Since Hammer had an inveterate dislike of fat men in general, and blue-eyed fat men in particular—born out of his experience with a fat and demented Swede cook on his first cattle-boat trip—it was not to be wondered at that he eyed John Solomon with no great favour in his heart. For John Solomon was fat and blue-eyed.
"Pudgy" would be a better word than the flat and misleading "fat". Pudgy embraces the face that a man is not merely fat, but that he is filled to a comfortable completeness, as it were; that he is not too fat to move about, but just enough so to be dignified on occasion; and that his expression is cheerful above all else.
Save for this last item, the description fitted John Solomon to a dot, for while his face was cheerful enough, it was as totally devoid of expression as a face can be—and still remain a face.
He was a short, little man, not more than five feet six, very decently dressed in blue serge, and he sat quite contentedly filling a short clay pipe from a whittled plug as Hammer and Harcourt entered the private room.
When he glanced up and rose to meet them, the first thing Hammer noticed was that healthy-looking yet expressionless face, from which gazed out two eyes of pale blue and of great size.
As he came to learn later, Nature had endowed John Solomon with absolutely stolid features, but in compensation had given him eyes which could be rendered unusually intelligent at times.
"You are John Solomon?" questioned Harcourt curtly. "What is your business with me, and how did you know I was here?"
"Beggin' your pardon, sir," and the pale-blue eyes met the darker ones of Harcourt without shrinking. "I 'ave a pal down at Deptford who 'appens to 'ear what you and Mr. 'Ammer said this morning. 'E knowed I was werry anxious for a ship, and 'e comes to me with it."
"Oh, you want a ship, then?" returned Harcourt. "And therefore you interrupt a gentleman at dinner in a fashionable restaurant——"
"I didn't mean no 'arm, sir," broke in Solomon, without cringing, however. "You see, sir, I 'adn't no means o' knowing where to find you otherwise. I say that if so be as a man wants work, it don't matter 'ow 'e gets it, so 'e gets it, and I trust as 'ow you'd look at it the same way, Mr. Harcourt, sir."
"And quite right you are, John Solomon," exclaimed Hammer, amused despite himself, and beginning to think that this pudgy little man had some brains. Since Harcourt was not quite sure whether to be angry or not, the American's laugh saved the situation for the moment. "You're got plenty of nerve, my friend, but you must want work pretty badly to go after it so strong. What's your line—seaman?"
"No, sir," and the wide blue eyes rested in child-like faith on Hammer's face. "I'm a bit 'eavy for that there, sir, though I've A.B. papers. No sir, though I can do a bit o' navigation at a pinch, I'd feel more at 'ome like wi' figures. I writes a good 'and, sir, and I knows 'ow to 'andle port off'cers and such. If so be as you could use a supercargo, sir?"
Hammer turned to the Englishman, who was still eyeing Solomon doubtfully.
"How are we fixed for officers, anyway, Harcourt? I've got a grudge against fat men as a rule, but hanged if I don't admire this chap's nerve! A man who'll butt into a place like this to get a job must have something in him."
Harcourt rubbed his chin reflectively. "Well, the yacht has been laid up for six months and didn't have any crew, so Krausz agreed to place a dozen of his own men aboard her under a mate, if I'd find a chief officer and an engine-room crew.
"So far as standing watches is concerned, you can rank as first mate, unofficially, and I've already arranged for my old chief engineer to pick up his own men.
"A supercargo isn't absolutely essential, but Krausz is going to take a lot of stuff out to do his excavating with, as well as packing cases and all that bally impedimenta—my word, Hammer, I don't just know what to say!"
"Beggin' your pardon, sir," put in Solomon, as the other paused, "but I can take care o' port papers and such werry well, and 'ave A1 references. A supercargo ain't no use unless 'e's a lot o' use, I says, sir, and I goes on that princ'ple. What's more, Mr. 'Ammer, I knows a man as can fix you up wi' first off'cer's papers for a matter o' two pun and no questions asked."
The twinkle in the blue eyes drew an answering chuckle from the American, even Harcourt relaxing sufficiently to smile slightly.
"You seem to have your uses, certainly," said the Englishman dryly. "By the way, Hammer, where are you stopping?"
"I've stopped," grinned the American cheerfully. "My war-bag's aboard the ship still, but there's nothing in it worth carrying off. I have my pipe here, and no other clothes worthy the name.
"Then you'd better go home with me to-night," returned the other. "We'll do the opera first, if you like. To-morrow, you can take up your quarters aboard the Daphne, and we can talk over money matters at leisure.
