something anything; to cover an
embarrassment that would have been obvious to
any one but Boy, who regarded her with slight
interest. Perhaps she was some one whom his
father once had known. No; that wasn't possible;
Dog always had hated these. But it didn't matter,
anyway ; and Tillie was speaking again :
"Where's Dog now?"
Boy's lips thinned as he spoke the one word,
quietly, "Dead."
Tillie did not move, but her glass did. It
dropped from her hand to the table, noisily rolled,
fell to the floor and smashed.
A few who glanced round because of the noise
saw the young sailor put out his hand to save an
old woman from falling off her chair. Ha, ha,
Tillie was drunk!
232 FUKY
But Tillie at this moment was terribly sober.
Something seemed to have snapped within her, if
within her there had been anything taut enough to
snap. Her eyes looked funny ; and Boy would have
asked for help to lay her down on one of the
benches if he had not decided immediately in him-
self that she should sit there and revive and answer
his question . . . the question he now asked for
the third time from between his teeth.
"Did ye know 'im?"
Tillie's lips moved. "Did I know who?"
Ah, she was trying to retreat.
"You knew Dog Leyton." He gripped her arm.
At any other time it would have hurt her. Now
she did not even wince.
He pinched harder.
Tillie's lips moved again, but not because of the
pinching. That was evident. She spoke quietly
... to any one . . . every one . . . herself . . .
the world.
"Dog Leyton . . . dead!" Then she smiled and
pulled her arm free, viciously. "Aw, get away!"
The cellar-man was picking up the broken glass.
He spoke: "Want another?"
Tillie shook her head. She tried to rise.
The cellar-man passed to the bar.
Boy pulled her back into her seat. This old tot
knew something. He could swear she knew some-
thing. She'd been round a long time and she'd
known Dog. He was sure of that. He spoke
quickly but very quietly:
FUKY 233
"Did ye know Dog Ley ton well? Did ye?"
"When did he die?"
"Two days out."
"What of?"
"Fits."
Tillie shook her head. . . . Her lips repeated,
"Fits . . . fits . . . fits . . ." and kept on saying
the one word ; and she actually smiled.
She still smiled as Boy spoke : "What ye grinnin'
at? Did ye know 'im?"
Tillie was talking to herself: "Fits . . . mad
. . . Dog!"
Yes, she'd known Dog; Boy now was sure of
that. He shot an intuitive question, suddenly,
disarmingly: "Did ye like 'im?"
Tillie's face was like a mask but her head nodded
slowly.
"Did ye?"
"Once."
"When?"
"Once."
"But when?"
Tillie looked up: "What's that to you, sailor?
Ye got a cheek!"
Boy was insistent. "I know I 'aye. What about
it? W T hen?"
"What's that to you?"
"A lot more'n ye think."
She looked at him in silence for a moment and
her face became knowing, rather sly. "Yes, that's
right ; ye're mate. No, ye ain't mate, either." She
234 FUEY
turned on him suddenly. "Ye ain't mate of The
Spray. Morgan's mate. Ah, ah, ye see I know, I
do, I do!"
Yes; the old tot did damn well know! . . .
something . . . and he was going to know that
something too. She looked too damned knowing!
He asked point blank: "Did ye know Dog Ley-
ton's wife?"
Tillie sat still, except that she slumped into a
crouch as though waiting for something to drop
upon her from the ceiling. Boy watched.
Yes; this woman knew. By the sheerest acci-
dent he had stumbled upon his trail. She knew
something . . . probably a lot . . . and she was
going to say what she knew or he'd know the
reason why. His voice was gruff.
"Come on, did ye know 'er?" He actually shoved
her arm, irritably.
She pulled away. "What's it got to do with
you?"
"I told ye; a lot."
She turned squarely upon him. "Ye sure Dog
is dead?"
"I told ye so."
"Well, what about 'is wife, then?"
"That's what I'm askin' ya"
<r Well, ye can ask on. What should I know
of J er?"
Boy paused, trying to think out a strategy. You
couldn't bully this old tot. He'd got to kid her
along a bit. What could he say?
FUKY 235
Tillie was fidgeting. Her hand seemed lost
without the glass. She gathered her shawl about
her, restlessly.
Boy noted this. Certainly he must not let her
go. If she was bent on going, if she did go, he'd
blinkin' well follow her. He was on the track of
something and nothing on God's earth was going
to shake him off.
He asked a question: "Is the wife dead?"
Tillie turned. "Who?"
"Dog's wife."
Tillie laughed; one of her laughs that had
sound. "Deader'n a nail."
Boy started quickly. "When?"
And now, almost but not quite suddenly, a
change had come in her. She looked strangely
wistful, this old tot did; and some one coming in
at the door let some wind in that blew strands of
her gray hair flutteringly back over her dirty hat.
"Find out, Cocky."
Blimey, an idea! Get her soused again; that
was it. All of a sudden she'd sobered up. Where
was his bloomin' brains not to have thought of
that? As if he couldn't measure brains with this
old ...
"Have another gin, ma'am."
And history was made as Tillie shook her
head.
"Yer a nice boy, just like a little prince."
This time she really rose.
He rose with her. "Ye can't go out. It's rainin'
236 FUKY
cats and dogs. Sit down. Have another." He
put his hand upon her shoulder.
She glanced quickly at him as if a sudden
thought . . . but if so it went as suddenly as it
had come. All her thoughts did that.
What had brought this one into her head? She
had been looking at the back of a tall some one
who had come out of the saloon bar and walked
to the little door at the back.
The door banged.
Her eyes narrowed and fixed upon the door.
Her body shook. She was looking at that door.
Boy knew it had been Morgan who had passed
through and he wondered at the strange effect of
this entirely casual occurrence upon Tillie. Her
look arrested him. He glanced at the door and
then back again at the set white mask of the
woman beside him. It was very interesting, this.
He touched her arm lightly. She seemed strangely
taller and she sat down automatically.
"Do ye know 'im . . . that man?" Boy asked.
"Yes; I know 'im. I know 'im."
Tillie turned her head away and thin, blue-black
veins wound bewilderingly up and down and round
the side of her wrinkled forehead, the side that
Boy could see. She suddenly had become pos-
sessed of a subtle strength, a strength he sensed,
a strength that called to his own pent-up venom.
It was the unspoken message of fury.
Suddenly he found himself drawn to the old
lady . . . no, she was not old . . . she was a
FUKY 237
crouching, almost virile woman with gray hair
fluttering down and a curious, little palpitating
jump where vein lines met upon her forehead in
violent junction. He leaned across.
"You hate 'im, do ye?"
Tillie turned and her eyes spoke her answer.
It was as if a tigress snarled, a wounded tigress,
bleeding, lost and wandering in a jungle-night of
silent agony, her crimson trail winding round and
about and round in endless, uncertain circles, and
then the dawn and a more meaning, definite snarl
as she sees in the clearing the sleeping form of the
hunter who has wounded her, lying arrogantly
calm beside the drying skin of the cub she loved.
Boy leaned forward. "So do I."
Words hissed in his ear. "Kill 'im, then,
sailor."
"I'm goin' t?r."
"When?"
Whispering, heads together now, in a new inti-
macy of tense interest, black and gray . . .
ominous figures these two.
Earlier they had said lightly together, "Let 'em
try! Let 'em try!" But then they had been talk-
ing about nothing, and Boy had laughed at it and
she had wondered what she was talking about.
But now, from out of somewhere, had come a
some one who had tried . . . tried what?
Boy spoke : "What did he do to ye?"
She turned, very much the tigress. "Don't ask,
sailor. Kill 'im! Kill 'im!"
FUKY
There was a mysteriously powerful urge in her
voice, an urge that was answered in the trembling
of Boy's fists.
But again suddenly his mind flew back to
his mission. Couldn't he stop jumping ahead
of himself, that way? This woman had
switched his mind again. He must hold his
course. His questioning returned to the main
issue.
"Tell me about Dog Leyton's wife."
She regarded him steadily. "Why?"
" 'Cause I got a message for 'er."
It seemed an age before she spoke. "If I tell ye,
ye'll never say?"
"Ye said she was dead. Where is she?"
"If I tell ye, ye'll never say?"
"No."
Tillie put her bag away from her, across the
little table and turned squarely to him. Now she
was openly bargaining. "If I tell ye that, will ye
tell me somethin'?"
"What?"
"Did the boy live?"
"What boy?"
"Dog's boy; the young 'un."
A curious feeling took possession of Boy. Her
gaze was full upon him, was like fingers; he could
feel its touch ... it was soft . . . agreeable. Was
this all some mad trick?
