Long Live the King!

"It all depends, sir, what you want," the latter replied, shaking her curls coquettishly at him; "if you'd like ham and eggs we can manage that, or maybe a bloater if so be you'd relish it, but I don't know that I can do better for you at this time o' night, at any rate."

Max decided in favour of the former, and a quarter of an hour later might have been observed in the landlady's own private parlour, seated before a steaming dish of ham and eggs, which he was devouring with an appetite that was the outcome of a four-mile walk. I have seen that landlady since, and have tried to make her understand who her guest was.

"Lor' bless you, sir," she said – for though I told her about Max, she had not the least notion of my identity – "I don't know anything about his being a prince, but what I do know is, that he ate his ham and eggs hearty enough for a king, as I told my old man afterwards."

His meal disposed of, Max paid the bill, and returned to the station to await the arrival of his train. The sun was sinking behind the trees on the other side of the cutting, and the whole heavens were suffused with crimson light. A belated cuckoo was wishing the world good-night in the far distance, and the tinkling of bells on the harness of a waggoner's team was wafted to him like faintest music upon the still evening air. As he strolled up and down the platform, his thoughts involuntarily returned to the Princess. He wondered whether she were thinking of him, and how long it would be before he would be able to school himself to forget her.

The first sign that heralded the train's approach was the arrival of a hobbledehoy rustic of about sixteen on the platform. He carried in one hand a bundle, tied up in a red pocket-handkerchief, and in the other a ground-ash stick, with which he beat his leg to the tune of a music-hall melody that had been popular in London some six months before. As Max passed him on his way to the booking-office to take his ticket, he civilly wished him good-evening. When the train entered the station, he followed the lad to a third-class compartment, and seated himself opposite him. They were the only two occupants of the carriage, and Max was in the humour for conversation. He felt as if he had been alone in the world for countless years, and for some reason the boy's broad Hampshire dialect was soothing to his ears. The lad was on his way to a new situation, so he informed his companion, a farm on the outskirts of the village of Dean. It was his first absence from home, and Max noticed that an ominous snuffle followed his statement of the fact. To the elder man there was something engaging about this encounter. They were both stepping out of their old into a new world, in order to gain experience, and were equally anxious, yet equally loth to say farewell to their old surroundings.

"I knew it was coming for a long time, sir," said the boy in a burst of confidence. "Father always had a sort of feeling that he wanted me to go along o' Mr. Simpkins, but, somehow, mother didn't kind o' fancy it. Not but that I can do my work, sir. I bain't afraid of work – not a bit of it. It's the going away from home and mother, that's the worst of it. But there, it will seem kind of strange at first, sir, I don't doubt; but bless you, I reckon somehow it will come right in the end. Anyways, I am going to do my best to make it."

For many a long day that homely speech was destined to live in Max's memory. It was an augury for the future; at any rate, he determined to regard it as such. When they reached Dean, and the boy had made his preparations to alight, Max held out his hand.

"Good-bye," he said. "I hope you may prosper in your undertaking. Like you, I, too, am starting out into the world to gain experience. I have wished you good luck; won't you do the same for me?"

The boy shyly took the hand held out to him, and, as he did so, he said: "God speed ye, sir, and thank ye kindly for the way you've let me talk to you. It's done me a world o' good."

A second later he was gone, and the train was on its way once more. In something under twenty minutes they had reached Salisbury, where Max discovered, as he had quite made up his mind he would do, that the last train for Bristol had departed. In consequence, he would be compelled to wait in Salisbury until morning for another. The disappointment was a severe one, for he had hoped to reach his destination before the night was over. In his present state, rapid travelling was exactly what he wanted; to feel he was dashing through the country, drawing nearer his goal with every mile, was like an antidote to pain, it prevented him from thinking. Now there was nothing for it but to find an hotel and to wait for morning.

As he made his way out of the station and down into the town, he thought of the last time he had visited that ancient city. Then he had been the favoured guest of a well-known nobleman in the neighbourhood, and his arrival had been the signal for quite a respectable crowd to gather in the station yard to see the Crown Prince of Pannonia. Flags had decorated the streets, and the civic authorities had offered him a hearty welcome in their council-house. Now a thick drizzle was falling as he walked along the muddy street, and the only welcome he received was the curse of a tipsy man who reeled and almost fell against him. When he had discovered a convenient hostelry he engaged a room, and afterwards strolled about the town. At last he found himself standing before the ancient cathedral, in what is perhaps the most peaceful and beautiful close in all the length and breadth of England. The graceful spire towered hundreds of feet into the moonlit sky, and as he watched it the clock struck ten, slowly and solemnly, as if it were aware of the important part it was playing in the passage of time. At the same moment I was alighting from my train at Southampton Docks, whither I had gone in search of him. Small wonder was it, since he was in Salisbury, that I could not find him.

