CHAPTER XVIII
The grizzled ship's steward and the rough-coated Irish terrier quicklybecame conspicuous figures in the night life of the Barbary Coast of SanFrancisco. Daughtry elaborated on the counting trick by bringing Cockyalong. Thus, when a waiter did not fetch the right number of glasses,Michael would remain quite still, until Cocky, at a privy signal fromSteward, standing on one leg, with the free claw would clutch Michael'sneck and apparently talk into Michael's ear. Whereupon Michael wouldlook about the glasses on the table and begin his usual expostulationwith the waiter.
But it was when Daughtry and Michael first sang "Roll me Down to Rio"together, that the ten-strike was made. It occurred in a sailors' dance-hall on Pacific Street, and all dancing stopped while the sailorsclamoured for more of the singing dog. Nor did the place lose money, forno one left, and the crowd increased to standing room as Michael wentthrough his repertoire of "God Save the King," "Sweet Bye and Bye,""Lead, Kindly Light," "Home, Sweet Home," and "Shenandoah."
It meant more than free beer to Daughtry, for, when he started to leave,the proprietor of the place thrust three silver dollars into his hand andbegged him to come around with the dog next night.
"For that?" Daughtry demanded, looking at the money as if it werecontemptible.
Hastily the proprietor added two more dollars, and Daughtry promised.
"Just the same, Killeny, my son," he told Michael as they went to bed, "Ithink you an' me are worth more than five dollars a turn. Why, the likeof you has never been seen before. A real singing dog that can carry'most any air with me, and that can carry half a dozen by himself. An'they say Caruso gets a thousand a night. Well, you ain't Caruso, butyou're the dog-Caruso of the entire world. Son, I'm goin' to be yourbusiness manager. If we can't make a twenty-dollar gold-piece anight--say, son, we're goin' to move into better quarters. An' the oldgent up at the Hotel de Bronx is goin' to move into an outside room. An'Kwaque's goin' to get a real outfit of clothes. Killeny, my boy, we'regoin' to get so rich that if he can't snare a sucker we'll put up thecash ourselves 'n' buy a schooner for 'm, 'n' send him out a-treasure-huntin' on his own. We'll be the suckers, eh, just you an' me, an' loveto."
* * * * *
The Barbary Coast of San Francisco, once the old-time sailor-town in thedays when San Francisco was reckoned the toughest port of the Seven Seas,had evolved with the city until it depended for at least half of itsearnings on the slumming parties that visited it and spent liberally. Itwas quite the custom, after dinner, for many of the better classes ofsociety, especially when entertaining curious Easterners, to spend anhour or several in motoring from dance-hall to dance-hall and cheapcabaret to cheap cabaret. In short, the "Coast" was as much asight-seeing place as was Chinatown and the Cliff House.
It was not long before Dag Daughtry was getting his twenty dollars anight for two twenty-minute turns, and was declining more beer than adozen men with thirsts equal to his could have accommodated. Never hadhe been so prosperous; nor can it be denied that Michael enjoyed it.Enjoy it he did, but principally for Steward's sake. He was servingSteward, and so to serve was his highest heart's desire.
In truth, Michael was the bread-winner for quite a family, each member ofwhich fared well. Kwaque blossomed out resplendent in russet-brownshoes, a derby hat, and a gray suit with trousers immaculately creased.Also, he became a devotee of the moving-picture shows, spending as muchas twenty and thirty cents a day and resolutely sitting out everyrepetition of programme. Little time was required of him in caring forDaughtry, for they had come to eating in restaurants. Not only had theAncient Mariner moved into a more expensive outside room at the Bronx;but Daughtry insisted on thrusting upon him more spending money, so that,on occasion, he could invite a likely acquaintance to the theatre or aconcert and bring him home in a taxi.
"We won't keep this up for ever, Killeny," Steward told Michael. "Forjust as long as it takes the old gent to land another bunch ofgold-pouched, retriever-snouted treasure-hunters, and no longer. Thenit's hey for the ocean blue, my son, an' the roll of a good craft underour feet, an' smash of wet on the deck, an' a spout now an' again of thescuppers.
"We got to go rollin' down to Rio as well as sing about it to a lot ofcheap skates. They can take their rotten cities. The sea's the life forus--you an' me, Killeny, son, an' the old gent an' Kwaque, an' Cocky,too. We ain't made for city ways. It ain't healthy. Why, son, thoughyou maybe won't believe it, I'm losin' my spring. The rubber's goin'outa me. I'm kind o' languid, with all night in an' nothin' to do butsit around. It makes me fair sick at the thought of hearin' the old gentsay once again, 'I think, steward, one of those prime cocktails would bejust the thing before dinner.' We'll take a little ice-machine alongnext voyage, an' give 'm the best.
"An' look at Kwaque, Killeny, my boy. This ain't his climate. He'spositively ailin'. If he sits around them picture-shows much more he'lldevelop the T.B. For the good of his health, an' mine an' yours, an' allof us, we got to get up anchor pretty soon an' hit out for the home ofthe trade winds that kiss you through an' through with the salt an' thelife of the sea."
* * * * *
In truth, Kwaque, who never complained, was ailing fast. A swelling,slow and sensationless at first, under his right arm-pit, had become amild and unceasing pain. No longer could he sleep a night through.Although he lay on his left side, never less than twice, and often threeand four times, the hurt of the swelling woke him. Ah Moy, had he notlong since been delivered back to China by the immigration authorities,could have told him the meaning of that swelling, just as he could havetold Dag Daughtry the meaning of the increasing area of numbness betweenhis eyes where the tiny, vertical, lion-lines were cutting moreconspicuously. Also, could he have told him what was wrong with thelittle finger on his left hand. Daughtry had first diagnosed it as asprain of a tendon. Later, he had decided it was chronic rheumatismbrought on by the damp and foggy Sun Francisco climate. It was one ofhis reasons for desiring to get away again to sea where the tropic sunwould warm the rheumatism out of him.