"Now, John Solomon, you seem to have a fairly good idea of my business already, so I'll simply say that my yacht, the Daphne, is anchored at the Royal Thames docks and that you can go aboard whenever you please. As supercargo, you will join the officers' mess, of course, but I'll be aboard to-morrow and will fix things up with you, and you can sign articles then. And—er—about those bally papers—er—you had better get them."
"Yes, sir, I'll 'ave them to-morrow, sir," and John Solomon touched his forehead respectfully; but Hammer imagined that he caught something very like a wink from one of those wide blue eyes.
"Thank you werry much, Mr. Harcourt, and you, Mr. 'Ammer, and I'll be aboard bright and early, since it's the early worm what sees the bird first, as the Good Book says."
"Very good," rejoined Harcourt briefly, and so John Solomon passed forth from all the glory of Prince's, with his little black clay pipe wagging defiantly at the liveried doormen, and the place thereof knew him no more.
Although he had accepted the proffered partnership glibly enough, Hammer was by no means sure that he would stick to it, for various reasons. Chief among these was the fact that he had a profound distrust of himself; since he had deliberately thrown himself to the dogs, in a way, he had come to have a deep-rooted conviction that he was no good, that his better qualities mere surface outcroppings, and that a man such as Harcourt would like him less the better he knew him.
Still, he frankly liked Harcourt, and the idea of free-lancing about the ocean appealed strongly to him. But he had so long been battering down the better side of his own nature, the shock of his past trouble had so deeply bitten into his soul, that he could not look forward to the future with anything approaching hope.
His very promise to abstain from drink had been made solely because that was the only way in which he could accept Harcourt's offer, and not from any desire to regain his lost state.
"No," he told himself that night, alone in his room at Harcourt's apartments, "I guess I'm a wastrel, pure and simple. I've nothing to go ahead for, and I've got a devil of a lot to forget; if I can only get up enough interest in the yacht and in the places we visit and the work we do, then there's a chance that I can break even and stay decent for a while. And, Lord knows, it's about time!"
In which conclusion he was undeniably correct, much more so than in his foregoing premises. For Hammer was not nearly so unlikeable as he imagined; in the effort to cast his old life and his youthful mistakes far behind him he had plunged into the swiftest maelstrom he could find, as better men than he have done and will do, but he had managed to keep his head above water—much to his own surprise.
The good-humoured manner, which was at first an assumption to hide the hurts beneath, had finally become reality, and perhaps Harcourt had shrewdly reckoned on the fact that mental trouble is very likely to lessen and vanish beneath the light of friendship.
Harcourt himself was little bothered over his own financial crash. Accustomed to thinking little of money or its value, he did not trouble greatly about making his living now that his plans for the immediate future were settled. He was twenty-six, two years younger than the American, but he had taken the Daphne far around the seven seas, and in some ways was a good deal older than Hammer.
The following day, having procured other clothes than his dress-suit, Hammer went aboard the Daphne. She was a small but luxuriously furnished steam-yacht of a thousand tons burden, and having been already overhauled for the benefit of Dr. Krausz, was ready for sea, save for stores and crew; also, the archaeologist's "impedimenta", as Harcourt had termed it, had not yet come aboard. Hammer was delighted with her, and with Harcourt and John Solomon, put in a busy day.
Harcourt was well satisfied with his supercargo, for Solomon took charge of the purchasing of the stores, and not only procured them of excellent quality, but at an astonishingly low price.
He proved to have a thorough acquaintance with his duties, and also with the duties of the other officers, and promised to be on the whole an exceedingly useful man.
Nothing was seen of Dr. Sigurd Krausz during the next two days, but Hammer learned that the point of the expedition was a small bay near Melindi, on the East African coast, and that another part of the expedition was being sent ahead to make the preliminary excavations.
On the third morning Harcourt sent the American to Krausz's hotel to inform the professor that the yacht was ready for her lading and passengers, and now, for the first time, as a result of that sending, Cyrus Hammer found himself awakening to the fact that he had been suddenly transplanted into a group of peculiar individuals, from the aristocratic but "busted" viscount and the pudgy John Solomon to the unscientific-appearing scientist, and that there was a screw loose somewhere.
This was the manner of it. Being now in possession of his firstmate's certificate—"and no questions asked"—Hammer sent in his name and was admitted to the presence of the already-famous archaeologist. For Sigurd Krausz was not after the pattern Hammer had anticipated.
He was a rather thick-set man, clad only in pyjamas, and was at work over a desk full of papers. These he abandoned to greet Hammer, pulling the latter aside to the window as if to keep him away from the desk.
Then, through his host's négligé attire, Hammer saw that Krausz was a mass of muscles; his hand-grip was like iron, and his large head was set well back between his shoulders in a fashion which made him greet the world with out-flung jaw.