He felt strangely involved in a whirling mech-
anism of which he was a vital part. He felt that
FUKY 239
the world was looking at him. It was a moment
before he could collect himself and answer.
"Yes, he's 'round."
"Oh ! Where?" It was a queer, hoarse whisper.
There was a tragic awful note in it.
He trembled violently and then he asked sud-
denly, "Who did Dog's wife go away with?"
She opened her mouth to speak at once, then
checked herself.
"Who was it?"
She knew . . . she knew ... he knew she knew !
She spoke: "What was Dog's message fer 'er?"
"The message was for her, not you, . . . but . . ."
She touched his hand. His whole body thrilled.
He leaned forward and looked deeply into her
eyes. Something was there; something that only
a son's eyes could recognize. God signaled gently
out of them . . . out of eyes that had become clear
and blue, that had become the fathomless eyes of
mother.
Her mouth, now beautiful and full, trembled.
Gray strands of her hair fluttered nervously, as
if they had known and been waiting.
He knew what she was going to say ; he knew I
Could it be true?
Infinite beauty sat before him gray, pink and
white. God smiled. The world spun around,
kicked out of the way ; the sun flamed out.
She spoke. He did not hear. He knew; he
knew! Oh, God in heaven, at last, at last! A
mother to kiss and say "mother" to!
240 FUKY
Lamey grinned when the young sailor put his
arms around old Tillie's neck and kissed her on
the lips. Lamey did not hear Boy whisper in his
own mother's ear : "Dog Leyton sent that for you."
Lamey did not understand that that long, warm
kiss, which made Tillie weep hot tears upon Boy's
cheek was the kiss of all history.
And Tillie did not know; Boy meant that she
should not. She only knew that something had
happened; something that breathed of sunlight
and a forgotten God that smiled again.
Boy sat back after his hand had wiped her tears
away.
She looked at him, tremblingly, wonderingly.
A mother to kiss and say "mother" to? No, no;
not yet!
The little door at the back slammed. They
turned together. Tillie spoke:
"That's 'im ye asked about!"
"Who?"
Then Boy knew ! He knew !
A cry rang out:
"Christ . . . Morgan!"
Fury!
Morgan stopped. A hush had fallen. His eyes
blinked; his vision cleared. He saw. Yes, it was
5 it was she looking up at him, the beauty from
'Millwall, Dog's wife and his own woman in Leith,
the one that was sick, the one that was put away,
the one he'd slipped off from when she was down
and dying, when he was tired of her.
FURY 241
It was she! And this wasn't MacFarlane's.
The hair was gray, but it was she, all right.
"Christ! . . . Morgan!" that shout!
Beside her, the boy; her son, too, he was, look-
ing like Dog looked the day she left him to go to
Leith to meet the first mate, Dog's first mate, the
shipmate of many long years; to Leith, to live just
out of the city; to wait for him, Morgan.
He drew a quick breath.
Every one was quiet and looking at him. Mr.
Hop and the manager had heard the shout and
appeared at the broken saloon-bar door, and he
gazed across at them.
But there weren't two. There was ona
And that one, in a blue uniform, was sweeping
towards him with blazing eyes and open lips; then
a hard fist struck his mouth. It came before he
knew that . . .
Two hands found his throat as his gutta-percha
collar tore loudly.
Every one was shouting.
Then he threw that hissing blue body away with
terrific strength, back into some tables and chairs.
An avenue was cleared for him and he knew
what had happened. The rat had sprung at last!
Good ! . . . Good ! . . . He'd never spring again
. . . after this once.
Again the packed bar yelled as another crushing
blow struck Morgan's high cheek-bone, and Boy
jumped back clear and balanced upon two light-
ning feet
242 FURY
At the doors dirty forms surged, "Back, back,"
and outside in the rain there was the cry : "A fight !
A fight!"
Up from the Robin Hood came every one,
squelching through puddles, tripping, falling,
floundering. "A fight! A fight!"
The rain and creaking shutters shouted: "A
fight! A fight!"
Luke surged in through the saloon, battling his
way to the broken glass door, which fell clattering
as his elbow smashed against it.
"A fight!" Some one had knocked the police
whistle from Mrs. Ross' hand.
Strong arms seized Looney Luke at the edge of
the ring, an act encouraged by grandstand auditors
who stood full up upon the bar.
"Take him out! Let him go! In now, little
one!"
Boy sprang again, and again his body hurled
back, down. His head cracked against the boot of
a man w T ho held his mother, safely, up on the win-
dow bench the mother who knew it not, but who
was strangely still and white, her mouth agape,
greedily watching the stream of blood from the big
man's lips which he smeared across his blue chin,
as he brushed at it hurriedly because Boy rushed
again.
Fury!
Boy! He saw no faces yes, one; only one,
always there. One! And below it a red throat
that he must rip and tear.
FURY 243
His fingers opened. He screamed as he leaped,
a blood-curdling scream, the scream of the dead
father in its echo. Body and spirit parted in the
leap to clutch frantically; hands caught that red
throat again ; nails tore in that vein . . . that vein
... to rip it.
Then his legs left the floor. . . . He was swing-
ing, around . . . around . . . around . . . then
down.
A closed fist hit his head at the back, once . . .
twice . . . three times.
There was a singing in his ears. His hands
opened wide. Something crushed against his nose.
The base of his spine hit the floor. A boot thrust
terribly at his middle; a rib broke he felt it turn
in like a knife.
"No, no ! No kickin' ! Fair play ! Down him !
Down the big 'un !" The crowd was protesting for
fair play.
"Get off me !" Morgan's boot now kicked toward
the protesters.
Mr. Hop's voice in his ear said : "Captain, stand
yer ground. Finish 'im!"
Yes, finish him! That was right.
Morgan, silent, white and waiting. A momen-
tary hush. Some one started to count, just to be
funny. But . . . nothing was funny.
"Shut up! Don't touch 'im! He'll get up!
Watch 'im! There! He's to; he's to!"
Gray-blue ... a distant roar . . . tap, tap, tap,
tap ... in deaf ears ... a smell . . funny, and
244 FUEY
something coming down at the back of his nose,
pouring down, choking.
A spluttering cough opened Boy's eyes and
sprayed the sawdust red.
The opened eyes saw that gas-bracket overhead
larger than the world falling down, down on him ;
but they did not flinch . . . and the gas-bracket
did not fall . . . and then the eyes saw that face
looking down at them Morgan's, with a nose that
reached to his chin, and eyes that sprang apart and
met again.
A struggle to rise; but his legs were gone . . .
his legs were gone . . . his legs were gone!
The face above, like the moon gone mad, spread
and laughed. He was dead. Boy was dead, in
hell; . . . tap, tap, tap ... in his ears; . . . that
shaft in his side . . . and swallow, swallow, swal-
low that burning stuff that poured down behind
his nose.
One ear cleared. A million voices: "Get up!
Get up!" . . . and the face growing larger, stoop-
ing down.
His legs were gone . . . his legs were gone! A
scuffle he could not hear.
Two hands seized his dead face. Through one
ear he heard : "Don't fight for me, sailor."
He saw another face; his mother's, wasn't it?
. . . his mother's? They were pulling her off;
away, and she was screaming something that he
could not hear.
His legs! God give him his legs!
FURY 245
A roaring shout. He did not know, but he had
started to rise. He was coming up, up! He
stood and fell forward toward that face Mor-
gan's.
Then Looney Luke's voice screamed: "God!"
And a hush fell as Boy crashed down again and
lay still.
Two policemen, sharply blue, cut through a
struggling, dirty mass.
Every one talked ; every one wondered.
Mrs. Ross sat white and mute in a chair behind
the bar.
The rain beat into the policemen's faces at the
held-open door as they hurled one and then another
sodden form into the muddy street.
Captain Morgan, Mr. Hop and the manager
walked quietly down Waterfront, a small dimin-
ishing crowd behind them.
The bar door shut tight. Kindly hands pulled
Tillie gently away from the prone form of the
young sailor who had fought for her, the one who
was just like a little prince; and she followed
quietly as they carried his limp body into the
saloon bar and sat him in the horsehair chair.
His head fell forward.
Then Mrs. Ross came in with a bowl of water,
pushing Tillie aside to gaze horror-stricken into
the pulp that had been Boy's face.
Luke quietly drew her attention to where Boy's
bleeding hand caught sharply at a place on his side,
and the hand of Mrs. Ross crept tenderly under his
246 FURY
coat and then under his shirt and felt there while
she looked up, frightened.
Tillie aisked a furtive question. Mrs. Boss
pushed her roughly away, and looked frantically
around the little room that was rapidly filling
again.
"Get a doctor, one of you ! He's hurt to death."
