The Sign of the Spider

  CHAPTER VI.

  "PIRATE" HAZON.

  If the population of Johannesburg devoted its days to doing _konza_ toKing Scrip, it devoted its nights to amusing itself. There was anenterprising theatrical company and a lively circus. There was amenagerie, where an exceedingly fine young woman was wont nightly toplace her head within a lion's mouth for the delectation, and to theenthusiastic admiration of Judaea, and all the region round about. Therewere smoking-concerts galore--more or less good of their kind--and,failing sporadic forms of pastime, there were numerous bars--andbarmaids, all of which counted for something in the relaxation of theforty thousand inhabitants of Johannesburg--mostly brokers. We areforgetting. There were other phases of nocturnal excitement, more orless of a stimulating nature--frequent rows, to wit, culminating in anasty rough-and-tumble, and now and then a startling and barbarousmurder.

  Now, to Laurence Stanninghame not any of the above forms of diversionheld out the slightest possible attractiveness. The theatrical showstruck him as third-rate, and as for circuses and menageries, hesupposed they had been good fun when he was a child. He did not caretwopence about the pleasures of the bar unless he wanted a drink, andfor barmaids and their allurements less than nothing. So havingalready, with Rainsford or Wheeler, and seven other spirits more wickedthan themselves, gone the round three or four times, just to see whatthere was to be seen, and found that not much, he had subsided into agood bit of a stay-at-home. A pipe, a newspaper or book, and bed, wouldbe his evening program--normally, that is; for now and then he wouldstroll out to Booyseus. But of that more anon.

  The hotel at which he had taken up his quarters was rather a quiet one,and frequented by quiet people. One set of rooms, among which was his,opened upon a _stoep_, which fronted a yard, which opened upon thestreet. Here of an evening he would drag a chair out upon the _stoep_and smoke and read, or occasionally chat with some fellow-sojourner inthe house.

  One evening he was seated thus alone. Holmes, who had taken up hisquarters at the same hotel, was out, as usual. We say as usual becauseHolmes seldom stayed in at night. Holmes was young, and for him the"attractions" we have striven to enumerate above, and others which wehave not, were attractions. He liked to go the round. He liked to seeall there was to be seen. Well, he saw it.

  One evening Laurence, seated thus alone, became aware that another manwas dragging a chair out upon the _stoep_, intending, like himself, totake the air. Looking up, he saw that it was the man to whom nobody everseemed to talk, beyond exchanging the time of day, and that in the mostcurt and perfunctory fashion. He had noticed, further, that thisindividual seemed no more anxious to converse with other people thanthey were to converse with him. He himself had never got beyond thisstage with him, although on easy and friendly terms with the otherpeople staying in the house.

  Yet the man had awakened in him a strange interest, a curiosity that wasalmost acute; but beyond the fact that his name was Hazon, and thedarkly veiled hints on the part of those who alluded to the subject,that he was a ruffian of the deepest dye, Laurence could learn nothingabout him. He noted, however, that if the man seemed disliked, he seemedabout equally feared.

  This Hazon was, in truth, somewhat of a remarkable individual. He was ofpowerful build, standing about five feet nine. He had a strong,good-looking face, the lower part hidden in a dark beard, and his eyeswere black, piercing, and rather deep set. The bronze hue of hiscomplexion, and of the sinewy hands, seemed to tell of a life ofhardness and adventure; and the square jaw and straight, piercing glancewas that of a man who, when roused, would prove a resolute, relentless,and a most dangerous enemy. In repose the face wore a placidity whichwas almost that of melancholy.

  In trying to estimate his years, Laurence owned himself puzzled againand again. He might be about his own age or he might be a great dealolder, that is, anything from forty to sixty. But whatever his age,whatever his past, the man was always the same, dark, self-possessed,coldly reticent, inscrutable, somewhat of an awe-inspiring personality.

  The nature of his business, too, was no more open than was his pasthistory. He had been some months in his present quarters, yet was notknown to be doing anything in scrip to any appreciable extent. The boom,the one engrossing idea in the minds of all alike, seemed to hold nofascination for Hazon. To him it was a matter of absolutely noimportance. What the deuce, then, was he there for? His impenetrablereserve, his out-of-the-common and striking personality, his rathersinister expression, had earned for him a nick-name. He was known allover the Rand as "Pirate" Hazon, or more commonly "The Pirate," because,declared the Rand, he looked like one, and at any rate ought to behanged for one, to make sure.