Next morning, shortly before five o'clock, he rose and continued his journey, catching a London train at Westbury, reaching Bath at eight o'clock, and Bristol thirty-five minutes later. Before leaving the station he secured the luggage he had sent on ahead, and then once more departed in quest of an hotel. This accomplished, he was at liberty to go in search of a vessel. From the collection of advertisements in the coffee-room, it would appear that there was no place on the face of the habitable globe that could not be reached from that port. He could find nothing, however, to suit him. The United States did not appeal sufficiently to his sense of the romantic; South Africa had another and still more vital objection; Canada was impossible, for the simple reason that he had already visited it, and was exceedingly well known there. He wanted to find a vessel on which there would be no possible chance of his being recognised, and for this reason also the big liners were unsuitable. Leaving the hotel, he went into the town, scanned the wharves, and entered into conversation with men who had their dealings in great waters. At last, and quite by chance, he happened upon the very vessel he wanted. She was the Diamintina, a steamer of some three thousand tons, engaged in the South American trade. Her steam was already up, and, as Max was informed, she was to sail that afternoon for Rio de Janeiro. He inquired the name of the agents, and as soon as he had discovered their address, set off in search of the office post-haste. The clerk who did him the honour to inquire his business informed him that he was quite right in supposing that she would sail that afternoon, and went even so far as to add that she had sufficient accommodation for half a dozen passengers, four of which were already booked. The chance seemed too good to be lost. Brazil was the country he had always had a desire to visit; now he paid the money demanded of him and received his ticket in exchange. An hour later he had made his way on board and the voyage to South America had commenced. Max stood at the port bulwarks as the vessel steamed slowly down the river, and watched the shore slip past with what was almost a feeling of wonderment at his position. At last he might consider himself freed from his past life. He had a hundred pounds in the belt that was safely clasped round his waist, ten pounds in his pocket, and when that was gone he would have nothing to depend upon, save his health and his determination to succeed. By nightfall they were out in more open water, and a brisk sea was running. Fortunately, Max was an excellent sailor, and enjoyed rather than disliked the active motion of the steamer. To his surprise, when the dinner-bell rang at six o'clock, he, the captain, and one solitary passenger were all who sat down to table. They were the only three to sit down at subsequent meals during the voyage. The captain was inclined to be agreeable, and Max's fellow saloon passenger was the Señor Francisco Moreas, and he was, by his own account, an old resident in Brazil. Be that as it may, and I am certainly not in a position to contradict it, he had seen more of the world than the average man. His age must have been between forty and forty-five; his appearance was that of a typical Spaniard, debilitated partly by fever and partly by his own excesses; he was tall but sparely built, boasted keen, hawk-like eyes, a nose that at first glance reminded one of the same bird's beak, a small and carefully-trimmed moustache, and last, but not least, exceedingly small hands and feet, of which he was inordinately proud. The fingers of the former, which were dirty, were invariably ornamented with rings.

The captain, who, as I have already said, had laid himself out to be agreeable to Max, found an occasion to invite him to the chart-room alone. Once there he spoke his mind freely and to the point.

"I want to give you a hint, Mr. Mortimer," he said, for that was the name Max had assumed. "I must put you on your guard against our friend Moreas."

"I am exceedingly obliged to you for the trouble you are taking," Max returned, as he seated himself on the chart locker. "What has he done that you should warn me against him?"

The captain sank his voice a little as he replied.

"I have known him for a good many years. He is a notorious gambler, and, as far as my observation goes, I can say that I have seen him win a good deal oftener than he loses. When I say that he is a dead shot with a revolver, and that he is not above calling a man out and putting a bullet into him before breakfast, you will understand that I've gone out of my way to tell you something that might land me in difficulties if he came to know of it."

"I am obliged to you," said Max. "You may be quite sure I shall respect your confidence. I will be on my guard for the future."

"I'm glad to hear it," the captain replied and added: "I've noticed that you've been playing cards with him lately."

Max admitted the soft impeachment. He might have added that he had lost more than he cared to remember. He felt certain in his own mind, however, that Moreas had obtained the money honestly, and in common fairness he felt compelled to say so to the captain.

"I don't doubt it," the other answered. "He is not such a fool as to try anything else while it is possible for him to get it by straightforward play. But if you must play with him I should advise you to keep your eyes and wits open. It is not in my interest to say so, for if you find him out you will come to quarrelling, and then possibly to blows, and at that point it will be my duty to step in. But I don't want to have to do it. As a rule, we carry very few passengers on this boat, but I can tell you that I have seen some funny scenes on board her now and again, and Moreas has figured conspicuously in more than one of them."