Some on-e scuffled out at the door.
Tillie sank on her knees and the sound of muffled
sobbing came from her.
But Boy did not hear. He could hear nothing
of earth. He swirled past clouds hung high above
black, angry seas. Wind shrieked and he peered
down. There was no ship upon the waters ; waters
that he did not know; a sea of another sphere.
But he could hear its laughing, taunting wash.
Sailors might be below, asleep.
Oh, but to drop and sink beneath that inky sur-
face . . . down, down, to black oblivion ... to
silence !
Desperately he gazed up, and through a tiny
patch in that black cloud came a light that burned
his face, scorching his hair, burning him; then a
cool breeze swept him on into clear blue and some-
where in the distance an angel's voice seemed
calling. . . .
The clouds had passed and the wind and the
wash were hushed.
There was nothing but blue and that voice . . .
Min's voice, calling ... in the vague distance,
"Boy . . . Boy . . . Boyee!"
CHAPTER XII
MIN, also, was having her adventures during
this absorbing period.
When Mrs. Ross had laid Min upon the
bed the little laughing girl had seemed strangely
quiet, suddenly. So she had turned the light down
and left carefully to go downstairs to her work
behind the bar; and her first order had been Boy's
when he had asked her for that glass of double
gin.
Mins don't faint and pass out, and it was only
by the sheerest chance that Min had lost control;
the slight chance of the cigarette-end that sets the
factory ablaze and kills a hundred people.
So now she lay quiet, her eyes open, pressed
against the pillow, curiously exhausted. She felt
as though she had run ten miles without stopping
and her heart against the bed thumped beneath
her. Her leg kicked, heel up, in the air convul-
sively and the entire bed commenced to swing
slowly from side to side, higher and higher,
swifter and swifter, like the Hampstead holiday
swing, until it swung her out of the room, over and
over, back across Limehouse; and Ma Brent was
looking up at her, waiting, but Min wasn't a bit
afraid.
What did she care? The bloody bed could swing
247
248 FURY
itself to death and Ma Brent could climb up, if
she'd a mind to, and do otherwise as she damn
well liked.
So, of course, the bed swung back into The
Thistle bedroom. Beds or any other things that
swing or jump or behave absurdly in illusions will
go back and stay quiet if the little person riding
upon them is not afraid ; and Mins are not afraid.
She peeped up over her shoulder. Yes, the
blinkin' room was there all right; it would be. It
had been there all the time. Yes, Min knew that.
Then, for some extraordinary reason, she started
to sing right into the pillow :
"Father got the sack from the water-works,
Through smokin' his little cherry briar . . ."
And she sang right on until she came to that bit
about setting the water-works on fire and then she
laughed into the pillow. She always did laugh at
that bit.
Then her head came up. No; she'd better be
careful and not laugh. She mightn't be able to
stop!
She thought steadily for a moment. Yes, she'd
always be afraid to laugh again, now. She'd be
afraid she wouldn't be able to stop. Blimey, that
was a funny one!
She recalled a sailor who used to sing a laughing
song when he got drunk and once he'd run away
with himself. How she'd laughed at him ! They
all had. And Min started laughing again, and
FUEY 249
again she couldn't stop, so she stuffed the sheet
into her mouth. It made her retch, but finally it
stopped her laughing; then again that feeling of
terrible exhaustion.
She sighed heavily and her hand gripped some-
thing very soft the pink nightdress. Boy would
never see that now ! Poor boy what he'd missed !
He could have seen that nightdress with Min in
it! What a silly boy he was! He'd sooner get
drunk and kill somebody, and sit down with that
old, old tot . . . and then she remembered his
smile at that old tot his smile that belonged to
her!
Eve woke within her. That was her smile, her
own. And . . . her smile to go to that dirty,
frowsy old creature.
She sat up. Boy, blimey, Boy with that!
But from somewhere Pinkie's voice came to her:
"You're on the threshold of Life's sweetest
journey. Stick to your man. He's yours. God
gave him to you."
Yes, he was hers, hers, hers! And no dirty old
sailors' tot was going to take him away from
her!
She felt suddenly weary. Heigho, she'd rest a
bit, first. You don't have to be in a mad temper
when you've got to manage those dirty, hateful,
rotten old sailors' tots!
Her head fell back upon the bed. Yes ; that was
right. Any kind of girl goes down into a bar and
rants and fights for a man. Other kinds of girls
250 FURY
did that; and if she did that she'd look like one
of those other kinds of girls. No, there was an-
other way. What?
She lay silently, her mind seizing upon this,
upon that, discarding each new idea with a heavy
sigh.
Inspiration! A note a note! Yes, she'd send
a note down to Mrs. Ross to give to him ! Oh, she
could write! She used to make out a list of gro-
ceries and things every day for Ma Brent.
She'd have to send a note because she couldn't
trust herself to say what she wanted to in front
of that dirty old tot. A note, that was it !
As she scrambled up, a sound came up from the
street below. She heard some one shouting: "A
fight! A fight!" and some glass smashed.
Go on, blast 'em all! Let 'em fight it out! Let
'em fight! it wasn't nothing to do with her, was
it? She'd mind her own concern; and she had a
concern now, all right: first to find a bit of pencil
and then some paper . . . and that was concern
enough.
There you are; whenever you want something ye
never can find it, now, can ye?
Hooray ! Pen and ink ! Yes ! This was a hotel,
wasn't it?
She did not know that once upon a time Angus
Ross, who was always fussy about that hotel side
of his business, had asked Mrs. Ross always to see
to the pen and ink and paper and towels in Num-
bers 1 and 2, as he had always proudly called the
FURY 251
only two letting rooms in the house, and Mrs. Ross
had always carried out Angus' wishes.
And so the pen, who had heard Mrs. Ross tell
all this to that one last boarder, four years ago,
thrilled as it was caught up in these light, trem-
bling fingers.
Pens have such good memories, such sweet na-
tures, and such emotional moments ! And this pen
was a plaid one, "The Gordon plaid," Mrs. Ross
had remarked when her late husband had brought
it home with two others. This pen now supposed
the other two had been lost or worn out, but it
thrilled and knew that it lived now because di-
rected by Min's fingers it dived into the cool, blue
ink and made some preliminary marks.
Neither Min nor the plaid pen heard through
their mutual adventure the crashes and shouts
below. A pen is a sweet, silent, distracting com-
panion and adventures are so possible with one;
this was this pen's adventure with Min, as the pen
itself related it upon the sheet of paper there and
then provided:
"Dere Boy, I hop you are quite well. . . ."
At this point a lot of fun was enjoyed because
reams of paper were destroyed, and pens love be-
ginning things; sometimes they tire towards the
finish.
"... I want to speak to you about sumthink.
. . . Yur mine whatever you may say. ... I
252 FUEY
ain't agoing rong as I sed becaus it ain't rite to do
rong with a thing that ain't yur own is it? And
I ain't mine becaus I'm yurs and I want to giv
you back sumthink thats yurs just as if you mite
have dropt it like. I remane
Yurs truly,
MIN."
A long, arduous fight, this, of sighs and worry-
ings. The pen had watched amusedly the little red
tongue above poking out hither and thither ... a
kindly, lonely old pen this, who loved youth and
who seemed to understand ; it was a pen that knew
its strength; a pen that was conscious of the tra-
dition of its Gordon plaid; a pen that knew with
pride that it was mightier than the sword.
It had laughed softly to itself, the ink drying on
its lips as it heard that little human being run
downstairs. It felt hot and was still conscious of
her damp grip upon its slender body.
It had also heard her startled cry from below
and wondered. Pens never hear their answers.
Entering the saloon, with her letter in her hand,
Min had screamed on seeing whom they were bend-
ing over in the chair. All restraint gone, she had
rushed forward and slung that dirty old tot away,
savagely. Even when the old woman was upon
the floor she threatened her. Somehow she'd im-
mediately associated this grotesque, sobbing old
bag of rags with . . .
She held Boy's head up, her hot hand upon his
forehead. It was then that Boy had sensed that
FURY 253
light above him and that scorching burn npon his
head. It was then that he had drifted into peace-
ful blue and his ears had caught that angel's voice
calling . . . calling . . . "Boy . . . Boy . . ..
Boyee!"
His eyes opened . . . Min . s .
CHAPTEB XIII
WITH the hot, nervous stride of a summer's
day upon its way to its inevitable dawn,
so Boy's senses advanced upon his night
. . . fragment by fragment the puzzle was pieced
together from the Mlt of brave Angus upon the
wall to the white little face of Min looking up at
him. Noises became voices and blotches became
faces.