  Nobody, however, cared to use the epithet within his hearing. Peoplewere afraid of him. One day in the street a tough, swaggering bully,fearless in the consciousness of his powers as a first-class boxer,lurched up against him, deliberately, and with offensive intent. Thosewho witnessed the act stood by for the phase of excitement dearest ofall to their hearts, a row. There was that in Hazon's look which toldthey were not to be disappointed.

  "English manners?" he queried, in cutting, contemptuous tone.

  "I'll teach you some," rejoined the fellow promptly. And without moreado he dashed out a terrific left-hander, which the other just escapedreceiving full in the eye, but not entirely as to the cheekbone.

  Hazon did not hit back, but what followed amazed even the bystanders.It was like the spring of an animal--of a leopard or abull-dog--combining the lightning swiftness of the one with the grim,fell ferocity of purpose of the other. The powerful rowdy was lying uponhis back in the red dust, swinging flail-like blows into empty air, andupon him, in leopard-like crouch, pressing him to the earth, the manwhom he had so wantonly attacked. And his throat was compressed in thosebrown, lean, muscular fingers, as in a claw of steel. It was horrible.His eyes were starting from his head; his face grew blue, then black;his swollen tongue protruded hideously. His struggles were terrific,yet, powerful of frame as he was, he seemed like a child in the grasp ofa panther.

  A shout of dismay, of warning, broke from the spectators, some of whomsprang forward to separate the pair. But there was something so awful inthe expression of Hazon's countenance, in the glare of the coal-blackeyes, in the drawn-in brows and livid horror of fiendish wrath, thateven they stopped short. It was, as they said afterwards, as though theyhad looked into the blasting countenance of a devil.

  "Leave go!" they cried. "For God's sake, leave go! You're killing theman. He'll be dead in a second longer."

  Hazon relaxed his grasp, and stood upright. Beyond a slight heaving ofthe chest attendant upon his exertion, he seemed as cool and collectedas though nothing had happened.

  "I believe you're right," he said, turning away. "Well, he isn't thatyet."

  The attention of the onlookers was concentrated on the prostrate bully,to restore whom a doctor was promptly sent for from the most likely bar,for it was midday. But all were constrained to allow that the fellow hadonly got what he deserved, which consensus of opinion may or may nothave been due to the fact that he was, if anything, a trifle moreunpopular than Hazon himself.

  Now among those who had witnessed this scene from first to last wasLaurence Stanninghame. Not among those who would have interfered--oh,no--for did he not hold it a primary tenet never, on any pretext, tointerfere in what did not concern him? nor did this principle in thosedays involve any effort to keep, all impulse to violate it being longsince dead. Moreover, if the last held good of the badly damaged bully,society at large could not but be the gainer, since it was clear that hewas a fit representative of a class which is utterly destitute of anyredeeming point which should go to justify its unspeakably vicious,useless, and rather dangerous existence.

  This incident, while enhancing the respect in which Hazon was held, inno sense tended to lessen his unpopularity, and indeed at that timenobody had a good word to say for him. Either they said nothing, andlooked the more, or they said a word that was not good--oh, no, notgood.


  Now in spite of all such ill repute, possibly by reason of it, histemperament being what it was, Laurence felt drawn towards thismysterious personage, for he was pre-eminently one given to forming hisown judgment instead of accepting it ready made from Dick, Tom, andHarry. If Hazon was vindictive, why, so was he; if unscrupulous, socould he be if driven to it. He resolved to find an opportunity ofcultivating the man, and if he could not find one he would make it. Nowhe saw such an opportunity.

  "What do you think of this rumor that the revolution in Brazil is goingto knock out our share market?" he said, suddenly looking up from thepaper he was reading.

  "It may do that," answered Hazon. "This year's boom has been a mere sickattempt at one. Wouldn't take much to knock out what little there is ofit."

  Laurence felt a cold qualm. There had been an ominous drop the last dayor two. Still Rainsford and one or two others had recommended him tohold on. This man spoke so quietly, yet withal so prophetically. What ifhe, in his inscrutable way, were more than ordinarily in the know?

  "Queer place this," pursued Hazon, the other having uttered a dubiousaffirmative. "Taking it all round, it and its crowd, it's not far fromthe queerest place I've ever seen in my life, and I've seen some queerplaces and some queerish crowds."

  "I expect you have. By the way, I suppose you've done a good deal ofup-country hunting?"

  "A goodish deal. Are you fond of the gun? I notice you go out prettyoften, but there's nothing to shoot around here."

  "I just am fond of it," replied Laurence. "If things turn out all rightI shall cut in with some fellow for an up-country trip if I can. Biggame this time."

  The other smiled darkly, enigmatically.

