ALEC BOOTH was at his office looking over his letters that were handed to him by his clerk. He was not a quick reader, and a still slower writer, so his clerk was not only a convenience, but a necessity. One of these letters arrested his attention; it did not refer, like the others, to horse-racing, it bore no address and no proper signature. He read slowly—
“If Mr. Booth is wise he will watch his lady-love more carefully. Like a fool, he believed her story of being forcibly taken away in a cab. She was only too willing, if the truth was known, and if the Squatter did not come to terms it was because he backed out at the last moment. Even now she is meeting him, and if Mr. Booth only likes to be on the right-hand side of Circular Quay at half-past eleven to-night, and keep hidden near the last ship towards the point, he will see her with his own eyes.
“A WELL-WISHER.”
His first impulse was to destroy the letter as a venomous thing, but the doubt in his mind, once aroused by Ruby and Florrie, came to him again. He did not doubt Bertha—no! Ten thousand times no! But it would be so easy to put this slander to the test.
Bertha out at half-past eleven on Circular Quay! Bertha, who never went out after dark! It was absurd! Yet men, smarter men perhaps than himself, had been made fools of before to-day.
Did this explain the reason for Bertha’s hanging back when he asked her to name the marriage day? Was she only making a convenience of him in case the other man refused to toe the mark? It was damnable! But it was a lie—a wicked, cursed lie, and he would pay no attention to it.
But his mind could not leave the subject all that day, and eleven o’clock at night found him walking nervously and excitedly towards the meeting-place mentioned in the letter.
The last boat moored to the Quay was a sailing vessel, whose decks appeared deserted. Perhaps the crew were on shore or asleep in their bunks. Not even a watchman was visible.
On the wharf a few feet from the edge a pile of casks were stacked. Across the roadway rose the high façade of prison-like wool warehouses. The electric light that now makes this quarter of Sydney one of the best illuminated had not been installed at this date, and the yellow gas-jets visible here and there did little to lighten the darkness of the night.
Alec for a time looked about curiously, then paced up and down, assuring himself the while that he was a fool for his pains, and would have been far better off at that time of night seated at his club playing nap. Then he remembered the directions he had received, “to keep hidden.” Now, the only place convenient for concealment was to stand behind the heap of casks, close to the edge of the Quay. The simplest observation gave this assurance, and no doubt the writer of the letter had this place in her mind.
This thought did not occur to Alec. He was told to hide, and he hid, quite unsuspicious that by doing so he was standing in an appointed place.
There were no immediate passers-by; a few forms could be heard and seen at a distance moving about, but that part of the Quay was for the time deserted.
Presently he heard the voice of a man singing, and coming towards him, and the words rang out on the night air with wonderful distinctness—
“I’m off to Charlestown early in the morning,
I’m off to Charlestown before the break of day;
To give my respects to all the pretty yellow girls,
I’m off to Charlestown before the break of day!”
“Evidently a sailor half tanked,” thought Alec, as he watched the man with peaked cap and pilot coat, half reel, half walk up the Quay. The progress forward of the singer was more like tacking against a head-wind than a plain, straight-away course. He zig-zagged first over to the wool warehouses, then across to the water’s edge, and each time Alec expected him to tumble over, but he always seemed to “wear ship” just in time, singing the while as though he were the happiest fellow in all the world.
By accident or design one of these tacks brought the drunken sailor just to the corner of the heap of casks behind which Alec stood hidden.
He pulled up short before turning again, and, seeing Alec, called out—
“Hullo, mate! can you give us a match?”
Alec, not from meanness, but to get rid of the man’s presence, told him he had not got one.
“I say, mate, give us a match, there’s a good fellow”—and the sailor put his hand on Alec’s shoulder.
At that moment a woman’s form could be seen approaching from the distance, clad in a light costume. She might, for all that light revealed, be Bertha in a walking-dress.
Instinctively Alec turned away his eyes to look at the newcomer, and then the drunken sailor, like one who had waited for a signal at the moment Alec turned his head, pulled out a bag that had been hidden beneath his coat, clapped it over the face and round the neck of Alec, where a spring appeared to hold it fast, and then, with a rush and a push, sent his victim over the Quay into the dark water of the harbour.
There was no cry, but a half-stifled shout; no noise but the single splash, for the body sank like a stone.
The sailor stood calmly gazing down on the water for some minutes. Not a ripple, not a break in the wavelets to show that the victim had risen again.
“I thought that would fix him,” the sailor said to himself. “He never could swim, and he will find it a little late to learn now.” With that he started singing his song again, retracing his steps. When he reached the lady in the light dress he went up to her, and speaking without any affectation of drunkenness—
“It’s no good, Ruby; he has not come. I suppose he was too fly to be taken in by that letter of yours.”
“Well, I’m glad of it, Huey. It might have got me into a row, and the pig is not worth it. What shall we do now?”
“I will take you to the dance, as I promised.”
* * * * *
Alec, on falling into the water, went quickly enough to the bottom, and nearly as quickly rose to the surface. He waved his arms frantically, nearly stifled and choked as he was by the covering on his head. When he came to the surface again it was, fortunately for him, not in the open harbour, but amidst the piles on which the roadway of the Quay was built—his hands in their wild struggle caught one of the slimy cross-timbers, and to this he clung in desperation.
He knew by the feel that his head was out of water, and the bag about his head was not so tight but it allowed him to take breath.
