The Kip Brothers. Jules Verne

their ship, or whether they were preparing to trade in their pea jacket for the jacket of a gold digger. After all, they wouldn’t make the offer themselves, and what sort of greeting would they get at the proposal of embarking on the James Cook? You wouldn’t know until you had talked it over with them, and whetted their conversation with gin or whiskey, as they chose.

      “Hey there … fellow … have a drink …,” said Vin Mod, who directed the new arrival toward the table.

      “Two … if you don’t mind …,” answered the sailor, making a clack with his tongue.

      “Three … four … half a dozen … even a dozen, if your throat is dry.”

      Len Cannon, that was his name or the one he was using, sat down without further ado, as though to prove he could easily handle a dozen. Then realizing full well that they wouldn’t try to quench his thirst—or even admit such a possibility—just for the sake of his beautiful eyes and handsome ways, he asked:

      “What’s up? …” a voice hoarse from the abuse of hard liquor said.

      Vin Mod explained the situation: the brig James Cook ready to leave … good wages … sailing for several months … just simple trading from island to island … plenty of drink and good quality … a captain who depended on his bosun, Flig Balt here, for everything concerning the welfare of his crew, home port of Hobart-Town, all in all everything capable of seducing a sailor who likes a good time during his stopovers … and no papers to show the Naval Commissioner … They’d weigh anchor tomorrow at dawn, if the crew was full … and if a man had some friend in bad straits, looking to embark, just point him out if he happened to be here in the tavern of the Three Magpies.

      Len Cannon looked at Bosun Flig Balt and his companion, a frown on his face. What could a proposition like that entail? … What did it hide? … Anyway, as advantageous as it sounded, Len Cannon responded with only one word:

      “No.”

      “You’re making a mistake! …” said Vin Mod.

      “Possible … But can’t embark now …”

      “Why?”

      “Gettin’ married …”

      “You don’t say! …”

      “To Kate Verdax … a widow …”

      “Hey there,” Vin Mod retorted, slapping him on the shoulder, “if you ever marry, it won’t be to Kate Verdax, but to Kate Gibbet¹⁶ … the widow gallows!”

      Len Cannon set to laughing and emptied his glass with one gulp. Yet, despite the insistence of Bosun Balt, he stuck to his refusal, stood up and rejoined a noisy group exchanging violent provocations.

      “We’ll try somebody else,” said Vin Mod, not discouraged by this first failure.

      This time, leaving Bosun Balt, he went to sit at a table near another sailor¹⁷ in a corner of the room. No better a demeanor than Cannon, this fellow, and seemed less communicative, no doubt preferring to talk with the bottle, an interminable conversation which appeared to satisfy him.

      Vin Mod went right to the subject:

      “Can you tell me your name?”

      “My name? …” replied the sailor after a certain hesitation.

      “Yes …”

      “Well, what’s yours? …”

      “Vin Mod.”

      “And what’s that?”

      “Name of a sailor on the brig James Cook put in at Dunedin …”

      “And why does Vin Mod want to know my name? …”

      “Just in case I might sign you up on our new crew roster …”

      “Kyle … is my name …” answered the sailor, “but I’m holding out for a better job …”

      “If one comes up, my friend …”

      “Oh, one always comes up.”

      And Kyle turned his back on Vin Mod, who was no doubt a bit less confident at this second turndown. It was like a Stock Exchange, this tavern of Adam Fry’s, and demand exceeded supply by far, which left small chance of success.

      Indeed, with two customers haggling over the payment for their last pint with their last shilling, the result was just the same. Sexton, an Irishman, and Bryce, an American, would hoof it to America or Ireland rather than board ship, even if it were on the yacht of His Gracious Majesty or the best cruiser of the United States.

      A few attempts at hiring, even with the support of Adam Fry, did not succeed, and Vin Mod returned at a loss to the table of Flig Balt.

      “No dice? …” the latter asked.

      “Nothing doing, Bosun Balt.”

      “Aren’t there other taverns besides the Three Magpies around here? …”

      “There are some,” answered Vin Mod, “but if we can’t get recruits here, we won’t get them anywhere.”

      Flig Balt could not refrain from swearing, followed by a hard blow of his fist that shook both glasses and bottles. Was his plan doomed then? … Couldn’t he introduce four men of choice into the James Cook crew? … Would they be reduced to filling out the crew with worthy sailors who might side with Captain Gibson? … It is true that good ones were scarce, just like bad ones, and weeks would probably go by before the brig, short of men, would be able to put out to sea.

      However, there were other places to check. Taverns for sailors are not scarce in the neighborhood, and, as Vin Mod said, they outnumbered churches or banks. Flig Balt set about paying the tab for their drinks when a disturbance broke out at the other end of the room.

      The discussion between Sexton¹⁸ and Bryce about paying their tab took a turn for the worse. Both had no doubt drunk more than the state of their finances allowed. Now Adam Fry was not a man to give out credit, even for a matter of a few pence. They were out two shillings, and they would pay the two shillings or the policemen would intervene and take them to where they had been lodged more than once for blows, insults, and misdeeds of various sorts.

      The owner of the Three Magpies, forewarned by the waiter, was about to claim his due, which Sexton and Bryce could not have paid even if others had reached into the bottom of their pockets, which were as empty of money as the men were filled with whiskey and gin. Perhaps, on this occasion, the intervention of Vin Mod, money in hand, might be effective and perhaps the two sailors would accept a few dollars as advance payment on future wages? He tried it out and was promptly told to go to the devil. Torn between the desire to be paid and the annoyance of losing two customers if they were to embark the next day on the James Cook, Adam Fry did not even come to his assistance as he had hoped.

      When he saw that, Bosun Balt understood that they had to be done with it, and said to Vin Mod:

      “Let’s go …”

      “All right,” replied the latter. “It’s only nine o’clock. … Let’s go to the Old Brothers or to the Good Seaman … they’re just a few steps away and I’ll be hanged if we go back aboard ship without anything to show for it!”

      As can be seen, the word “hang,” as a comparative or metaphoric term, was often used in Vin Mod’s conversation, and perhaps he imagined that it was the natural end of one’s existence in this world!

      Meanwhile, from harsh demands, Adam Fry was now turning to threats. Sexton and Bryce would either pay or spend the night at the police station. The waiter even received the order to go fetch the police, who were not rare in that section of the port. Flig Balt and Vin Mod were getting ready to leave when three or four strapping fellows took a stand at the door, not so much to keep people in but to prevent others from entering.

      Obviously, these sailors were ready and able to defend their comrades. Things would soon