The Web of the Golden Spider Part 15

"I'm willing to do anything--from peeling potatoes to scrubbing decks."

"There's better nor that fer a man."

"I'd like to find it."

The stranger studied the younger man from the corner of his eyes, pressing down the live coals in his pipe with a calloused forefinger.

"If you was only goin' to the West Coast, now."

"What? Where?"

"Say pretty far up--Say to Carlina?"

Wilson could scarcely believe his ears. He steadied himself. This must be more than mere coincidence, he thought. For all he knew, this man might be some agent of the priest. Perhaps the latter had some inkling of what had been found. But if that were so, there was little doubt but what the priest would have taken up the search for it himself. At any rate, Wilson felt well able to care for himself. The parchment was safe in an inside pocket which he had fastened at the top with safety pins. The advantage in having it there was that he could feel it with a slight pressure of his arm. If an opportunity offered to get to Carlina, he would accept it at whatever risk. Wilson answered slowly after the manner of one willing to consider an offer but eager to make a good bargain.

"I don't know but what Carlina would suit me as well as Rio. It's more to get away from here than anything."

"You has the right spirit, m' boy."

He paused, then added indifferently,

"Dunno but what I can find a berth fer you. Come if ye wanter, an'

we'll talk it over."

Wilson followed. This at least offered possibilities. The stranger lolled the length of the dock shed and out into the street as unconcernedly as though only upon a stroll. They turned into the main thoroughfare among the drays and s.h.i.+p-chandlers' shops, out into the busy, unconcerned life of the city. The stranger was as unconscious of the confusion about him as though he were the only occupant of the street, crossing in front of the heavy teams with a nonchalance that forced frantic drivers to draw their horses to their haunches, and motormen to bend double over their brakes. Oaths and warnings apparently never reached him. Once Wilson clutched at his broad shoulders to save him from a motor car. He merely spat at the rear wheels.

"Couldn't git killed if I wanted to," he grumbled.

They brought up finally before a barroom and entered, pa.s.sing through to the small iron tables in the rear. The dim gas revealed smudged walls ornamented with dusty English sporting prints--a c.o.c.k fight, a fist fight, and a coach and four done in colors. A dwarf of a waiter swabbed off the wet disks made by beer gla.s.ses.

"Two half and halfs," ordered the stranger.

When they were brought, he shoved one towards Wilson.

"Drink," he said. "Might's well."

Wilson gulped down the bitter beer. It cleared his head and gave him new life. The stranger ordered another.

"Can't talk to a man when he's thirsty," he observed.

The room grew hazily warm, and Wilson felt himself glowing with new life and fresh courage.

"My name is Stubbs--Jonathan Stubbs," explained the stranger, as Wilson put down the empty mug. "Follered the sea for forty year.

Rotten hard work--rotten bad grub--rotten poor pay. Same on land as on sea, I reckon. No good anywhere. Got a friend who's a longsh.o.r.eman and says th' same 'bout his work. No good anywhere."

He paused as though waiting for the other to introduce _himself_.

"My name is Wilson, haven't done much of anything--and that's rotten poor fun. But I want to get to South America and I'll do anything under the sun that will pay my way there."

"Anything?"

"Yes," laughed Wilson, "anything, to heaving coal."

"'Fraid of your neck?" asked Stubbs.

"Try me."

"Gut any family?"

"No."

"Ever s.h.i.+pped afore?"

"No."

Stubbs settled further back in his chair and studied the ceiling.

"Wotcher want to git there for?"

"I have a friend who's somewhere down there," he said frankly.

"Man?"

"No."

"Women," mused Stubbs, "is strange. Can't never lay your hand on a woman. Here they are an' here they ain't. I had a woman once't. Yes, I had a woman once't."

He relapsed into a long silence and Wilson studied him with friendlier interest than before. Life was written large upon his wrinkled face, but the eyes beneath the heavy brows redeemed many of the bitter lines. It was clear that the man had lived much within himself in spite of his long rubbing against the world. He was a man, Wilson thought, who could warn men off, or welcome them in, at will.

"Maybe," he resumed, "maybe you'll come an' maybe you won't. Come if you wanter."

"Where to?"

"To Choco Bay. Can't promise you nothin' but a berth to the port,--good pay an' a d.a.m.ned rough time after you get there. Maybe your throat cut in the end."

"I'll go," said Wilson, instantly.

The gray eyes brightened.

"Now I ain't promised you nothin', have I, but to git you to the coast?"

"No."

"Hain't said nothin', have I, 'bout what may happen to you after you git there?"

"Only that I may get my throat cut."

"What's the difference if you do? But if you wants to, I'll gamble my chest agin a chaw that you won't. Nothin' ever comes out right."