The inn where Draper had taken up his residence, known as "The Red Hand," was one of the common taverns of the country, the customers of which were almost entirely of the bond class, ticket-of-leave men, working as teamsters or woodcutters, with a slight sprinkling of the lowest type of free settlers. The main purpose of every man who frequented the place was to drink strong liquor, mostly gin and brandy. The house existed only for this, though its sign ran "Good Victuals and Drink for Man and Beast." But whatever food was eaten or sleep taken there was simply a means towards longer and deeper drinking.
Champagne, too, was by no means unknown. Indeed, it was known to have been swilled from stable buckets, free to all comers to the house. This was when a crowd of sandalwood-cutters or mahogany sawyers had come in from the bush to draw their money for a year, or perhaps two or three years' work. These rough fellows, released from the loneliness of the forest, their pockets crammed with money, ran riot in their rude but generous prodigality.
There was no other way to have a wild time. In a free country, men who have honest money and want to spend it may do as they please. But, in West Australia, the freehanded, and, for the time, wealthy ticket-of-leave man, can only drink and treat with drink, taking care that neither he nor his companions are noisy or violent or otherwise ostentatious. The first sign of disturbance is terribly checked by the police.
Draper's introduction to this strange company was most favourable to him. He was known to be the captain of the convict ship; and every frequenter of "The Red Hand" was ready to treat him with respect. This is one of the unexpected purities of convict life; it never loses its respect for honour and honesty.
But Draper had no power to keep this respect. In the first place, he did not believe in its existence; be was too shallow and mean of nature to think that these rugged fellows were other than vicious rascals all through, who sneered at morality. He felt a sense of relief as soon as he found himself among them, as if he had at last escaped from the necessity of keeping up a pretence of honesty or any other virtue.
Acting under this conviction, Draper let loose his real nature in the convicts' tavern. He did not drink very deeply, because he was not able; but he talked endlessly. He joined group after group of carousing wood-cutters, keeping up a stream of ribaldry and depravity, until, after a few days' experience, the roughest convicts in the place looked at him with disappointment and aversion.
Then a rumour crept to the inn, a story that was left behind by the sailors of the Houguemont, of Harriet's confession on board ship, exposing the heartless villainy of Draper. When this news became current at the inn, the ticket-of-leave men regarded Draper with stern faces, and no man spoke to him or drank with him.
One evening he approached a group of familiar loungers, making some ingratiatory remark. No one answered, but all conversation ceased, the men sitting in grim silence over their glasses.
"Why, mates, you're Quakers," said Draper, rallying them.
"We're no mates of yours," growled a big fellow, with a mahogany face.
"And we don't want to be," said a slighter and younger man, with pronounced emphasis.
"Why, what's the matter?" asked Draper, in a surprised and injured tone. "Have I done anything to offend you fellows? Have I unconsciously said something, to hurt your feelings by alluding to your—"
"Shut up, you miserable rat," cried one of the convicts, starting to his feet indignantly; "you couldn't hurt our feelings by any of your sneaking allusions. We're not afraid to hear nor say what we are; but we have just found out what you are, and we want you never to speak to us again.
Do you understand? We are men, though we are convicts, and we only want to talk to men; but you are a cowardly hound."
Draper's jaw had fallen as he listened; but he backed from the table, and gained confidence as he remembered that these men were wholly at the mercy of the police, and would not dare go any further.
"You are an insolent jail-bird," he said to the speaker; "I'll see to you within an hour."
At this, one of the men who sat at the end of the table nearest Draper, leant towards him, and, taking his glass from the table, cast its contents into his face.
"Get out!" he said; and, without noticing him further, the ticket-of-leave men resumed their conviviality.