Getting firm hold of his support with one hand, he used the other in an effort to withdraw the bag. He tried and tried again, and, at last, aided by his strong arm, that had been developed by years of axe-work in the bush, by a final wrench, and a partial skinning of his ears, he pulled it off. And then, to his lasting regret, he cast it from him.
He quickly understood where he was, and it was the work of a few minutes to draw himself up on the slanting beam and seat himself on its slippery surface.
For the moment he felt secure. But what was he to do next? If he shouted for help that devil above him might be waiting with pistol and knife to finish his work.
It was very uncomfortable there, soaking wet in a damp seat, in silent darkness, with only a glimpse of the harbour through the piles, but he reflected that he was probably safe from further attack if he kept quiet. So he decided to sit still and wait for the morning light, if no other assistance should come.
His vigil, however, was not so long; not an hour and a half had passed when a ship’s boat, laden probably with some belated captain, approached quite close to him. He sang out—
The rowers stopped. Alec called again, and on his saying he had fallen in the harbour and wanted to land, they very cheerfully backed their craft up to the piles, and with some difficulty Alec managed to jump aboard, and in a few strokes was landed at the steps.
Alec Booth could see the spot where he had stood behind the casks, but as he anticipated, no sailor, either drunk or sober, was to be seen there now. He felt a satisfaction in throwing off the numbness of his limbs by a smart walk, and his first place of call was the office of the Water Police.
The officer in charge took down his statement with provoking calm. One might have fancied that the throwing of citizens off Circular Quay was a matter of hourly familiarity to him.
“And you say this man put a spring bag over your head? Where is it?”
“I threw it away in the water,” said Alec.
“Ah! Were you robbed?”
Alec felt in his pockets. His watch, his purse and pocket-book were all safe, but of course wet.
“Ah!” said the policeman again. “You say this sailor who assaulted you appeared to be drunk?”
“Yes, he acted like it as he came towards me.”
“Are you quite sure you were sober yourself?”
“Sober as a judge!”
“Did you have anything to drink to-night?”
“I may have had two or three whiskies-and-sodas.”
“Ah!” said the constable again, and this time in a tone so provoking that Alec, in spite of the majesty of his uniform, felt inclined to kick him.
“We will inquire into the matter, sir, and for the future I should advise you to keep away from the Circular Quay when you have taken two or three whiskies.”
Disgusted as well as wet, Alec left the office. It was clear enough the officer gave no credence to his story, and thought it merely the hallucination of a drunken man. So he went home, and to bed, his mind filled with a darkening fear of this enemy—that mysterious and unknown—who thus boldly attacked him.
The letter was only too probably part of a plot to lure him to destruction. He had no clue to his enemy, who had failed this time, but was at full liberty to contrive some fresh scheme for his undoing. And the next time, luck might not be on his side.
Alec was brave enough in open fight, but this secret fear unmanned him. And Bertha’s abduction came to his mind—that mystery had never been explained. Had the drunken sailor and the bushy-whiskered man any connection? Was there a conspiracy to ruin or murder Bertha and himself? He feared so. And he turned the question over and over in his mind, and he could find only one hope for peace.
He would go in the morning to Soft Sam.
* * * * *
Alec found Soft Sam seated as usual in the Domain, with a crowd of wide-eyed juveniles about him, and apparently listening with breathless interest to a localized history of Jack the Giant Killer, with variations.
“So the young man said to the rich squatter, ‘I can drink as much of that whisky as you can.’ And the squatter laughed at a little chap like that swallowing oil of vitriol like the old soaker he was himself. So he called for glasses, and filled them. The squatter drank his, but Jack, after taking a sip, poured his all down his neck into his Crimean shirt, where it was soaked up.
“And they drank, and drank, and drank—till the squatter was dead on the floor, and young Jack jumps up, takes all his money, and rides away!”
This was Soft Sam’s somewhat abrupt conclusion, for he saw that Alec wished to speak to him. And as the children still hung about, with a manifest inclination to hear the next chapter, he dismissed them speedily with the present of sixpence, with which, without more ado, they departed for the nearest lolly-shop.
“It’s cheap at the price,” said Sam.
“What’s cheap?”
“Why, happiness. I’ve made them there kids as happy as sandboys with sixpence. It seems to me they have often got a lot more sense that way than when they grow up.”
“I’m in a bother again, Sam.”
“I thought as much. You can most of you find me out when trouble comes along. What’s the matter this time?”
And then Alec told the history of the previous night.
“It’s the girl again,” said Sam, after he had patiently listened to Alec. “I told you she would breed mischief. You are young and foolish like the rest of them, and take no notice.”
“You don’t mean to say that Bertha caused me to be thrown in the harbour?”
“Of course I don’t! But some one who is after her did the trick right enough. And a very nice little job it was, too. He must be a fellow of talent. And it was only a fluke it did not come off. He must be a real smart bloke, and no mistake. If he tries it on again I would not care to insure your life. Very neat, very neat; and not a trace to track him by. Really, I give him credit. I could not have done better myself!”
“He’s a clever scoundrel, there’s no doubt; but the question is, ‘What am I to do?’ Am I to sit quiet till he makes another shot?”
“Why can’t you leave the girls alone? I tell you they will ruin you sooner or later. Or, if you must mix yourself up, why not marry this Bertha right away, and done with it? While she’s single there will always be strays browsing round after her. Put the hobbles on, man, and get her broken in to double harness, and if this attentive friend of yours is only half as smart as he appears to be, he will quit.”
“Thank you, Sam? That’s just my own idea, and I’ll put the matter to Bertha straight—that it’s either get married at once or one of us missing. And she’s not the girl I take her for if she refuses.”