  "Yes. That's real--real," he said. "Try some of this," handing histobacco bag, as Laurence began to scratch out his empty pipe, "unless,that is, you haven't got over the new-comer's prejudice against the besttobacco in the world, the name whereof is Transvaal."

  "Thanks. No, I have no prejudice against it. On the contrary, as to itsmerits I am disposed to agree with you."

  Throughout this conversation Laurence, who had a keen ear for that sortof thing, could not help noticing the other's voice. It was a pleasingvoice, a cultured voice, and refined withal, nor could his fastidiousear detect the faintest trace of provincialism or vulgarity about it.The intonation was perfect. There is nothing so quick to betray to thesensitive ear any strain of plebeian descent as the voice, and of thisno one was more thoroughly aware than Laurence Stanninghame. This man,he decided, was of good birth.

  The ice broken, they talked on, in the apparently careless, but inreality guarded way which had become second nature to both of them. Morethan one strange and very shady anecdote was Hazon able to narrateconcerning the place and its inhabitants, and especially concerningcertain among the latter who ranked high for morality, commercially orotherwise. There were actions done in their midst every day, hedeclared, which, for barefaced and unscrupulous rascality, would put tothe blush other actions for which the law would hang a man withoutmercy, all other men applauding, but with this difference, that whereasthe former demanded a creeping and crawling cowardliness to insuresuccess, the latter involved iron nerve and the well-nigh daily shakinghands with death--death, too, in many an appalling and ghastly form. Allof which was "dark" talking as far as Laurence was concerned, though theday was to come when its meaning should stand forth as clear as aprinted page.

  Even now, however, he was not absolutely mystified--far from it, indeed;for he himself was a hard thinker, owning an ever-vivid and busy brain.He could put half a dozen meanings to any one or other of hiscompanion's utterances, and among them probably the right one. And, asthey talked on, he became alive to something almost magnetic--a sort ofsubtile, compelling force--about Hazon. Was it his voice or manner orgeneral aspect, or a combination of all three? He could not tell. Hecould only realize that it existed.

  For some days after this conversation the two men did not come together,though they would nod the time of day to each other as before, andLaurence, who had other considerations upon his hands--monetary andagreeable--did not give the matter a thought. At last he noticed thatHazon's place at the table was vacant--remembering, too, that it hadbeen so for a day or two. Had he left?

  To his inquiries on that head he obtained scant and uncordial response.Hazon was ill, some believed, while others charitably opined that he was"on the booze." Whatever it was no one cared, and strongly recommendedLaurence to do likewise.

  The latter, we have shown, was peculiarly unsusceptible to publicopinion, which, if it influenced him at all, did so in the very oppositedirection to that which was intended. Accordingly, he now made up hismind to ascertain the truth for himself--to which end he found himselfspeedily knocking at the door of Hazon's room, the while marvelling athis own unwonted perturbation lest his overture should be regarded as anintrusion.

  "Heard you were ill," he said shortly, having entered in obedience tothe responsive "Come in." "Rough luck being ill in a place like this, orindeed in any place, for that matter. Thought I'd see if there'sanything I could do for you."

  "Very good of you, Stanninghame. Sit down there on that box--it's lowerthan the chair, and therefore more comfortable. Yes, I feel a bitknocked out. A touch of the old up-country shivers, or something of thekind. It's a thing you never entirely pull round from, once you've hadit. I'll be all right, though, in a day or two."

  The speaker was lying on his bed, clad in his trousers and shirt. Thelatter, open from the throat, revealed part of a great livid scar,running diagonally across the swarthy chest, and representing what musthave been a terrific slash. Two other scars also showed on the muscularforearm, half-way between elbow and wrist. What was it to Laurencewhether this person or that person lived or died? Why, nothing. Yetthere was something so pathetic, so helpless in the aspect of the man,lying there day after day, patient, solitary, uncomplaining--shunned andavoided by those around--that appealed powerfully to his feelings.Heavens! was he turning soft-hearted at his time of life, that he shouldfeel so unaccountably stirred by the bare act of coming to visit thisailing and unbefriended stranger?

  In truth, there was nothing awe-inspiring about the latter now. Hispiercing black eyes seemed large and soft; the expression of his darkface was one of weariful helplessness, yet of schooled patience. A queerthought flashed through Laurence's brain. Was it in Hazon's power toproduce whatever effect he chose upon the minds of others? Had hechosen, for some inscrutable purpose, to render himself shunned andfeared? Was he now, on like principle, adopting the surest means to winover to him this one man who had sought him out on his lonely sick-bed?and if so, to what end? It was more than a passing thought, nor fromthat moment onward could Laurence ever get it entirely out of his mind.

