He tried to increase his efforts, but they were weaker. He seemed to be falling into a bottomless black roaring hole, and the throttling grip did not hurt any more—
Chapter VII.
When Prosper Nash's consciousness got its head above water, he was first surprised at being alive at all, and next curious as to what plane he was on.
When he pried sticky eyelids apart he saw that he was in the same old cell. And his neck was one vast ache.
"De Nêche?" said a voice over the hum in his ears.
"Here," answered another voice, not his. He tried to lift his head to see over the edge of his upper berth, but could not move his neck. He finally raised a hand and pushed his head a few inches to where he could see, just as a key clicked in the cell door lock.
A man was standing inside the door with his back to Nash, and in the light from the small barred window it was to be seen that he wore Nash's black velvet suit and floppy boots.
For one wild second Nash wondered if the other really were he, or if his psyche had changed bodies— But the hairy wrists that protruded from the sleeves were not his; they were those of the pirate. At that instant the door squeaked open and the pirate stepped out.
Nash tried to call out, but could not even whisper. Desperately he tumbled over the edge of the bunk; hit the floor painfully, and staggered to the door which had just closed.
He banged the bars. The keeper looked at him calmly, then away. He capered and pounded and forced a faint wheezy squeak out of his tortured larynx. He was aware by this time that he wore the pirate's clothes. The pirate gave him a brief uninterested glance, and Nash was startled to see that, in his garments, the pirate really looked quite a lot like him.
"Hey, George!" called the receding warden."See what's wrong with Roaring Stede."
As the other guard's steps approached, Nash performed a frantic gesture of which he would not have thought himself capable: bit his wrist until blood oozed, and wrote with his finger on the floor: "I AM NECHE."
The other guard frowned at this, then at Nash, then vanished. Nash heard words, then the pirate's bellow: "Don't you think I know whether I'm me?"
"Better check up on it." presently Nash found himself lined up beside the corsair.
The first guard shook his head."They do look kind of alike, but that one"—pointing to Nash—"is Stede Morgan Retke. I'd know him anywhere."
Nash went through more antics, pointing to his swollen throat. He managed to whisper: "Water!"
The guards were annoyed by this time, and fetched water in a manner that boded no good for the man who was proved a liar. After a swallow Nash could manage a faint croak: "Get Miss Berry!"
In ten minutes Eleanor Thompson Berry appeared. She immediately pointed out Stede Morgan Retke as the true de Nêche.
The pirate began to move off with a slight smug smile.
"Hat!" croaked Nash.
He had to repeat it. After another delay his wide-brimmed hat was brought. He clapped it on.
"Oh!" cried Eleanor Thompson Berry."He's the one! I could have sworn... stop that man!"
Doors clanged and keepers pounced on the fleeing pirate, who, after knocking a couple cold for the hell of it, surrendered tamely. As he passed Nash on his way back to the cell, he grinned: "Next time, Frenchy, I'll twist your obscenity head clear off to make sure you're dead!"
"Such language in front of a lady visitor!" shouted an outraged guard."Get along, scum, or we'll... we'll—"
"Hang me? I thought you were going to do that anyway!" Roaring Stede made a vulgar noise with his mouth and retired into his cell.
"I'm so sorry, Chevalier!" cried Miss Berry."I don't know how I could have made such a stupid mistake!"
"It's nothing, ma'm'selle."
"I owe you a lot—they greeted me like a long-lost sister. Look, Chevalier, why don't you join us? We need every able-bodied man we can get to put down the Aryans."
"Well—my draft board turned me down on account of—" Nash was about to say "my eyes" when he remembered what plane he inhabited.
"Yes?" said Eleanor Thompson Berry.
"Nothing, ma'm'selle. I was just thinking that I have an important job of my own to tend to first."
"But, Chevalier, nothing is more important than—"
"Excuse me, Miss Berry," interrupted a guard, "but he's got to change into his own clothes. If you don't mind—"
Judge O'Hara had a gray beard parted in the middle and brushed out sideways, and a pince-nez attached to his lapel by a black ribbon. These glasses were apparently carried for Justinian Marshal O'Hara to make gestures with, for he was never known to look through them.
As Nash and his escorts entered the courtroom, Judge O'Hara and a prisoner in exaggerated cowboy costume were eying one another with hostile determination. Nash recognized the lanky form of Arizona Bill Averoff.
The sergeant-at-arms whispered to one of Nash's guards: "The old man got impatient waiting for this guy, and took up this other hearing first."
The judge said: "I've gone over these figures three times, Averoff, and I can see nothing wrong with them. The duty is still twelve dollars and sixty-four cents. The Bar-Z can pay up, or I'll have to hold you for grand jury."
The cowboy replied: "If you think we're gonna pay live duty on dead critters, you... excuse me, your honor, but I have been over our figures thirty times."
"We're not asking for live duty on dead steers. I told you—"
"I know you did. But what's wrong with the way our man figured it?"
"I don't know; I'm not an accountant. You said yourself you couldn't see what was wrong with the Port Authority's calculations, and that's official, so I have to accept it. Now will you—"
"I'll go to jail foist, your honor."
"Very well, then. I'm sorry, Averoff... what's that? What do you want? You're in contempt—"
"Please," wheezed Nash, who had been snapping the fingers of his upraised hand."If it's an accounting matter, maybe I can help you."
"Who are you?"
"Chevalier de Nêche."
"The duelist? You expect me to believe that a man of your reputation can do bookkeeping? And where were you when your case came up half an hour ago?"
"There was an attempted escape, your honor," explained one of Nash's guards.
"Oh, you tried to escape, did you? Just for that—"
"No, no, your honor," expostulated the guard, and gave a brief account.
Nash added: "I really can account, judge. There aren't many who can in this world, are there?"
"Of course not," snapped the judge."Everybody knows that."
"I thought so. Not many people on the other plane imagine themselves as—but I really can."
"Not many people on—what?"
"Nothing, your honor; slip of the tongue. Give me a try."
Grumbling, the judge did. Nash took a look at the huge sheets of confused scribbles that passed for tariff calculations."Whew! May I have some clean paper?"
"The thing is," said Judge O'Hara, "that the Bar-Z Ranch of Lackawanna County, Pennsylvania, loaded twenty-nine steers on the lighter at Communipaw, and three of them died on the way over to New York. Now, Averoff, who is the New York agent for Bar-Z, wants to—"
"I'm jest claiming the credit we're allowed on account of them steers was for the army," interrupted Arizona Bill.
"But you're claiming it on the dead steers—"
"I am not, your honor—"
"Yes, you are!"
"Don't you call me no liar!"
"Don't you shout at me!"
"I ain't shouting!"
"YOU'RE IN CONTEMPT!"
"O. K., AND YOU'RE A RING-TAILED—"
"Just a minute," croaked Nash."You're both wrong. Look here. The Port Authority was trying to collect duty on the dead steers as if they were alive, but not allowing credit on them. While the Bar-Z—" He went through the figures quickly. Judge and prisoner subsided.