An animal far too large for a pig and far too small for a cow ambled out of the bush, narrowly avoided making a deodand of the Royal Jeep, ambled back. The chief function of the tapir, that odd, odd, animal, seemed to be to cause just exactly such hazards on the back roads. Jack was sure that he had heard Sir Joshua utter the words, “Bloody man,” at just the second the “mountain-cow” made its unsought epiphany. But he thought it best not to repeat the question. Perhaps the phrase was directed towards himself. Perhaps he had Presumed. Sir Joshua was a kindly older gentleman, Sir Joshua was being amiable in giving him a ride: Sir Joshua was, after all, he was the Royal Governor, and so -
“The damndest things, Jack, bring me out to the damndest places. It isn’t all cutting ribbons for new bridges and signing pardons, you know. Here I am, supposed to be trying my best to phase myself out, you know. and then, again and again, Government tries to phase me in. However. Mum’s the word — Wish it were the Queen’s Deer!”
If he had any small thoughts that perhaps arriving in the Royal Jeep might give a certain cachet, a position of advantage to his business here in town, the sight of every place of business closed for lunch-cum-siesta put an end to them. He thanked Sir Joshua, and left him to his reception at the local District Commissioner’s or Police Superintendent’s office — they were side by side in the one building. The next building was the Post Office: of course it, too, was closed. Much to his surprise, however, the door of the Telegraphy Office adjacent opened, and in the doorway appeared Mr. Horatio Estaban, the (local) Royal Telegrapher. “Mr. Limekiller, sir!”
“Hello, Mr. Estaban.”
“Mr. Limekiller, sir, as I am just now going home to take my luncheon. As I suppose you are heading for down-town. If you would oblige us by distributing these, if you wouldn’t mind, sir,” and he held out a number of envelopes.
“No, I wouldn’t mind,” Limekiller said, scanning the addresses, all of which were familiar to him. “But aren’t they all closed now?”
Mr. Estaban, already headed in the direction of his luncheon, said, over his shoulder, “They must open by and by, sir. - At your own leisure and convenience, Mr. Limekiller. Thank you so.”
The reason why the names and addresses on the telegram envelopes were all familiar to him was that they were all of the local suppliers to whom he had the day before sent telegrams.
And, in fact, as he very justly suspected, the envelopes contained the very telegrams which he had sent.
Shop after shop presented closed doors to him as he walked along the shore road beneath the jacaranda trees which had covered the sand with their purple blossoms. True: the establishment of Abdullah Ah Ko was open, that is, its door was open, but Abdullah Ah Ko himself was fast asleep in a chair set just far enough back out of the sun so that no one could enter without climbing right over him: and, anyway, industrious and estimable person that Abdullah Ah Ko was, his stock, ranging from black tobacco-leaf to plastic raincoats, contained nothing of any use in the way of building supplies.
One place of trade and commerce was open, wide open, anyway as wide open as its swinging doors allowed of: and that was The Fisherman Wharf, LICENSED TO SELL, etc., etc. Proprietor, and even now behind the bar of The Fisherman Wharf, was the justly-famous Lemuel Piggott, sole perpetuator of the grand tradition of the shandygaff. He acknowledged Jack’s entrance with a nod — the current volume of sound inside The Warf made this the most sensible method of communication — and reached down a tall, clean glass. From one cooler he got out a glistening black bottle of Tennant’s Milk Stout, from another he extracted a glistening green bottle of Excelsior Ginger Stout; he opened first one, then the other: then, with infinite dexterity, he poured them both simultaneously, one from each hand, into the one glass.
By this time Jack had bellied up to the bar. Piggott waited until the new customer had become the better by several gills of the lovely mixture before asking the traditional, “Hoew de day, mon?”
Limekiller had scarcely time to make the traditional reply of, “Bless God,” when the man at his right, addressing either nobody or everybody, continued — evidently — a discourse interupted by the last arrival’s arrival.
“An’ one day, me see some-teeng, mon, me see some-teeng hawreed. Me di see eet, mon. Me di see di bloody mon
“Hush up you mout’,” said Piggott.
But the other, a much older fellow, did not hear, perhaps, or did not care, perhaps. “Me di see di blood-dee mon. Me di see he, ah White-MON, ahl cot een pieces ahn ahl blood-dee. Wahn, two, t’ree, de pieces ahv heem dey ahl come togeddah. De mon stahn op befah me, mon. He stahn ahp befah me. Ahl bot wahn piece, mon. He no hahv wahn piece een he side, mon. He side gape, mon, gape w’open. Eet bleed, mon. Eet BLEED!”
And now other faces than the proprietor’s were turned to the narrator. “Hush up you mout, mon!” other voices said, gruff.
Brown man, glass of brown rum in his brown hand. Sweat on his face. Voice rising. “Ahn so me di know, mon. Me di know who eet ees, mon. Eet ees de blood-dee Cop-tain. Eet ees Cop-tain Blood!
Brown man spun around by another Brown man. Brown fist shaken in brown face. “Me say, ‘Hush you mouf, mon!’ Ah else, me gweyn mahsh eet shut fah you — you hyeah?” And a shove which spins the other almost off his balance, careening against the bar. But not spilling the drink. First man saying nothing. Shaking. Sweating.
Limekiller had seen the D.T.s before. Thank God, he had never had them yet. And did not plan to.
He suddenly became aware of a scientific fact: that no one who confined himself to shandygaff could possibly get the D.T.s. Calcium in the milk stout and essential oils in the ginger stout would prevent it. Probably prevent scurvy, too, as well as whidows, felons, proud flesh, catarrh, apoplexy, cachexy, and many another ailment of the eighteenth century.
Which seemed to be the century, at the latest, which he was now living in. Captain Blood, hey? Whoopee.
It was not yet time for the Port Caroline commercial establishment to resume its not-quite-incessant labors. It was time, therefore, for another shandygaff.
The place at his side was now taken up by someone else. Well, the bar was long, the bar was said to be made of rosewood and mahogany: and, if so, it must date from days when Port Caroline enjoyed more activity than Port Caroline did today and had done these forty (at least) years: before the Panama Disease destroyed the bananas and the banana trade. Before cutting without replanting had destroyed the timber trade. Before the building up of the sand bar at the mouth of the Caroline Creek put an end to the carrying- trade with the whole of the Great Central Valley. Before -
Ah well. Port Caroline Town was after all only one of the many places, all over the world, of which it could be said that it had a great future behind it.
Somebody was next to him at the bar. He felt, Limekiller felt, that the someone next to him at the bar was wanting to talk to him. He would have checked his new bar-neighbor out in the mirror, except that he was a facing a well-laid design several feet long by several feet tall of bottles, climbing the wedding-cake-like carven shelves. So, he could either snob it out by not turning to look, or he could risk the chance that the man next to him either did not really want to talk to him, or was maybe wanting to talk unpleasant talk to him: though this, to be sure, seldom happened: But the fact was: some people simply did not want to be looked at.