Glancing down upon himself he knew he had a
body, an aching thing, hanging suspended in mid-
air upon a bayonet thrust into its side.
His hand came up and touched a mountain of
flesh near one of his eyes. He did not know which
one.
And then with a vague tick . . . tick . . . tick
... a flywheel in his brain functioned, and
thoughts leaped pell-mell through the door outside
of which they had been patiently waiting. The
first thought to get in asked "Mother?" and obedi-
ent eyes searched like silent, well-trained servants
of the mind, and quickly found a little figure, hud-
dled, looking at him from the corner.
His vast, swollen upper-lip stretched; the skin
broke asunder as he smiled, and the hand that Min
did not hold stretched out to the little figure that
took a step forward. Min's head turned:
254
FURY 255
"Get back there, you! He's mine! Get out
before . . ."
And Boy's hand pulled suddenly away from hers.
Lamey, Red and about three others from The
Spray stood around, talking in low voices.
Mrs. Ross was speaking to a policeman with his
helmet off, who was writing in a book, a glass of
beer upon the table at his side.
Two others, not of The Spray, had gone for the
doctor.
Luke had followed them as they had rushed out.
Now there was a hush as Boy made a sound.
Both arms came out to old Tillie who was moving
slowly to him, her eyes upon his face.
And suddenly Min screamed, "Get back, or I'll
brain yer. 'E's mine! 'E's mine!"
Tillie faltered; she did not speak. She just
stood there, her eyes on Boy's broken face.
Boy rose, haltingly. He swayed and then stood
straight.
Min caught his arm.
His hand came out. She took it; but his eyes
were upon the little gray figure who now stood
within a foot of him, looking up. She seemed in
a trance. Why didn't some one say something?
Boy swayed.
A voice rang out; Tillie's voice: "Who is this
man? Who? Who? Christ, take his eyes away!
Who is he? Who?"
Lamey caught her arm. She'd gone off her
chump, for a cert!
256 FURY
"Who is he? Who is he?"
Boy's mouth moved, but only a husky sound
came.
It was Min's voice that answered, loud and
shrill: "If ye want to know, 'e's Boy Leyton, an'
'e's mine! 'E's mine!" And she left Boy's side
and advanced threateningly.
Boy made a tragic effort and then fell suddenly
back into the chair, but no one seemed to notice
him.
Two women faced each other. Another fight?
. . . No!
Mrs. Boss and the policeman swept forward.
The men edged round.
"Boy Leyton!"
The little gray figure caught Red's arm that still
held her.
"Dog Ley ton's boy?"
"That's it." Red's voice was not excited; it
never was.
Min advanced a step. "And what about it?"
A sudden cry; a scramble. Min and men were
brushed aside like feathers. Have you ever known
a mother's strength? A gray head hid Boy's face,
and a voice was heard to say: "Mine! . . . My
own !"
A silence fell. Even Min did not move. The
lights seemed somehow brighter. Holy spirits
seemed to be there in the room. They watched in
silence as Boy's lips moved and he said, "Mother!"
Everybody heard Mm.
FURY 257
Vividly Min recalled Boy's story told that very
day in that very room. Yes, the mother he was to
find, and here she was!
Boy's mother; the mother he had always told
her he wondered about. They had played mothers
once, each making up out of their minds just what
they thought each of their mothers must be like;
hers and his, and now . . .
A rough voice outside Mr. Hop's : "All hands
The Lady Spray! Come on!" An answering
movement in the room. Some one repeated: "All
hands The Lady Spray!"
And Boy heard and rose, suddenly, to his feet.
His little mother rose with him, Min mutely
watching them. He smiled and brought his two
arms together. His mother in one and the other
that which he had stretched out for Min and she
in it.
They met awkwardly, silently . . . Mother and
Min.
Then Boy's hand found his pocket and as he
stepped forward, his purse dropped to the floor,
because the effort and the pain of his rib had
nearly overbalanced him. Red caught his arm.
Min spoke: "Yer not goin'?"
Mrs. Ross barred his way as he moved toward
the door. "No, no; he can't! He can't go!"
Even Red said: "Ye'd better jump ship, Boy."
Boy laughed. It was rather an awful laugh;
and with a stumbling effort, he pulled his mother
and Min together and pointed down at the pnrse
258 FURY
upon the floor which he could in no wise have
picked up.
"Wait ... for me ... see? . . . Both . . ."
Then towards the door, almost falling.
The three women and Red surged forward to
stop him. Luke arrived with the doctor to bar
his way. Bed held his arm.
Seeing Luke Boy's hands went out. "Take me,
Luke."
Luke came and took his arm immediately.
"Here's the doctor, Boy."
Boy's voice rang out: "Doctor? hell!"
He paused and swayed there in Luke's grip and
turned with a swinging gesture to the room
wherein Min held his mother, whose eyes had
closed.
"Wait fer me . . . London, see?"
He fell out of the room between Luke and
Bed.
Mrs. Ross and Min laid Tillie down and the
doctor stepped forward to them.
Outside in the rain Red and Luke spoke at once
to the sagging form that hung between them and
what they said caused the sagging form to
straighten convulsively.
"Take me aboard, blast ye! I'm mate! Obey,
will ye? Come on!"
Luke's voice: "But ye're mad mad!"
"Mad? Hell! Come on!"
'And they moved slowly on and down.
FURY 259
The world smiled . . . just a drunken sailor
sagging between two mates.
A drunken sailor, yes . . . but drunk with . . .
fury!
CHAPTER XIV
SOMEWHEKE near the waterfront a church
bell struck nine and somewhere near the
waterfront, in a little back room, somewhere,
the snoring form of some one turned upon a twisted
ugly bed. Then the form rose, clad only in a
flannel shirt.
"Where are ye?"
Wet wind through a piece of brown paper stuck
over a hole in the window flickered the worn
mantel of the incandescent light sillily.
"Where are ye?"
A motor horn in the vague distance answered
mockingly.
An awful oath rang in the little room, and
Clancey half fell towards the light to pull the
string and in the increased illumination gazed
around blinkingly.
His hand went to his sweating, throbbing
temples.
What time was it? and where had she gone to?
He was alone.
Let's see, yes, he was in Leith, but where?
He fell over the washbowl which sat flatly upon
the floor.
He swore again. She'd done a bunk on him!
She had and all! What time was it?
260
F U E Y 261
Some one was going by the door. He crossed
and opened it an inch. The passer was a tall man
with a lighted match in his hand.
"What time is it, mate?"
"Nine o'clock/' a heavy voice boomed at him.
Clancey slammed the door. The wind helped
him and an absurd valentine card fell from the
wall.
Nine o'clock ! Blast ! The Spray was out ; gone ;
cleared! Here was a nice kettle of fish!
A pint bottle showed three inches yellow up from
the bottom. Good ! His lips closed greedily round
the neck. Ah, . . . good!
Clancey slapped his chest. That was an eye-
opener! Now he'd get out and get a bite to eat.
The whiskey burned.
Where had she gone? that girl? There was the
peg she'd hung the certain kind of tam-o'-shanter
on. Pretty hair she had.
So she'd 'opped it, 'ad she? They 'ad no con-
science, they 'adn't. She didn't live here; no;
she'd said that. He'd had to tread quietly up those
creaking stairs.
He hiccoughed. The whiskey burned ; and he sat
down on the bed. Where was this place? Near the
water, anyway, for there was a siren. So The Lady
Spray was out? Well, what about another sleep?
Where'd that girl gone?
Look, look! What was that? That, under
there ! TJ?h ! Only his boot. No ; he'd better get
out; it would be cooler. He was burning up.
262 FURY
It had been a good bust, but it had ended too
soon.
Where'd she gone, that girl?
He wandered around. What was he looking
for? Where had she gone? What was he looking
for? He had forgotten. Ah . . . his trousers,
that was it! Where were they? No; not there.
But that was where he had put them on that
chair.
Blimey! His money was in them!
He suddenly woke fully and searched and
knocked things down and tripped over the wash-
bowl again . . . twice; he looked under the dirty
bed and on the dirty bed that hadn't any sheets.
She'd bunked with them!
The dirty skirt ! She'd hopped it with his brass
and his trousers, so that he couldn't chase her!
And he'd missed The Spray.
What was he going to do now? He sat very still.
What dirty, rotten, stinking things women were!
And he'd cottoned up to this one, too! She'd told
him about her kid and he'd given her half a crown
to send him in a postal order. Now she'd gone
and done him down !
He reached forward for the bottle. Hell, it was
empty! In his rage he threw it from him, out
through the window, smashing the glass. He'd get
out and find her, the dirty . . .
A shout from below.
He crossed and looked out of the window. Some
FURY 263
men and a woman were looking up and as his head
came out, there was another shout.
