Chapter V.

The “Outward Bound” (the Clydebank Brewery Co.'s Entire) stands today where it did seventy-nine years ago, in that part of Glasgow that lies between Broomilaw and the Queen's Dock. The fact is hard to reconcile with modern local topography, for the records show that in those days it was a waterfront tavern. The street that leads to it turns aside bravely enough from a roaring thoroughfare of trams and motor buses and brightly-lit shops, but after struggling for a few hundred yards between sooty and dilapidated dwellings, loses heart and dies in a courtyard, the other end of which is guarded by three iron posts. Should you venture further beyond the posts, a narrow passage will take you along the flank of a warehouse—a vast echoing structure redolent of green hides—to another thoroughfare filled with the rumble of drays and lorries and many strange smells. The funnels and masts of ships tower above slate roofs and there are glimpses of the river glinting dully beneath a leaden sky.

In the year 1857 the water ebbed and flowed freely across the mud flats on which this last thoroughfare has since been built, and the courtyard which was then known as Denny's Tidal Basin, a secluded and by comparison, almost pleasant spot, was overlooked by the coffee room of the “Outward Bound.” It was in this coffee room on a fine afternoon in October, that Captain Charles Barcle, of the full rigged ship “Druimuachdar” sat and sipped at a glass of sherry while he gloomily surveyed the man who sat opposite him; a jolly, robustlooking man of that old-fashioned merchant type who, perhaps because they lived in close contact with the captains of their ships, seemed to carry about with them a decided salty flavour.

“Well, there it is, captain,” this man was saying. “There's the ship, and there's the cargo.” He waved an arm towards the window which was on a level with the mainyard of the “Druimuachdar” as she rode at high water against the breastwork of the tidal basin, “and the money's as good as in the bank.”

“Maybe so,” the captain replied bluntly, “but I'd feel a sight happier if it really were in the bank instead of in the pockets of this fellow McWhin.”

“Oh, McWhin's all right,” the merchant laughed easily.

“Aye—at a price.”

“What do you mean?”

Captain Barcle did not immediately reply, but rose and stood gazing out of the window. A tackle had been rigged above the “Druimuachdar's” main hatch. Crates of merchandise, machinery, and ironware for the most part, were being hoisted aboard by a hand winch, the musical clinking of which was the only sound that for some minutes disturbed the silence of the coffee room.

“D'ye see those boxes down there by the mizzen chain-plates?” the captain demanded at length.

The other rose and came to his side.

“The ones with a name painted on them? What about them?”

“Lenzie is the name painted on them,” Captain Barcle replied. “Lenzie, Wellington, New Zealand.’

“Doesn't convey anything to me.”

“No—it wouldn't—you're a Liverpool man. Well, Lenzie is my brother-inlaw, and he comes of an old family that has lived for over three hundred years at a place called Glenmayne Priory down there in Renfrew. He and his wife are leaving this country for good, because his father borrowed money, just like you're proposing to do from this same McWhin.”

“D'ye mean that McWhin sold him up?”

The captain nodded. “Took everything he had; house, lands, livelihood, everything except the few old books and pictures and a bit of plate and so on that's packed up in those boxes.” He paused a moment, then, “they say McWhin will make a pot of money out of it too; he is going to cut the estate up into factory and building sites.”

The merchant frowned. “Couldn't Lenzie have done that and bought him off?”

“Seems not—McWhin had secured all the titles and foreclosed; but even if Lenzie had been able to clear the debt in some other way he would never have cut up the estate, he's a stiff-necked devil. Why,” he added, “he could set himself up now right enough if he would only agree to part with some old jewels—a cool seven thousand he was offered for 'em by a dealer—but they're family heirlooms, given to the first laird of Glenmayne by Mary Stuart; the Queen's Jewels they call 'em, and he won't trade.”

“D'ye mean to say he's taking #7,000 worth of jewels with him in your ship?” ejaculated the merchant—“he must be crazy!”

“They'll be safe enough once they're on board,” the captain retorted stiffly, page 43 “but I don't know about when he gets to the other end, there are some pretty tough characters knocking. he paused and then spun sharply upon his heel. Standing immediately behind them was the lanky, one-eyed and generally ill-favoured individual, who, at the moment when he tied a green baize apron round himself, acted as boots, pot-boy, and coffee room waiter to the “Outward Bound” Tavern.

“Now,” demanded the captain, shooting out a hand to grasp the slack of his waistcoast, “perhaps you'll be good enough to tell us what you're doing here?”

The potman sighed—“Naethin’ at a’ —I'm juist aboot ma duty,” and he made a movement towards the empty glasses on the table.

Captain Barcle released him with a grunt of disgust. “Pon my soul,” he growled, “I don't know what the country's coming to when a man can't discuss a simple matter of interest without having a gallows-bird like that poking its nose into it. That's the way it is nowadays though,” he continued sadly, after the waiter had taken himself off, “the old order's changing—no solidity, no respect, Jack's as good as his master; d'ye know what I put it down to?”

“I can guess,” the merchant replied, laughing, “steamships?”

“Humph!—well, you've heard my opinions on the subject before—but it's true all the same. I tell you there wont be any sailors left soon, they'll all be blacksmiths and tinkers, and very handsome they'll look bucking a full gale o’ wind on a lee shore and trying to solder up their rotten boilers!”

“Still, you must admit that steam has its uses.”

“On land perhaps, but not at sea; haven't I spent the last two days trying to find a man to replace Alec Thomson?”

“Your first mate—what's happened to him, you didn't tell me?” The merchant was serious again.

“No? Well I was coming to it, only your proposal to make a deal with McWhin took me all aback. Alec was away to Maryhill to see his mother, and while he was standing on the platform waiting for the train to bring him back, a train comes from the other direction, and what must some numbskull do but open the door of his carriage before it stops. That door took Alec abaft the beam as you might say, and stretched him out on the platform with three ribs stove and a broken arm—so there's no chance of him sailing on Wednesday.”

“Tch—that's bad,” the merchant replied. “I'm sorry captain, I really am —have you got another man?”

“Aye, there's a fellow called Holloway—a Londoner—not the type of man I'd choose if I had time. He's been in American ships, and I expect I'll have to tone him down a bit. However, as I said, sailors are getting scarce, and if a man is pressed for time, well—he has just got to take what he can get.”