There was nothing very remarkable about the man's face, which was Saxon rather than Teutonic, save for the heavy-lidded eyes. The features were regular, of massive mould, and the ridge denoting the thinker overhung the eyes; but—and this Hammer did not observe at once—-the right temple was crossed by a nervous muscle, which throbbed like a ribbon underneath the skin.
On the whole, Hammer liked the scientist, deciding that while his face could be cruel upon occasion, it was the face of a strong man.
"I am very glad to see you, Mr. Hammer," exclaimed Krausz cordially, on learning the American's errand. He seemed in no hurry to return to his papers, but pressed Hammer into a chair and questioned him closely about the yacht, puffing the while at a long black panetela.
Thanks to his recent labours, Hammer survived the examination in good shape, and his personality seemed to make some impression on the German.
"I like you, yess, friend Hammer," remarked the latter, handing him one of the thin panetelas. "Also, I like Mr. Harcourt, and trust we will get on well together. You are American, yess? I like Americans, but not the British, for sailors. That iss why I am putting some of my own men aboard, for they will also serve as helpers in the work. You are interested in archaeology, yess?"
"Not in general," returned Hammer frankly. "However, I didn't know there was anything to be dug up on the east coast of Africa."
"Oh, plenty, plenty!" puffed the other, and after a long puff continued: "It iss some relics of Portuguese rule in Mombasa which I hope to find—relics more important ass ethnological and historic things than for their intrinsic value."
"By the way, I'd like to know just how many are in your party, doctor. Our steward wants to get the cabins in shape."
"My party? Nein, there will be but myself and my secretary going out. Professor Helmuth my assistant, leaves to-day for Mombasa to get things started, and coming back we will perhaps crowd the ship, yess.
"My second mate, Hans Schlak, will bring the men aboard to-morrow; if our necessary permits, and so on, arrive from the British Colonial Office, we will leave the day after. They should be here already. That iss satisfactory?"
"Perfectly—" began Hammer, when a third voice interrupted apologetically.
"In half an hour the Mombasa sails, Herr Doctor!"
Krausz turned with an exclamation. Shuffling out from a shadowed corner of the room, Hammer saw a black-clad, small, flat-chested man, with deep-set, furtive eyes, high brow, and retreating chin; the chin did not express weakness altogether, for it was rather the fox chin, which denotes cunning and ability. The doctor waved a hand.
"Mr. Hammer, my secretary, Adolf Jenson. Very good, Adolf; better take a taxi and deliver the papers in person. Remember, Professor Sara L. Helmuth, stateroom 12 B."
With this he turned to the desk and picked up a small black rubber wallet, which Jenson took with something very like a cringe, departing with an inaudible murmur of words.
Somewhat disgusted with the man, Hammer followed him, once more gripping the firm hand of Krausz and taking with him the remembrance of cordial words and an effusive smile from the big scientist.
The American stopped in the hotel entrance to light the doctor's cigar, and, as he glanced over his cupped hands, he saw something that astonished him. For there, just at the curb, and beckoning frantically to the nearest taxi, was no less a person than his supercargo, honest John Solomon!
Hammer stared in disbelief of his own eyes, since Solomon was at that moment supposed to be laying in a supply of extra cabin stores on the other side of the city.
But there was no mistake; even as the taxi drew up Solomon turned and waved his cap at some unseen individual farther up the street, then scrambled headfirst into the machine, his hurried words floating back to Hammer:
"P. and O. docks—the Mombasa! And 'urry or no tip!"
The taxi darted away, Hammer staring after it dazedly. What on earth could this mean? Why was this fat little Cockney supercargo of his chasing in a taxi-cab after a P. and O. liner due to sail in half an hour? Could it have any connection with the errand of the secretary, Adolf Jenson?
A flood of questions darted through Hammer's brain on the instant, and, giving way to the impulse, he sprang to the taxi which had drawn up to the curb in place of that taken by Solomon. Whatever the supercargo's purpose might be, Hammer determined to get down to the dock before the liner sailed and see what was going on, if possible. It might be a wild-goose chase, but on the other hand——
"P. and O. docks—I want to see the Mombasa go out, and she leaves in twenty minutes. Do it on the jump!"
The chauffeur grinned, and slammed the door. A moment later they were driving through the streets at a good speed, the American still pondering this surprising action of his harmless-looking little supercargo.
And Solomon had actually been talking of tips, when only a couple of days before he had dared much in order to capture a job! The whole affair was perplexing in the extreme.