"What's up?" he called.
"Come down here," some one answered.
"I can't!" he laughed.
"Come down!" several shouted.
Then something whispered that something was
wrong, and he withdrew his head. What was up?
What was up? What's it about?
A thumping on the stairs; hammering at the
door; a woman's voice screaming; the door flew
open and a heavy man stood there, and a fat
woman behind him.
Without warning or sound the heavy man rushed
in and smashed and Clancey fell. A policeman
came in.
"Who is he?"
Then the fat woman spoke: "Dunno. 'Ee ain't
no right in this 'ouse. I'm the landlady."
"Get out in the 'all, ma'am; he ain't dressed."
And the policeman and heavy man watched
Clancey stagger up.
Before he could speak, the policeman seized him.
"Where's yer trooserrrs?"
"Dunno. What's up? What's it about?"
Without a word, the heavy man hit him again
and Clancey charged and kicked.
The police whistle screamed. The whiskey
burned and Clancey went mad and ran down into
the street, terror in his eyes.
264 FURY
What was it all about? Get out! Smash! and
he caught some one in the face as he ran.
A rising cry came up. "Madman! Madman!"
A way cleared for him as he ran through the
rain in his shirt, the crowd after him. A police-
man's truncheon felled him. He scrambled up and
fought and bit and kicked until the truncheon
crashed again, terribly.
"What's up? What's up? Who is he?" and the
police sergeant, whose truncheon had stopped the
flight, threw his cape over the prostrate form
which was probably dead, and pushed back the
crowd from the doorway.
Then the other policeman and the heavy man
came up on the run.
"Did ye get him?"
The sergeant answered with a question, which
the policeman answered: "They was comin' up
from market."
The sergeant interrupted: "Who?"
"This mon and his Missus with their bairn."
The policeman indicated the heavy man. "And the
looney was hidin' there up in Number fourteen,
where I found him without his clothes, up at Mrs.
Reid's, and he threw a bottle from the window and
cut the baby's head open."
"Where's the baby?"
"Off at the doctor's."
The crowd surged forward. A sailor gone mad
had brained a baby ! Forward and back it surged.
The news spread to The Robin Hood across the
FURY 265
way and men and women stumbled across through,
the rain. A naked, mad sailor had brained a baby I
The girl in the certain kind of tam-o'-shanter
touched the arm of the girl who was with her and
shivered.
"There 'e is! Look, 'e' dead!"
A voice at her side volunteered: "He was mad
and they killed him."
"Good job, too," remarked the girl under the
certain kind of tam-o'-shanter. "Fancy killin' a
little baby!" She turned away, horrified.
From a pair of naked, hairy, wet legs, peeping
from under a policeman's cape, with a thin streak
of red, trickling down to the gutter, mingling un-
willingly with the rain.
So "a gal or two" turned away from a tragic
sight.
" 'Ave a good time," Clancey had said. "Tell
the world to go an' choke itself. . . . I've seen a
bit o' life in my time! . . . Take a tip from yer
Uncle Clan."
. . . the world to choke itself ! . . . Ha, ha ! He
had called the world and the world had answered
with a lightning thrust.
Choke it, would you, little man? . . . Fury!
CHAPTER XV
A 'OTHER bedroom; a tiny, ordered, proper
little room, smelling sweet and dusted clean,
fragrant and with fresh curtains and clean,
white walls because Mrs. Ross had promised dear
Angus it always should be so.
And now, pink and white, Min, alone, was very
busy, hurrying to do something. One after another
she folded garments that looked dirty and out of
keeping with other things in the room. But Min
shook and folded them tenderly.
Then she crossed to the door and listened. Some
one was in the bathroom. She could hear the
sound of running water. There was a moment yet.
She swept back into the room, the pink folds of
her nightdress clinging round her figure prettily.
Crossing to the bed, she smoothed and patted the
pillows. The rose-glass stood at the side, but the
roses were gone; but never mind, she'd leave the
glass. The roses had been there just the same, and
roses didn't die if you've seen them. That is, those
you kept back of your eyes didn't.
Min was strangely calm and she swept about the
room doing odd, significant things, with a grace
that belonged rather to a sweeping, pink beauty of
another day.
266
FURY 267
She hesitated and then drew from a new brown
bag a nightdress of flannelette. It rested against
her face. Yes, it was aired, all right.
Spreading it upon the bed, she stood up and
pulled one of her arms out of the gown of wedding
pink, the new, soft one.
A furtive glance at the door, and she let the
gown fall, shimmering to her feet, and stood for
an instant naked . . . pink and white.
Then she put her little arms into the flannelette
and stood up so that it fell and covered her.
Something beautifully suggestive of God's perfec-
tion fluttered for a moment before our eyes . . ..
a woman a young woman.
Her face had never glowed like this before, com-
posed and beautiful. Perhaps because she had
longed for this night; perhaps, but . . .
Why had she changed that nightdress? She had
had some good reason. She must have had, she
had done it so deliberately.
She waited at the door, glancing around the
room furtively to see that all was in readiness.
She heard the bathroom door open and some one
coming forward. She stood aside as Mrs. Boss
came in, her arm about the shoulders of a little
some one wrapped in a blanket, some one with gray
hair falling down. Min took the other arm.
"I left her a nightdress on the bed, ma'am. Will
ye 'elp her." Averting her head sweetly she busied
herself with something in the new brown bag until
she heard Mrs. Ross say, "There ye are now. Kick
268 FURY
those slippers off. That's right. Now down into
bed."
Min stood and watched the gray hair sink gently
upon the soft, white pillow and, moving around to
the other side of the bed, she stood as though she
wanted to help.
Some one called Mrs. Ross from downstairs.
"I can manage now, ma'am. Thanks," Min
murmured.
"Good-night, then. Ring if ye want anything,"
and Mrs. Ross left.
"Good night," said Min, "and thank ye."
She stood for a moment nervously still. She had
begged Mrs. Ross for this ; but now she felt afraid.
The gray head upon the pillow, the face averted,
was so still, and tiny beads of perspiration stood
out upon the bit of wrinkled forehead that she
could see. The hot bath had caused that. The
head moved and a face looked around at her and
held for a moment, drifting gently into a smile.
Min's fear left her. She stretched over across
the bed and put her arms around that neck, pillow
and all, and whispered: "Are ye all right . . .
Mother?"
Min's little lips kissed Boy's mother's cheek and
held there. "Ye told me to call ye 'Mother.' Do
ye still mind, Mother?"
The other woman's voice was firm. Life sprang
into it with a thrill of tenderness and love.
A graceful ship, tossed and battered in a hope-
less storm of awful years, lay to suddenly in calm
269
waters, and raised her breathless prow gracefully,
proudly, in the storm's hushed lull.
Good salvage! A ship to sail again! Almost
trim! A worthy ship, as good as any ship afloat!
"You dear, sweet lamb, kiss me . . . little girl
. . . hold me tight!"
Thin arms came up in thin, pink sleeves and
drew Min in the flannelette close. Neither could
speak, because both were weeping, and Min's arm,
the one with the pins and needles in it, lifted and
she hopped up and turned out the light, opened
the window a little way, and tiptoed back to the
bed.
Then she stepped in and drew the clean, cool
bedclothes about them both and her arm went
round the thin waist beside her. She could feel
the thump, thump of a beating heart beneath her
hand. A gentle voice kissed her ears:
"God bless you!"
Silence. And then Min said: "God bless our
Boy." The other's entire body turned, trembling.
"I was a-thinkin' that, then. God bless our Boy.
Our own Boy."
After all, they were women, weren't they?
And so they commenced to chat very quietly of
Boy, murmuring endless, wonderful whispers of
their Boy, pulsating with hope. Of course, all
would be well. How could it be otherwise? He
was their Boy, wasn't he?
Neither had knelt to pray, because neither ever
had. They did not know that way; but God gets
270 FURY
many kinds of prayers and understands them all,
and He understands best, perhaps, the silent,
hopeful prayers direct to Him from gentle, human
souls.
And the sun peeped in at them through the win-
dow when the dawn came, smiling. They were
asleep . . . pink and white . . . gray, pink and
white.
PART VI
"Oh, let me ride on all the seas,
That endless peaceful trip,
With God, the greatest Skipper,
And Heaven, the perfect ship."
LOONBY LUKE'S POEMS
CHAPTER I
RANK on rank advancing ... to where?
. . . Rollers . . . ominous proceeding ranks
of green . . . captained by screaming
ghosts mounted on the wind, charging, charging,
their war chant hissing to the dull, thundering
tread of their distant feet, tramping fathoms below.