As a steward, Daughtry had been accustomed to contact with men and womenof the upper world. But for the first time in his life, here in theunderworld of San Francisco, in all equality he met such persons fromabove. Nay, more, they were eager to meet him. They sought him. Theyfawned upon him for an invitation to sit at his table and buy beer forhim in whatever garish cabaret Michael was performing. They would havebought wine for him, at enormous expense, had he not stubbornly stuck tohis beer. They were, some of them, for inviting him to their homes--"An'bring the wonderful dog along for a sing-song"; but Daughtry, proud ofMichael for being the cause of such invitations, explained that theprofessional life was too arduous to permit of such diversions. ToMichael he explained that when they proffered a fee of fifty dollars, thepair of them would "come a-runnin'."
Among the host of acquaintances made in their cabaret-life, two weredestined, very immediately, to play important parts in the lives ofDaughtry and Michael. The first, a politician and a doctor, by nameEmory--Walter Merritt Emory--was several times at Daughtry's table, whereMichael sat with them on a chair according to custom. Among otherthings, in gratitude for such kindnesses from Daughtry, Doctor Emory gavehis office card and begged for the privilege of treating, free of charge,either master or dog should they ever become sick. In Daughtry'sopinion, Dr. Walter Merritt Emory was a keen, clever man, undoubtedlyable in his profession, but passionately selfish as a hungry tiger. Ashe told him, in the brutal candour he could afford under such changedconditions: "Doc, you're a wonder. Anybody can see it with half an eye.What you want you just go and get. Nothing'd stop you except . . . "
"Except?"
"Oh, except that it was nailed down, or locked up, or had a policemanstanding guard over it. I'd sure hate to have anything you wanted."
"Well, you have," Doctor assured him, with a significant nod at Michaelon the chair between them.
"Br-r-r!" Daughtry shivered. "You give me
the creeps. If I thought youreally meant it, San Francisco couldn't hold me two minutes." Hemeditated into his beer-glass a moment, then laughed with reassurance."No man could get that dog away from me. You see, I'd kill the manfirst. I'd just up an' tell 'm, as I'm tellin' you now, I'd kill 'mfirst. An' he'd believe me, as you're believin' me now. You know I meanit. So'd he know I meant it. Why, that dog . . . "
In sheer inability to express the profundity of his emotion, Dag Daughtrybroke off the sentence and drowned it in his beer-glass.
Of quite different type was the other person of destiny. Harry Del Mar,he called himself; and Harry Del Mar was the name that appeared on theprogrammes when he was doing Orpheum "time." Although Daughtry did notknow it, because Del Mar was laying off for a vacation, the man didtrained-animal turns for a living. He, too, bought drinks at Daughtry'stable. Young, not over thirty, dark of complexion with large,long-lashed brown eyes that he fondly believed were magnetic, cherubic oflip and feature, he belied all his appearance by talking business indirect business fashion.
"But you ain't got the money to buy 'm," Daughtry replied, when the otherhad increased his first offer of five hundred dollars for Michael to athousand.
"I've got the thousand, if that's what you mean."
"No," Daughtry shook his head. "I mean he ain't for sale at any price.Besides, what do you want 'm for?"
"I like him," Del Mar answered. "Why do I come to this joint? Why doesthe crowd come here? Why do men buy wine, run horses, sport actresses,become priests or bookworms? Because they like to. That's the answer.We all do what we like when we can, go after the thing we want whether wecan get it or not. Now I like your dog, I want him. I want him athousand dollars' worth. See that big diamond on that woman's hand overthere. I guess she just liked it, and wanted it, and got it, never mindthe price. The price didn't mean as much to her as the diamond. Nowthat dog of yours--"
"Don't like you," Dag Daughtry broke in. "Which is strange. He likesmost everybody without fussin' about it. But he bristled at you from thefirst. No man'd want a dog that don't like him."
"Which isn't the question," Del Mar stated quietly. "I like him. As forhim liking or not liking me, that's my look-out, and I guess I can attendto that all right."
It seemed to Daughtry that he glimpsed or sensed under the other'sunfaltering cherubicness of expression a steelness of cruelty that wasabysmal in that it was of controlled intelligence. Not in such terms didDaughtry think his impression. At the most, it was a feeling, andfeelings do not require words in order to be experienced or comprehended.
"There's an all-night bank," the other went on. "We can stroll over,I'll cash a cheque, and in half an hour the cash will be in your hand."
Daughtry shook his head.
"Even as a business proposition, nothing doing," he said. "Look you.Here's the dog earnin' twenty dollars a night. Say he works twenty-fivedays in the month. That's five hundred a month, or six thousand a year.Now say that's five per cent., because it's easier to count, itrepresents the interest on a capital value of one hundred an' twentythousand-dollars. Then we'll suppose expenses and salary for me istwenty thousand. That leaves the dog worth a hundred thousand. Just tobe fair, cut it in half--a fifty-thousand dog. And you're offerin' athousand for him."
"I suppose you think he'll last for ever, like so much land'," Del Marsmiled quietly.
Daughtry saw the point instantly.
"Give 'm five years of work--that's thirty thousand. Give 'm one year ofwork--it's six thousand. An' you're offerin' me one thousand for sixthousand. That ain't no kind of business--for me . . . an' him. Besides,when he can't work any more, an' ain't worth a cent, he'll be worth justa plumb million to me, an' if anybody offered it, I'd raise the price."