"To Be Sold This Day on the Block at Saint John's," he had read; and below it, in bold face, a catalogue of wares, neatly ranged:
1 Mulatto Cook-Boy, thomas, 30 years old, warranted sound.
2 Field Hands, james & ezra, from Bankrupt Plantation at the Barbadoes.
1 boy, Martiniquan, speaks only French, aged, no warranty.
1 House Maid, savannah. A Fine Clean Girl. Together with two female children (one 4 years, well-grown, one at breast).
Also jasper, a runaway.
Entranced, appalled, the Professor sat down on a mouldering wooden capstan, and stared seawards, his eyes moist with the easy tears of old age. Then he took out his notebook, and, after a moment, began soberly to write.
"Hell, is this all?" asked Louis. They had been walking for ten minutes, peering into dark corners, reading labels which were nothing but labels. He did not like the Alcestis people who greeted them or pointedly ignored them, who darted here and there with cries of discovery; the whole thing was just a tourist trap, not even a good one. The sight of the Professor sitting on a hunk of wood, writing in his notebook, made him angrier still. It was time someone in this outfit went to work. ... He kicked at a baulk of timber lying half overgrown by weeds. "Why don't they label this one?" he asked sarcastically. " 'Piece of wood.' How about that?"
"Don't you like it here?" asked Mrs. Stewart-Bates.
"There's nothing to like," answered Louis. "Have you ever seen such a crummy set-up? Jesus, even Plymouth Rock is better organized!"
"But it's historical," said Mrs. Stewart-Bates. She looked round the derelict dockyard, which the bright sun made shabbier still. "It's so English, don't you think?"
"Yeah. Maybe that's the trouble. Who was this Nelson, anyway?"
She smiled. She could always tell when he was joking. "Now, Louis! He was like our John Paul Jones. You know that perfectly well."
"I saw the picture," said Louis. "Robert Stack. Boy, that was a lemon!" He turned towards her, suddenly changing levels. "Let's get out of here, Grace."
He did not often use her Christian name; it was still a novelty, still a major happiness.
"Do you think we could?" she asked doubtfully.
"Why not? We've got the cab waiting, haven't we? There's nothing for us here."
"But we were going to that club place, the Millreef."
"Oh, screw the Millreef!" His occasional crudity was something else which he knew she enjoyed. "Look, I've got a headache. This sun is murder. Let's go back, huh?"
"Oh, you poor boy." She was readily sympathetic. "Of course we'll go back, if you're not feeling well."
"We can have dinner on board, instead. Just you and me. Wouldn't you like that?"
"You know I'd love it."
"What are we waiting for?"
They found their driver, sprawling with a dozen others in the shade of the museum. He was slow getting to his feet, slower still at opening the door of the rickety cab. "You go back?" he asked. He spoke so that the other drivers could hear.
"Yeah," said Louis. "But take it easy. There's no rush."
"Back to St. John's?"
"Where else, for God's sake?"
"Yes, sir!"
Behind their backs, one of the other drivers repeated "Yes, sir," in a high-pitched voice, and there was a chorus of contented giggling from the rest of them.
The return journey was a replica of the out-going one; hot, dusty, and featureless. They sat back, staring out on either side, not talking to each other; when she inquired about his headache, he said: "It's O.K. Skip it!" in a voice which forbade further conversation. But presently there came a variation which woke both of them from their divided thoughts.
They were nearing St. John's, climbing one of the last hills between the lolling cane-stalks, when the driver turned his head very slightly, and spoke just above the whine of the engine.
"English Harbour to St. John's," he said, on a conversational note. "Fifteen dollars. Ten dollars American."
Louis had been preoccupied, thinking and planning ahead; it was Mrs. Stewart-Bates who reacted first.
"What was that you said?" she asked. "Were you speaking to us?"
"I was speaking," said the driver. "I say, ten dollars American, back to St. John's."
"I don't understand," she said. "Louis—"
But Louis was now fully awake. "What the hell!" he said forcefully. "I paid you the fare already. You know that, damn' well!"
The driver nodded twice, as if agreeing to a proposition in pure Socratic argument. "Yes, sir. You pay for journey to English Harbour. This is journey back."
"Well, God damn it!" said Louis. He was prepared to be furious. It was a perfect squeeze, almost a legitimate squeeze; he should have thought of it himself, at the beginning. "You know damn' well that when you quote a price for a trip like this, that means the round trip, there and back."
"No, sir," said the driver. "Not the custom here. We make agreement, ten dollars for trip to English Harbour. You pay me."
"But surely—" began Mrs. Stewart-Bates.
"Now we go back," said the driver. He seemed to be bouncing the words to them off the windscreen, negligently skilful, sure that they would arrive, rather than addressing them directly. "This is new journey, English Harbour back to St. John's. Fifteen dollars British West Indian currency. Ten dollars American."
"We won't pay," said Louis furiously. "Not a damn' cent!"
They felt the taxi slowing down. "What you say?" asked the driver.
"You heard me."
The taxi braked to a halt. A small cloud of yellow dust drifted past them on the following wind. The smell of sugar-cane, mixed with burnt grass, was overpowering. As they lost way, the sun immediately gained in strength, forcing a torrid heat within the car.
"We wait here for police," said the driver.
"Christ, what a racket!" Louis exploded.
"They did warn us about it," said Mrs. Stewart-Bates. "Don't you think—"
"I'll see him in hell first!"
A silence fell, and continued; the heat began to be intolerable. Louis thought swiftly, brushing the sweat from his neck. He did not want delay; the thing was flowing his way, and must not be interrupted. A squeeze was a squeeze, but it was her money, anyway. Or rather, it was going to be her money, as soon as they got back to the Alcestis. He made his decision, curbing a violent impulse to pick up something—anything, a stone, a tyre-lever—and smash in the back of that hated head. If this had been Central Park, on a dark night. . . .
"O.K.," he said. "But I'll report you. Don't think I won't!"
"Yes, sir," said the driver. "You pay? Lady pay?"
Louis reached for his wallet. "Cut that out," he said roughly. "I'll pay." He counted out ten dollars; it was all he had left. Then he was reminded of something which had struck him earlier, something which had not seemed worth the trouble of raising. "Wait a minute. You're too damned smart. Didn't you say fifteen dollars local money?"
The driver nodded again. "Fifteen bee-wees. That's how we say it here, for B.W.I. money. Or ten American."
"It's not ten American," said Louis angrily. "It's nine American."
The driver turned round. It was a surprise to see his face, after watching the back of that inscrutable neck for so long. It was more surprising still to see that he was now smiling, as if some extra dividend of pleasure had just been awarded him.
"I say, fifteen dollars, British West Indian currency," he explained, with obvious pleasure."You say, ten dollars American." He produced a very fair approximation of Louis's accent. "Remember you say, 'Hell, that's ten bucks'?You say it, I don't say it." His voice was triumphant. "So you pay me ten bucks. You want to pay fifteen dollars now, fifteen bee-wees?"