Parrot & Co. Part 7

"You like?" with a gesture which indicated the parlor and its contents.

"Be boss? Half an' half?"

He shook his head soberly. She picked up the money and jingled it in her hand.

"Goo'-by!" softly.

"Oh, I'm not going until next Thursday."

The smile returned to her face, and her body bent in a kind of kotow.

He was so big, and his beard glistened like the gold-leaf on the Shwe Dagon PaG.o.da. She understood. The white to the white and the brown to the brown; it was the Law.

Warrington went up to his room. He was welcomed by a screech from the parrot and a dignified salaam from James, who was tr.i.m.m.i.n.g the wick of the oil-lamp. For the last year and a half this room had served as headquarters. Many a financial puzzle had been pieced together within these dull drab walls; many a dream had gone up to the ceiling, only to sink and dissipate like smoke. There were no pictures on the walls, no photographs. In one corner, on the floor, was a stack of dilapidated books. These were mostly old novels and tomes dealing with geological and mathematical matters; laughter and tears and adventure, sandwiched in between the dry positiveness of straight lines and squares and circles and numerals without end; D'Artagnan hobn.o.bbing with Euclid!

Warrington was an educated man, but he was in no sense a scholar. In his hours of leisure he did not find solace in the cla.s.sics. He craved for a good blood-red tale, with lots of fighting and love-making and pleasant endings.

James applied a match to the wick, and the general poverty of the room was instantly made manifest.

"Well, old sober-top, suppose we square up and part like good friends?"

"I am always the Sahib's good friend."

"Right as rain!" Warrington emptied his pockets upon the table; silver and gold and paper. "Eh? That's the stuff. Without it the world's not worth a tinker's dam. Count out seventy pounds, James."

"Sixty-seven."

"Seventy or nothing," declared Warrington, putting his hands down upon the glittering metals. Rupees and sovereigns never lose their l.u.s.ter in the East.

Calmly, then, James took sovereign after sovereign until he had withdrawn the required sum. "Gold is heavy, Sahib," he commented.

"Hang it, your hands are steadier than mine!"

"You go back home?"

"Yes. Something like home. I am going to Paris, where good people go when they die. I am going to drink vintage wines, eat truffles and mushrooms and caviar, and kiss the pretty girls in Maxim's. I've been in prison for ten years. I am free, free!" Warrington flung out his arms. "Good-by, jungles, deserts, h.e.l.l-heat and thirsty winds!

Good-by, crusts and rags and hunger! I am going to live."

"The Sahib has fever," observed the unimaginative Eurasian.

"That's the word; fever. I am burning up. Here; go to the boat and give the purser these six sovereigns. Here are three more. Go to the Strand and get a bottle of champagne, and bring some ice. Buy a box of the best cigars, and hurry back. Then put this junk in the trunk. And d.a.m.n the smell of kerosene!"

James raised his hand warningly. From the adjoining room came the sound of a quarrel.

"Rupees one hundred and forty, and I want it now, you sneak!"

"But I told you I couldn't square up until the first of the month."

"You had no business to play poker, then, if you knew you couldn't settle."

"Who asked me to play?" shrilled the other. "You did. Well, I haven't got the money."

"You miserable little welcher! That ring is worth a hundred and forty."

"You'll never get your dirty fingers inside of that."

"Oh, I shan't, eh?"

Warrington heard a scuffling, which was presently followed by a low choking sob. He did not know who occupied the adjoining room. He had been away for weeks, and there had been no permanent boarders before that time. He rushed fearlessly into the other room. Pinned to the wall was a young man with a weak pale face. The other man presented nothing more than the back of his broad muscular shoulders. The disparity in weight and height was sufficient to rouse Warrington's sense of fair play. Besides, he was in a rough mood himself.

"Here, that'll do," he cried, seizing the heavier man by the collar.

"It isn't worth while to kill a man for a handful of rupees. Let go, you fool!"

He used his strength. The man and his victim swung in a half-circle and crashed to the floor.

With a snarl and an oath, the gambler sprung to his feet and started toward Warrington. He stopped short.

"Good G.o.d!" he murmured; and retreated until he touched the foot-board of the bed.

VI

IN THE NEXT ROOM

"Craig?" Warrington whispered the word, as if he feared the world might hear the deadly menace in his voice. For murder leaped up in his heart as flame leaps up in pine-kindling.

The weak young man got to his knees, then to his feet. He steadied himself by clutching the back of a chair. With one hand he felt of his throat tenderly.

"He tried to kill me, the blackguard!" he croaked.

"Craig, it _is_ you! For ten years I've never thought of you without murder in my heart. Newell Craig, and here, right where I can put my hands upon you! Oh, this old world is small." Warrington laughed. It was a high thin sound.

The young man looked from his enemy to his deliverer, and back again.

What new row was this? Never before had he seen the blackguard with that look in his dark, handsome, predatory face. It typified fear.

And who was this big blond chap whose fingers were working so convulsively?

"Craig," said the young man, "you get out of here, and if you ever come bothering me, I'll shoot you. Hear me?"

This direful threat did not seem to stir the sense of hearing in either of the two men. The one faced the other as a lion might have faced a jackal, wondering if it would be worth while to waste a cuff on so sorry a beast. Suddenly the blond man caught the door and swung it wide.

"Craig, a week ago I'd have throttled you without the least compunction. To-day I can't touch you. But get out of here as fast as you can. You might have gone feet foremost. Go! Out of Rangoon, too.

I may change my mind."

The man called Craig walked out, squaring his shoulders with a touch of bravado that did not impress even the plucked pigeon. Warrington stood listening until he heard the hall-door close sharply.

"Thanks," said the bewildered youth.

Warrington whirled upon him savagely. "Thanks? Don't thank me, you weak-kneed fool!"