So the North Sea ever charges on its phantom
enemy, its countless white arms rearing hungrily
up, leaping into the air, searching . . . for what?
The Lady Spray, agile and schooled, tripped
lightly over and on, shaking her graceful body as
might some tall white hound upon Siberian snows.
But there was a shrug of irritability in her move-
ments. Like a circus lady who hastens her dan-
gerous act to rush home to her sick baby, her
splendid movements are marked and her smile is
not there.
How could it be? Did The Spray not sense the
change within her? She sighed continually. She
might have been a petted race horse sold to alien
hands, as she gazed out upon a vista of change and
misery, down, down upon her declining years, until
her faithful timbers should yield to the breaker's
ax, the storm-hidden rocks, those nightmares of
all ships, or to whatever death the God of ships
decreed.
273
274 FURY
Poor Spray! Poor Lady Spray!
Morning; every element at large; sea, wind and
sun ; sun, wind and sea. A morning to shout, sing,
scrub, polish and tattle; a sailor's morning; a
morning for the chanty man who was not there.
No, Claneey's voice was missing.
But Red was humming a bit up forward and Zeis
could be heard in the galley. But whoever under-
stood the words he sang?
His song, or whatever it was, stopped as he
handed out a can of soup and some biscuits to
Looney Luke who waited quietly at the galley
door.
"Tatas en feech en bones vary goot fer't
stren'th."
Luke thought it smelt so and, smiling, walked
forward.
Lamey sniffed and smiled as Luke passed.
"Better, is ? e?"
Luke paused. "Improving."
Lamey stopped to jam a new quid into his cheek
and then he spat properly.
"I 'eard 'im all night. Ravin', wasn't 'e?"
Luke nodded. "Poor mind's troubled, Lamey."
Lamey turned again to his job. " 'Ard luck !"
Luke went on happily ; happy because Lamey was
not the only hand by many that had asked tenderly
about his battered, suffering charge. Yes, the crew
were for Boy to a man. He was of the deep sea,
Boy was they all knew that. He had salt and h
could go. Blimey, he could go for a little'n!
FURY 275
And this dull admiration effected a reaction
against the tall, silent, new skipper. Er he was
a superior cuss, he was! You never knew what
was in his head and you might be a lump of gar-
bage, the way he talked to yer.
Luke glanced up through the swift breeze that
smelt so good, so fresh.
Somehow he felt that all was well. Luke was
himself again this morning. For forty-eight hours
since leaving Leith he had been strangely enclosed
in a stifling doubt, but this morning everything
whispered ; the sea, the wind, the world whispered :
"All's well! All's well! Only you . . . only men
. . . can be otherwise ! All's well ! Men, too, may
be well if they but will it so!"
Morgan's voice nearby arrested him. He paused
by Boat Number 2 and listened. Mr. Hop's voice
was answering:
"Latitude Longitude "
Silence for a moment, and then Morgan's voice
again.
"Right over the old 'un! Funny!"
He walked out just in front of Luke and spat
over the side.
"I reckon 'e misses 'is swig of rum, down there."
Then he apostrophized the dead insultingly, rib-
aldly. "Don't yer, Dog? 'Avin a few fits about it,
are yer?"
He grinned as he stood looking over.
Mr. Hop passed and stood beside him.
The wind swept their voices away.
276 FUEY
So they were over Dog Leyton's grave! They
were!
Luke, too, was thinking quickly of it, as he hur-
ried forward. Yes, they were over the old 'un's
grave. Strange, Mechanically he made his way
into the foVsle.
Something stretched upon Clancey's bunk turned
as he entered and started up suddenly.
"What what . . . who is it?"
"Just me, Boy, with some soup. Good, too!
Zeis made it special for yer."
"Ugh! Don't want it!"
"Do try, Boy. Just fer Luke! Come on; just
a drop. 'Ere . . . smell!"
"Take the blinkin' stuff away, will yer?"
"But, Boy, you want to get strong, don't you?
Didn't you pray last night with me? You got to
do something on your own for it."
"Ahr ! You an' yer prayers an' yer soup an' yer
talk! What good will they do anybody? Lemme
alone !"
The sunlight swept suddenly through the port
across Boy's face dark blue, white and red; one
eye completely closed and the nose swollen gro-
tesquely; a purple billow of flesh hiding the line
of the mouth.
So he had lain hour after hour in that rumbling,
stinking hole, listening to the incessant wash that
damned, awful, taunting wash.
"You've got it to do ... you've got it to do
. . . you've got it to do!"
FCJKY 277
He had listened until he'd screamed and tried
to struggle up; but the rib and the loss of blood
had robbed him of any legs to speak of.
And so now he tossed under the blanket that was
clean only because Looney Luke had washed it
for him, all day, all night, all night, all day;
his spirit whipping up a body that lay tired
and panting, unable to obey that damned, awful,
taunting wash that sometimes changed to :
"Get up and kill . . . get up and kill . . . get
up and kill!"
Then he'd press the blanket over his ears, but
still it would cut through relentlessly, deep into
his ear drums that infernal, terrible, incessant
wash! "You've got it to do ... you've got it to
do!" until . . .
Once he had screamed and rushed for the hatch
to jump out clear and end it all, but Luke and Bed
had caught him, weak and easy to lay back on the
bed.
And then those two damn, dirty conspirators,
Luke and Eed, had talked low and shaken their
heads, until he'd thrown the cup at Luke's bald
head and Luke had come fearlessly to the bunk
and knelt and gabbed about being calm.
Who could be calm while that damn, awful,
taunting wash kept on laughing at him: "You've
got it to do! ... Get up and kill!"
So hour after hour he'd groaned and tossed and
the hands had come and peered over him, shaking
their heads gloatingly.
278 FURY
And then, once, in the distance, he'd heard Mor-
gan's voice. Morgan ! Christ in Heaven, Morgan !
He'd leaped np, but then had fallen and shaken
that rib until he'd seen gray and blue and red . . .
and his Mother and Min fighting, tearing at each
other's hair and eyes . . . and Min had got his
little Mother down and was pouring straight gin
out of a bottle into her blue eyes, just so that she
wouldn't ever see him again . . . and then both
the women had looked up, because they saw Morgan
coming towards them . . . and he'd just looked
and grinned and turned away; and they both had
turned and followed him . . . and Min was throw-
ing some roses that she wore over his head
Boy had opened his eyes to see Morgan's back at
the door. He had shouted and Morgan had turned
and laughed. And then Luke had come and whis-
pered:
"He ain't gonna touch yer, Boy; don't get
scared."
Scared! Him! Boy! Scared?
Again he'd hit Luke with his hand and Luke in
answer had prayed aloud and Boy had listened
until Luke said:
"Father, give him strength!"
And Boy had cried out:
"Strength! Strength! Strength!"
And the wash had laughed at his voice.
And the wash was right because no strength had
come all night or even now.
And here was Luke and smelly soup; and the
FURY 279
sun was outside, and other men were able to walk
about; and the wash still laughed at him, and he
couldn't get up ... he couldn't get up ... he
couldn't get up and kill and rip that dirty swine
that had looked over him and laughed!
Luke sat quietly, watching Boy's twitching face.
"Where do you think we are now, Boy?"
A groan answered him.
"Where are we now, Boy?"
"Hell !"
"Is your father in Hell, then, Boy?"
"Hell!"
"Boy !" Luke's voice rang out. "Oh, take heart,
Boy . . . look!"
What was Luke shouting about now? Boy
looked up. Luke continued, with a splendid ges-
ture:
"Out of that there port, you can see your fa-
ther's grave. We're over him now, Boy."
"Liar!"
Luke was silent.
But Luke never lied. Never.
Boy spoke: "Straight?"
Luke nodded his head slowly.
Boy was silent.
So his father lay below ... his father!
His vision cleared. Below . . . him now!
"I loved yer all the time, Boy!"
Oh, God in heaven, his father lay below!
Then the wash spoke: "He's watching below!
280 FURY
. . . He's watching below! . . . He's watching
below !''
Luke did not attempt to stop the twisted figure
that staggered to the door. He knew that some-
thing bigger than either of them willed it should
be so, that some impulse bigger than either of
them led Boy forward.
He did not follow, but stood mutely waiting.
If Boy jumped over, down to his father, then God
had willed it so.
A light shining in those eyes that had just left
had ordered him and all men . . . not to interfere.
Yet Boy had said no word.
He had passed out silently, on and out.
Mr. Hop touched Captain Morgan's arm and
pointed forward.
Together they watched the figure, naked to the
waist, clutch at the house for support, and almost
fall towards the ship's side, the side that was
awash. Morgan smiled.
