in this other world place as the vibrating jangle of a Jew's harp or a bit of latter day Jazz would have been.
The stranger turned, looked hardly in their direction, then pocketed the map. And "Linda," who had been watching them, whispered something in his ear.
After a phrase of warning to his guest, he lingered for a moment, occasionally uttering a sentence or two of apparent inconsequence. Then he paid the reckoning and entered the door of the main building of "The Café of Many Tongues."
"You're a beautiful fisherman," said Mac to Carlotta. "But I've got what I wanted. They're going to fit out a little expedition of their own, which, by the way, they'll never make."
Over the wall from the street came ribald conversation from two northern voices. The sulphurous exclamations were furnished by a third and very familiar pilgrim.
"Hell's Bells! but this is a blankety blank blank blankety sewer-hole! A regular cess-pool, says I. Blank blank me hide, if ever I ship under a kid without hair on his chest, a sky-pilot gambler with his sleeves full o' cards, and a high-kicking petticoat for Mate."
"It's the saw mouthed old divil," commented Carlotta. "What a bird of a stage-door keeper he'd make for the Old Boy!"
The three sailors rolled in through the gate from the street. Pushbutton Pete walked as if he had a full cargo, but fairly well-ballasted, shifting now and then so he listed a bit, but on the whole navigating very well. The scars on his face and forehead were flushed with heat and alcohol. The
