Limekiller!

It might have been any of these, it might have been all of these, it suddenly occurred to Limekiller that neither Bathsheba nor any of her lady friends had ever really shown the slightest actual interest in keeping appointments by clocks, or in other quanta of time, and also it suddenly occurred to him that the switch-over could not have been for purely professional reasons, for lance-corporals in the British Army earned barely enough for buy beef, let alone for pickles, too: therefore her reason might well have been none of these: her lovely little head had very little in it, lovely or otherwise; her arrival with her soldier in the Pelican Bar at nearly the stroke of ten (and ten would be about the lance- corporal’s quota, Limekiller thought, bitter, jealous) was, then, purely a coincidence and she had simply forgotten not only all about her appointment with Limekiller but all about Limekiller himself —

— and this, the likeliest of reasons, hurt more, far more than all the others, Love me little, not for long, ’ is the burden of my song.

Where the hell was he. now?

The display of well-worn Japanese lanterns told him soon: alongside of the River View Hotel; in he went, it was not yet eleven, let alone mudnight: there sat Mrs. and Dr. Duckerson, looking comfy and content and sipping at straws in tall glasses jammed with ice and fruit and something (maybe) not approved by the Palmer College of Chiropractic. They greeted him with placid chirps.

“Ready to start tomorrow morning, early?” he fired his starboard gun.

Doctor considered, Mrs. Doctor had perhaps already considered. “ Well, Muster Limekuller, I am so glad that chore other business is all taken care of and that we kin finely git started on our luttle trap, but now wiiat I think, I think that tomorrow morning, early, is jist a luttle too soon, what do you think, Daddy?”

“Think so, too,” thought Daddy. Added that he would Tell Him What: “Split the difference. Commence the charter as of when the sun is at high meridian tamorra (nuther words: noon) and leave day after tamorra, early. Give us time to get ready, give you time to get ready. Kay?“

“And meanwhile sut down and join us in one of these putcheresque native drinks,” invited Mrs.

But Jack was in no mood for such liquid even if slightly alcoholic fruit salads, which no native would willingly have drunk, anyway. He had become more rational very rapidly, made polite rational thanks and polite rational excuses, accepted the revised rational time-table. And left.

The Bucket of Blood held at least equal dishonors as Worst Dive in Town, the Poor Man Port had its own vigorous advocates, the Bucket of Blood was nearer. It was reached via a boggy yard; “If me customer gweyn fahl, time he leave,” said Bitty Billy Blood, the licensee, “I want he fahl sahft, live come bock ah nudder day.” “Stone dead hath no fellow,” was Our Mr. Limekiller’s comment. “Fah true, Johnny,” was the reply.

Usually The Bucket was lit by a gruesomely ghastly bluery- greenery-flickerv fluorescenty tube, much admired by locals. Tonight, however, this damnable engine, to Jack’s expressible relief, had already flickered its last deathlight flicker, had joined Stone Dead, and, the tube having no fellow, The Bucket was lit by and only by three small thin candles. It looked, smelled, and sounded just like the middle of the 18th century — exactly, felt J.L.L., the right century for his present mood:

“A curse upon the Spanish Dons,” he announced, just to firm the matter. “God save the King Across the Water,” he added. ‘“The woman’s a whore, and there’s an end on’t,”’ he quoted. “A chaparita of your incomparable cattle piss, Billy Blood,” he ordered; “and spare the ice as not being natural and the water as conducive to fluxes and phlegms; goddamn bitch whore tramp trull trolloppe drab slut,” he shut his mouth and opened it again only to allow the passage of the trash rum; it resisted slightly.

“Mon,” said Bitty Bill, raking the shillings, “soun’ to me, you hahve mahcoby tonight.”

“Any mahn hahve woman, hahve mahcoby,” said a bystander. by-drinker, rather; and evidently an experienced lay-analyst. Mahcoby: rich, evocative, poignant Bayfolk word: untranslatable to Standard English save by many, many words: hell with that.

“Any cure for it?” asked Limekiller, with a slight gasp: The Bucket’s rum was rough, and Bitty Billy Blood did not even dilute it to the full measure by law allowed.

“Yes,” said Bitty Bill, firmly. “Drink shitty canal wahtah.”

Limekiller pondered this alleged remedy and all its implications for a moment or so.

Then he went back to the rum.

Jumble beans.