"There you are. Over 'e goes."
Mr. Hop shaded his eyes to watch. Red passed
on the run; Boy was jumping over for sure!
"Get back there."
The voice of his Captain halted Red.
"That ain't no concern of yours! Get back!"
Red hesitated. Lamey and Tucker came up and
stood by Red. They mumbled quickly. Mr. Hop
walked forward to them.
"Get back!"
FUKY 281
Lamey turned away still mumbling. Red and
Tucker stood still, looking off.
"A mate's a mate, ain't 'e?"
Morgan had walked forward to where, a few feet
from him, Boy gripped the rail. He was shouting
something.
Mad! Chains! thought Morgan.
A wave broke over, and Morgan stepped back,
away from the water that combed over. Luke
appeared at the companionway hatch and was
moving quickly out, only to be swung savagely
back by the Captain.
"Get back!"
Boy, dripping, flung out his hands and the wind
swept his voice back:
"Father, help me! Father! I ain't failed yer!
father. . . . Gimmie strength! It's Boy a-callin'
yer . . . father! I'm 'urt an' I ain't got no
strength . . . but I found 'im, father ... an' I
can't ... I can't "
Another wave broke and tugged his bruised body
against the rail as it rushed away.
Far at sea, long rollers, line on line, swept on,
interminable proceeding ranks of green.
"Father . . . strength!"
Morgan laughed.
Boy turned, stood straight up, brine dripping
from his matted hair, brine glistening upon two
shoulders that squared.
A scream above the wind.
"Come on, Hell"
282 FUEY
And Morgan swung suddenly around as a list of
the ship synchronized with a crashing blow upon
his ear.
His cap fell off and rolled out.
Mr. Hop ran down and Bed grabbed his arm.
It was on ... it was on ... it was on again!
Tucker, Zeis and Lamey, even Luke, barred the
passage to that small arena, bounded upon the
other side by a rail that strained as two bodies
flung against it in a fight of death.
But surely the death of only one . . . the little
one . . . the sick one . . . because Morgan had his
adversary by the throat and the back of the neck,
and with awful strength was tugging, straining,
drawing that clinging frame away . . . inch by
inch . . . step by step . . . gasp by gasp towards
the garbage chute . . . which was open.
Then Boy's wet, slippery head leaped free, and
the other swung violently against the rail at the
sudden breaking of his grip.
Crash! Every atom of Boy's fading strength
leaped into a blow that swung Morgan square
again and back for a moment. Then those large,
long, ruthless arms swung out . . .
Mr. Hop struggled and blew his whistle. A
futile, futile squeak.
Har . . . har-r-r-r-r . . . har!
With a roaring burst the sea laughed and de-
luged them all.
No one had seen, they had been too engrossed
no one had seen one stern and solid wave rise from
FURY 283
among its fellows, roaring, terrible with rage . . .
white arms reaching, and . . .
But now they saw its million heels tearing past
. . . and Boy clinging to the broken rail.
A breathless wait; none dared move forward.
Then the water cleared away and Boy moved from
the rail into the area of open deck.
Every one was shouting, pointing to something
sweeping out, away in the white arms of the waves.
And then the wave, with its prey, sank into the
sea and left, where had been a water-mountain, an
empty, glistening, satisfied, water-valley.
"A boat! Lay to!"
It was Mr. Hop's voice.
Wind . . . sea . . . men ! The world laughed.
Boy alone pointed out to a scrap of black, like
driftwood that had appeared again . . . but sweep-
ing back, down . . . where?
Boy's voice: "Father!"
His hands went up in a mad ecstasy; he was a
glorious figure. The sun of triumph was upon his
face.
Then Mr. Hop released and rushed, but strong
arms seized him and the voice of a sea captain
rang out:
"Arrest him!"
Of course they obeyed. Boy Leyton had been
first mate, so he was Captain now, wasn't he?
"Aye, aye! Aye, aye!"
The sea answered. "Aye, aye! . . . Aye, aye!"
Then Boy stood still and looked up to the smil-
284 FURY
ing sky where lived Luke's God. What thought
was carried on that smile, what said that smile
. . . who knows but . . . God? Who knows?
And Looney Luke who stood beside him cried out
in a loud voice that every one could hear:
"Captain, steer your course ahead . . . your
Father spoke . . . there are no dead!"
Boy's arm swept around Luke's shoulder; their
cheeks almost touched; they were both looking up
... up ...
"Well done!" sang the wash below. "Well done!
Well done! Well done!"
CHAPTER II
"Now life what's just a ferry,
'Twixt Mother's arms and Christ,
Is painted new and merry,
'Cause Min and Boy got spliced."
ATD that was only one of the things that
Looney Luke wrote about it.
It happened on a Sunday, the Sunday
after the Friday that Captain Boy Leyton was
discharged from the hospital, where he'd been for
an operation on his nose which would always have
a bit of a twist in it that Min thinks is an improve-
ment. And that rib also that Mr. Hop had set all
wrong, and which Min said didn't need to come
out because Boy's Eve was already made and she
was it had been fixed, too.
Yes, it was the Sunday after the Saturday that
Boy we'll always call him that, even if he gets
to be a blinking Admiral, which isn't likely, be-
cause The Lady Spray will live us all out by the
shape of her well, it was the Sunday after the
Saturday that Boy went to the office where he'd
got a big cigar, a slap on the back and his master's
papers.
The Sunday had grown ; by a series of excellent
happenings life had risen to a crest this Sunday.
The early hours were passed by Min and Mum-
285
286 FURY
mie, as every one now called Boy's little gray
mother, in their diggings in Poole Street, in get-
ting dressed.
On board The Spray Zeis and the fat woman
cook from The Jolly Sailors were having the time
of their lives in the preparation of a feast.
Boy was busy sprucing up and spent a lot of
time refusing to accept from Luke the loan of a
top hat which the latter had dug up from Lord
knows where. A lot of people stood round on
Noak's Wharf, because the two taxis and the
brake, which had been ordered an hour too early,
attracted, naturally, a great deal of attention.
Red had cut himself while shaving and was going
to vent himself on little Tucker, when Lamey re-
minded him of the rule posted upon the hatch,
which said:
"No scrapping to-day, please."
A sensation ... a happening which almost
stopped the day . . . when Mr. Brisley's cellar-
man rolled down a whole keg of real old Burton ;
and then to cap that off, Mr. Pet wee came down,
and, after calling the Captain, who called the
crew out, presented him with a gold watch on
behalf of the Company.
Well, before this, of course, down had come Min
and Mummie followed by a thousand kids in their
Sunday clothes. It must have been Min's hat what
done it.
It was large enough for tea Mins and a couple
of ships thrown im.
FURY 287
But never mind. The taxis were wound up, the
driver that wasn't drunk winding up the one be-
longing to the other one that was.
Boy and Mummie got into one, which was
proper; and Min got into the other with Mr.
Petwee who was to give her away.
Red said it was about the only time he'd ever
given anything away.
Mr. Brisley, then, climbed into the taxi with
Boy and Mummie, because Luke told him to, as
he was best man. Don't forget that that post had
been offered to each and every one of the crew,
but all thought that Mr. Brisley was better dressed
for it, and, then again, didn't he know what to do?
Lamey had his cornet all shined up with Globe
Polish, and got up in front on the brake, and the
rest of the crew got in behind.
Zeis wasn't dressed properly, but it didn't mat-
ter, because he had to go to work right away, after,
back in the galley, and the fat woman cook had
only consented to mind things at the last minute.
As everything moved off from moorings, Lamey
started the Wedding March on his cornet, too high.
He'd practiced it enough, but musicians are nerv-
ous, and Red was eating an orange, on purpose, to
be funny.
Then the horses didn't cotton to the sound
and who wants a blinking wreck on your Captain's
wedding day?
So off they sailed.
Luke said he'd walk up. Queer fish, Luke!
288 FURY
People waved up Poole Street and Min got her
hat caught when she put her head out of the taxi
too far to shout at some one.
The crew sang "Roses of Pickaney," and then
gave "I Must Go Home To-night," the verse of
which, sung as a solo by Tucker, referred to a mar-
riage; so you see the chorus fitted, as Luke would
say, aptly.
The sack of rice which Zeis had nearly forgotten
and had swung on the back at the last minute,
burst open as they turned into the East India Dock
Road, so somebody got a free rice pudding. A bit
dirty, but what ho!
At the church this was the first of three wed-
dings scheduled for that time, and Min easily out-
shone any of the other brides, one of whom had
red hair, even if Min did say it herself.