"I never did like fat men, anyhow," reflected Hammer grimly. "That chap seemed to know a whole lot the first night we met, and I'll bet that he isn't the fool he looks by a long shot. But whatever got him mixed up with this Krausz business—if he is mixed up in it? I may be barking up the wrong tree, of course, and everything may be all right, so I'd better go slow if I catch him."
The conviction grew upon him during the remainder of his ride that he would have done much better to have waited, and to have questioned Solomon upon returning to the yacht.
The man might have friends leaving on the liner—but Hammer forgot his vague reasonings when the taxi drew up suddenly and he found the entrance to the docks of the Peninsula and Oriental just ahead.
The chauffeur had done his work well, for the journey had taken just fifteen minutes. Hammer found the dock gates open and pushed his way through the crowd; as he did so he passed the black-clad figure of Adolf Jenson.
But the meek little secretary did not look up, vanishing toward the gates; and the American glanced around for John Solomon in vain.
There was no trace of him in the crowd, and the ship had already been cleared of visitors. The waiting tenders had their lines out, and as Hammer gazed up the gang-plank was just being taken in.
The whistle crashed out, drowning the tinkle of bells, and at the same instant Hammer saw an officer walk hastily to the open gangway, accompanied by a small pudgy man, dressed in blue.
They stood talking together for an instant, then shook hands; the siren shrilled forth, and wharf-lines were cast off, and John Solomon leaped ashore with amazing agility, and was lost in the crowd.
Standing watching in sore perplexity, Hammer recalled the name of the scientist's assistant—"Professor Sara L. Helmuth". He turned and pushed back to his waiting taxicab, execrating his useless trip, for he was now convinced that it had been useless.
"I seem fated to get mixed up with people I don't like," he smiled to himself, as he was being driven back to the city, the Royal Thames docks being up-river. "First it's a blue-eyed fat man, and then it's a woman relic-hunter, to say nothing of that swine of a secretary. Sara L. Helmuth—gosh, what a name! I never did know a woman named Sara that was worth a darn for looks."
With which conclusion he paid off his chauffeur and walked the remainder of the distance in an irritable humour enough. This humour was by no means lessened when he saw John Solomon standing at the gangway, checking off some stores that were coming aboard, while a number of heavily-loaded wagons stood waiting by the foredeck, where a steam winch was getting into action and stevedores were bustling about.
"What's all this?" he demanded bluntly. "I thought you were in the city."
"No, sir," returned Solomon, not looking up. "I did take a bit of a run up, sir; but them 'ere wagons were a bringing of our lading, so I 'urried back. Werry fine day, sir."
Hammer grunted. "Tell the steward that there will only be two passengers. Dr. Krausz and his secretary. The crew will be aboard to-night or in the morning."
"Werry good, sir."
Solomon went calmly on with his lists while the extra cabin stores were brought up the gangway. Suddenly, as one of the trucks stopped for checking off, a case of tinned goods joggled over, and Solomon leaned forward, catching it before it fell.
The action flung his short blue coat up around his waist, and Hammer caught a glimpse of a black rubber wallet protruding from the man's hip-pocket. He recognized it instantly; it was the same wallet which Krausz had sent aboard the Mombasa an hour previously!
The American leaned quickly forward and snatched the wallet away. Solomon, having replaced the case, straightened up and whirled, and Hammer met his wide blue stare with a smile.
"You nearly lost this," he said coolly. "Nothing very valuable, I hope?"
Solomon's eyes widened a trifle.
"Lud, no, sir! Nothing more wallyble than my 'baccy, sir. If so be as a man likes 'baccy I says, then it's place ain't in a dirty pocket, but in a neat like pouch, says I. Werry kind o' you to save it for me, sir."
Ignoring the outstretched hand, Hammer opened the wallet, determined to test the truth of Solomon's explanation. He was convinced that this same black rubber pouch had contained the papers sent by Krausz to Professor Sara L. Helmuth, and that Solomon had, in some way, obtained them from the latter, or else from the meek secretary.
But his growing anger evaporated suddenly when the opened wallet showed nothing more than a vile-smelling flat plug of very black, molasses-impregnated tobacco.
"Yes, a good pouch, that," he said quietly, closing it up and handing it back to its owner, his face inscrutable. "Is Mr. Harcourt about?"
"In the saloon cabin, sir," and, nodding, the American went on board.
He looked back once and saw Solomon mopping his brow; for some reason the action seemed significant of relief on the part of the supercargo, and Hammer frowned.
"Confound it, I'd like to know a few things!" he muttered savagely. "I'll have a run-in with that fellow yet! Wish I hadn't stood up for him the other night at Prince's; I should have let Harcourt kick him out, and a good job."
And the events which were to follow kept the regret keen in his mind.