As it transpired, the captain's warning reached Max just in time. Another day and it might have been too late. The incident I am about to relate took place on a warm morning. They were nearing the Equator, and Max was stretched on the poop skylight, reading, when Moreas made his appearance. The latter offered him an excellent cigar, and after they had been smoking for a time proposed a game of ecarté. Max, who, I regret to say, was an inveterate gambler, immediately assented, not, however, without thinking of the captain's warning. His companion immediately produced a pack of cards. The steward, on being appealed to, brought a small folding table from below, whereupon the game commenced. For some time they played with varying success, then Max, contrary to custom, began to win. They doubled the stakes and played again. Once more Max won. They played another hand, still with the same result. An ominous look flashed into Moreas' eyes, but it was gone again as quickly.

"I am glad to see that your luck has turned at last, Señor," he said, with a suspicion of a sneer about his lips.

"Fortune must smile some time or other," retorted Max coolly. "It would be hard indeed if I were always to have the same luck that I've had of late. It is your deal, I fancy."

Moreas accordingly dealt, and they played the next hand. Suddenly Max laid down his cards, back uppermost, and leant across the table.

"Forgive me, Señor," he said, "but I feel sure there is some little mistake. We have played two rounds, and I see that you still have four cards in your hand."

The remainder of the pack was lying at the Spaniard's elbow, and Max noticed a suspicious movement of the other's sleeve a few seconds before. Had he not spoken when he did, the other would have rid himself of one of his cards without delay.

"Carambo! so I have," he said, with a well-simulated astonishment. "I must offer you ten thousand apologies, Señor, for having unwittingly made such a mistake. I do not know how it occurred."

As he said this he fixed his beady eyes upon Max's face, as though to give him warning that if he had anything to say on the subject it had better be of a conciliatory nature.

"I feel sure of that," Max answered good-humouredly, for he had not the least intention of quarrelling with him. He only wanted to let the other see that he was quite aware of his man[oe]uvres, and that they must not be attempted in the future. "Are you tired or shall we play another hand?"

"I think a little rest, Señor, would be acceptable," Moreas responded. "It is so hot under this awning. I will ask you for my revenge another time."

With that he rose and lit a fresh cigar. Going to the companion hatch, he called to the steward to bring a couple of bottles of beer and some glasses on deck. When these arrived, he insisted that Max and the captain, who had just arrived on the poop, should join him. To all appearances he was as calm and as friendly as usual, but there was still a gleam in his eyes that spoke for the smouldering fire in the brain behind.

"It is too hot," he said, spreading his arms abroad. "How shall we amuse ourselves? We have read, we have played, and now we have drunk beer. What else is there for us to do?"

Then, as if an idea had struck him, he continued:

"I wonder if our good friend, the captain, here, would permit us to have some pistol practice. There would be no danger, believe me, if we shoot over the stern."

Max understood what was in his mind. Though he had pretended to do so, the other had not forgotten the incident of the cards, and now he was going to give him, in case he should be inclined to spread the report abroad, an exhibition of his powers with the pistol. It was a hint delicately administered.

"I don't know that I ought to allow it," said the captain doubtfully; "but seeing that we have no ladies aboard, and that you promise to fire over the stern, we will risk it. Don't shoot each other, and don't keep it up too long, that's all I ask."

Moreas gave his promise and immediately disappeared below, to appear a few moments later, carrying in his hand a revolver, a piece of string, and a dozen medium-sized apples. Reaching the deck, he made one of the apples fast by the string to the wire rope that carried the awning. When this was done it hung midway between the awning and the taffrail, and afforded an excellent target.

"Have you done much shooting with the revolver?" Moreas inquired of Max, as he returned from placing the fruit in position.

"A little," the other replied.

"In that case shall we say thirty paces?"

"Whatever you like," said Max.

The distance was accordingly measured, and a chalk line drawn upon the deck.

"Shall we bet on the shot," remarked Moreas, taking a box of cartridges from his pocket and carefully filling the chambers of the revolver.

"Why not?" answered Max, still with the same imperturbability. "What shall it be? Name the sum."

"Let it be whatever you please," returned his polite adversary. "Since we are loaded with English gold shall we say half a sovereign?"

"Half a sovereign will suit me admirably," the other replied. "Perhaps you will commence?"

Nothing loath, Moreas toed the line, and, when he had examined the revolver to make sure that it was in working order, fired. The bullet hit the apple dividing it as neatly as if it had been cut with a knife.

"Bravo!" said Max. "I owe you half a sovereign."

The Spaniard handed him the revolver, and he, in his turn, took his place at the line. As boys, Max and I had been keen pistol shots, and I was quite prepared when I reached this part of his narrative to find that he had imitated Moreas' example and destroyed the target. To my surprise, however, he chronicled a miss.