  "Fill your pipe, Stanninghame," said Hazon, breaking into this train ofthought, which, all unconsciously, had entailed a long gap of silence."I don't in the least mind smoke, although I can't blow off a cloudmyself just now--at least I have no inclination that way," he added,reaching for a bottle of white powder which stood upon a box by thebedside, and mixing himself a modicum of quinine.

  "Had a doctor of any sort, Hazon?"

  "What good would that do--except to the doctor? I know what's thematter with me, and I know exactly what to do for it. I don't want topay another fellow a couple of guineas or so to tell me. Not but whatdoctors have their uses--in wounds and surgery, for instance. But I'mcuriously like an animal. When I get anything the matter with me--whichI don't often--I like to creep away and lie low. I like to take italone."

  "Well, I'm built rather that way myself, Hazon. I won't apologize forintruding, because you know as well as I do that no such considerationenters into the matter. Still, I want you to know that if there'sanything I can do for you, you have only to say so."

  "Thanks. You are not quite like--other people, Stanninghame. Life is nogreat thing, is it, that everybody should stir up such a mighty fussabout clearing out of it?"

  "No, it's
no great thing," assented Laurence darkly. "Yet it might bemade so."

  "How that?"

  "With wealth. With wealth you can do anything--command anything--buyanything. They say that wealth won't purchase life, but very often itwill."

  "You're about three parts right. It will, for instance, enable a man tolead the life he needs in order to preserve his physical and mentalvigour at its highest. Even from the moralist's point of view it is allround desirable, for nothing is so morally deteriorating as a life ofnarrow and cramped pinching, when all one's best years are spent inhungering and longing for what one will never again attain."

  "You speak like a book, Hazon," said Laurence, not wondering that theother should have sized up his own case so exhaustively--not wondering,because he was an observer of human nature and a character-readerhimself. Then, bitterly, "Yet that pumpkin-pated entity, the ponderousmoralist, would contend that the lack of all that made life worth livingwas good as a stimulus to urge to exertion, and all the hollow oldclap-trap."

  "Quite so. But how many attain to the reward--the end of the saidexertion? Not one in a hundred. And then, in nine cases out of ten, howdoes that one do it? By fraud, and thieving, and over-reaching, andsycophancy--in short, by running through the whole gamut of the scale ofrascality--rascality of the meaner kind, mark you. Then when this winnerin the battle of life comes out top, the world crowns him with fat andfulsome eulogy, and falls down and worships his cheque-book, crying,'Behold a self-made man; go thou and do likewise!'"

  "You've not merely hit the right nail on the head, Hazon, but you'vedriven it right home," said Laurence decisively, recognizing that herewas a man after his own heart.

  Two or three days went by before Hazon felt able or inclined to leavehis bed, and a good part of each was spent by Laurence sitting in thesick man's room and talking. And it may have been that the lonely manfelt cheered by the companionship and the friendliness that profferedit, what time all others held aloof; or that the two were akin in ideas,or both; but henceforward a sort of intimacy struck up between them,and it was noticed that Hazon no longer went about invariably alone.Then people began to look somewhat queerly at Laurence.

  "You and 'the Pirate' have become quite thick together, Stanninghame,"said Rainsford one day, meeting him alone.

  "Well, why not?" answered Laurence, rather shortly, resenting theinquisitional nature of the question. Then point blank, "See here,Rainsford. Why are you all so down on the man? What has he done,anyway?"

  "You needn't get your shirt out, old chap," was the answer, quitegood-humouredly. "Look here, now--we are alone together--so just betweenourselves. Do you notice how all of these up-country going fellows shunthim--Wheeler, for instance? and Garway, who is at your hotel, neverspeaks to him. And Garway, you'll admit, is as good a fellow as everlived."

  "Yes, I'll own up to that. What then?"

  "Only this, that they know a good deal that we don't."

  "Well, what do they know--or say they know?"

  "Look here, Stanninghame," said Rainsford, rather mysteriously, "hasHazon ever told you any of his up-country experiences?"

  "A few--yes."

  "Did he ever suggest you should take a trip with him?"

  "We have even discussed that possibility."

  "Ah----!" Then Rainsford gave a long whistle, and his voice becameimpressive as he resumed: "Watch it, Stanninghame. From time to timeother men have gone up country with Hazon, but--_not one of them hasever returned_."

  "Oh, that's what you're all down on him about, is it?"

  The other nodded; then, with a "so-long," he cut across the street anddisappeared into an office where he had business.