The brute in Ginnell spoke in his growl, and Harman was turning over in his mind the fate of any unfortunate who had Ginnell for boss when the swing door opened and Blood appeared.
“That’s him,” said Harman. “You leave him to me.”
Blood was not the sort of man to frequent a hole like the Fore and Aft, and he frankly spat when he came in. He was in a temper, or rather the beginning of a temper, and Harman seemed to have some difficulty in soothing him. They had a confabulation together near the corner where Captain Mike, his glass and pipe on the table before him, was sitting, evidently asleep, and then Blood, seeming to agree with some matter under discussion, allowed himself to be led to the bar.
“This is me friend, Captain Ginnell,” said Harman. “Captain, this is me friend, Michael Blood. Looking for a ship he is.”
“I can’t offer him a ship,” said Ginnell, “but I can offer him a drink. What are you takin’, sir?”
The quinine tabloid popped into the bottom of the glass by Bone dissolved almost immediately, nor did Blood show that he detected the presence in his drink. He loathed quinine, and this forced dose added to the flood of his steadily rising temper without, however, interfering with his powers of self-control.
He was a good actor, and the way he clutched at the bar ledge shortly after he had finished his drink left nothing to be desired.
“I can’t leave the bar,” said Bone, “but if the gentleman cares to lay down in my back room he’s welcome.”
Blood, allowing himself to be conducted to this resting place, Ginnell followed without drawing the attention of the others in the bar.
Arrived in the back room, Blood collapsed on an old couch by the window, and, lying there with his eyes shut, he heard the rest.
He heard the whispered consultation between Harman and the other, the trapdoor being opened, Jim, the boatman, being called. And then he felt a hand on his shoulder and Ginnell’s voice adjuring him to rouse up a bit and come along for a sail.
Helped on either side by the conspirators, he allowed himself to be led to the trapdoor.
“We’ll never get him down them steps,” said Harman, alluding to the stairs leading down to where the boat was swaying on the green water that was swishing and swashing against the rotten piles of the wharf.