Red fell down getting into a pew and dragged
little Tucker down with him, and then broke the
prayer-book stand with his weight, heaving himself
up. Tucker hid it under the seat and as every one
was busy singing, not many noticed. No charge
was made, though for a moment Red had feared
there might be.
Somebody who had had a couple of eye-openers
pinched Lamey's cornet from the pew behind him
and blew a loud note, which naturally made every
one look around, and the bloke that pinched it and
blew it got nervous and dropped it on the floor of
the aisle and broke the nozzle off.
Lamey told him to wait for him outside and the
FURY 289
bloke offered to have it out then and there. Lamey
wanted this, but Red wouldn't let him do it, and
then the singing stopped and every one sat
down.
Boy and Min both trembled and Min said, "I
will" for both of them, which got a round of ap-
plause and a laugh from the crew, who had craned
their necks to hear their Captain pronounce the
awful words and had waited for the words Boy
could not speak because he was so nervous.
The Kev. W. F. P. Vane soon restored order by
holding up his hand and saying: "Men! Men!"
Tucker thought he said "Amen" and repeated it,
which got another laugh.
Suddenly, just as the ring was slipping on Min's
finger, and Min had started to cry exactly at the
spot that she had arranged in her mind that she
would, every one started turning around.
Some one had come in aft.
Ma Brent, all dressed up, with Clancey carrying
his head done up in a bandage.
Red shouted, "Ei, ei, Clan!"
And some women, not of The Spray gang, said,
"Sh! Sh!"
Clan and Ma Brent! Blimey! What a day!
What ho !
When the Rev. W. F. P. Vane started his few
words of address Lamey borrowed a knife and
started to mend his cornet for the journey back
and was just giving it a little test with his necker-
chief stuck in the bell of it, when the parson got
290 FURY
offended and smiled and told everybody to go off
and have a good time. He was only saying things
about Min what everybody knew, anyway.
The organ started to play lively and Lamey came
right out and played the wedding march upon his
cornet along with it.
When they were marching down the aisle Min
came face to face with Ma Brent, and she felt so
good that she grinned, and of all the miracles, Ma,
who had her best clothes on, smiled back, which
got Min so flustered that she stopped the proces-
sion and, starting to cry again, said:
"Come down to The Spray, Ma, for a bite."
Ma nodded, and Clan leaned over and slapped
Boy upon the back, and grinned one of those old
Clancey grins.
Boy jerked his head as much, as to say, "Come
down," as they were on the march, and Boy had
lost his voice again, anyway ; and Clancey shouted :
"I'll be there with bells on."
Every one was glad to see Clan, and some of the
language in their greeting got them all put out of
the church by a bloke dressed in a woman's black
skirt and carrying a pole.
Luke was waiting outside. He never went in
churches. He said that his church was inside of
him! What he meant by that nobody knew; but
Luke was crazy anyway.
He was wearing the top hat, which was dirty
where some kid had thrown something and knocked
it off; but Luke was radiantly happy and fought
FURY 291
with the rest aronnd the new rice bag, where a lot
of kids were pinching the rice.
And every one was careful with the rice in the
Captain's face, because he was still a bit tender;
and Mummie stopped crying and laughed ; and Red
kissed her and got a round for it, when he lifted
her up into the brake where the lads had plotted
she should ride back.
Lamey's cornet started up, "Sweet Adeline," by
request from Min, and Mummie tore her lavender
skirt while sitting down.
In the first cab Boy and Min sat silently, holding
each other's hands with their fingers through each
other's.
The driver of the brake, who wore a gray
bowler, got into an argument with Yuka, the Rus-
sian, accusing him of throwing the rest of the rice
down his neck. He was wrong. Yuka hadn't
thrown anything since . . .
Well, Tucker took the driver's attention away off
of that, because he borrowed his whip to hit some
kids who were in danger of their lives hanging on
the back, and broke it. And so the crew clubbed
round to buy a new one.
The driver'd got to have a blooming mast, hadn't
he, to get back to the ship with? Red observed.
Back on the ship, the "Beano" (which is London
East End for a good time) started for fair.
Dinner on deck, a la Lord Loveaduck on his
yacht, as Clancey remarked; and then every one
noticed that Clancey was holding off the booze.
292 FURY
He'd gone teetotal! Well, the world was
changed.
Min had been saving room for the dinner, so she
ate like a bride should eat, and the Captain, or
rather Boy, didn't eat because he was watching
Min and had an arm around Mummie.
Roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, beans, taters and
a last year's Christmas pudding from Mrs. Brisley.
Cheese, and beer and whiskey for those who fan-
cied it.
What about that for a menu?
Zeis and Yuka waited, and they were the only
two waiters that didn't ever quarrel while the
dinner was on.
Ma Brent steamed up over the gang-plank when
dinner was nearly over, and Min got up from her
pudding, which was just alight because some one
had put some brandy on and touched a match to it.
'^Welcome, Mrs. Brent," said Minnie, very lady-
like.
"Not at all, I'm sure, Mrs. Leyton," said Mrs.
Brent.
And then she went and sat beside Clancey, who
told every one down his end how prompt Ma Brent
could be when he'd wired her for money from the
hospital in Leith.
It was all one surprise after another, because
when Mr. Hop, who'd never been really sacked or
invited, sauntered up and on forward to his quar-
ters, the Captain rose and went after him and
walked some way with him.
FURY 293
No one heard what Boy said, but Mr. Hop came
back with Boy, who himself filled up a tankard
and handed it to the first mate.
Then some one shouted "Speech!" and Mr. Hop
raised his tankard seriously and said "Skol!"
There was clapping for some moments, and then
he cleared his throat. Mr. Hop was always serious.
H^ was very serious now.
"I love The Spray, and 'erete to 'er, and those
good men what man 'er."
He saluted the Captain and his Lady, and Min
waved her spoon and said, "'Ear! 'Ear!"
Mr. Hop then sat by Mummie, whose glass was
dry.
Clancey started an argument about drink with
Bed, who had had a couple, and that started the
speeches, and good ones, too. Luke's, anyway, was
good ! all agreed to that. It was :
"Here's to the wondrous women
What's dreamed of by our crew. ,
May their dreams be
Of men and sea,
And may their dreams come true!"
Good old Luke! Nice old boy! He looked so
happy; and every now and again a tear would
drop, but not because Marian had gone off and got
married; all Luke's girls did that; he told them
to. He only had them so that he would have some-
body to bring something to, like the others had.
Poor Luke's hat was done in by Clancey doing
294 FURY
a trick with a glass of beer that had been poured
out for him and that he didn't want.
And then, when every one was full up, the crew
gave the Captain his present.
Red had been selected to present it, but the boys
whispered and gave the honor to Mr. Hop at the
last minute, and he received the present when it
was passed under the table to him.
He hadn't chipped in anything for it, and he
remembered that; so he did a nice thing. He
pulled off that silver ring that he'd worn since
the flood and slipped it into the wedding
present, which was a shining silver Dish Cover
with:
TO CAPTAIN AND MRS. BOY LEYTON,
FROM THE LADS OF
THE LADY SPRAY
i and then the date.
Mr. Hop said nothing, and Min made a nice
little speech of thanks.
"Thank yer, boys. I'll be sailin' with yer now,
all the time, see? And yer got a reg'lar shipmate
in me, I 'ope. I can darn a bit, and ye can all call
me Ma."
Laughter and cheers.
Every one talked and then Clancey sang "Stop
Your Tickling Jock," and "Mother Machree" for
an encore, which went down very well.
Lamey gave a cornet solo and there was a short
dance, very short what ho!
FURY 295
Bed fell over with Mrs. Brisley and Mr. Brisley,
who was a good sort, didn't mind a bit.
"She'd plenty o' fat ter fall on," he said.
Then the guests departed and the lads went
down to finish up the Beano at The Jolly Sailors.
The Jolly Sailors was well named that night, all
right. What ho !
An autumn Sunday evening. Tall ships swayed
restfully at docks and down from Lambeth came
the sound of evening bells.
Noak's Wharf was silent, as if awed. Gulls
arched gracefully down and up. The Lady Spray
breathed in even contentment, the masts of her
sweetheart ship, The Lion, in the next berth, cut-
ting sharp shadows acrosa her deck ; his arm might
have been about her.
Luke leaned back, writing, and Mummie in her
new deck-chair sat knitting. Luke's tie fluttered.
"A pretty tie," said Mummie. "Unusual like."
It was the Eton boating tie; but Luke did not
tell her so. He just smiled and spoke softly:
"Everything is beautiful, Mummie."
"Lately it has been," said Mummie.
"Love," said Luke softly.
"Love," repeated Mummie. "It is beautiful !"
"It is God!" said Luke.
And Mummie sighed, believing.
THE END
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