Read Online Reckoning of Boston Jim by Claire Mulligan - Free Book Online

dollars each, then wrestle money from pockets.
    The German volunteers to search for the captain. “Stupendous! Marvellous!” he says as he ambles off.
    â€œAnd you, sir? What of you?” Eugene asks the sad-faced man who has just entered. “Shall we call your mine The-Close-at-Hand?” The man scowls, makes a rude gesture at which Eugene only laughs. Poor bastard. Apparently he had thought he would be let off directly at the mines. Did not realize there was a five hundred mile march before him. “Quite so, but one should be better informed. One should be better prepared,” Eugene says this quietly, so as not to be heard, not a difficult feat as words, unless loudly spoken, are being swept up in the general din of the festive.
    The German returns with a man whose uncovered head shows a scalp afflicted with a rash. “The Captain not come. But Mr. Fere, he is the purser, he’ll make it for a dollar, to take out the winnings.”
    The others agree and then the ludicrous foul-mouthed American shouts: “The Jessica Bell!”
    Eugene stays with his original choice—The Croesus Cache. The Welsh brothers come up with Hawddamor. A Frenchman calls out Marseille. A Spaniard, Santa Maria. The German begs off, saying something about boots. He settles back with a cough and watches the proceedings with a lively interest, as if he had been the one to think of the contest entirely.
    The purser stares at them sourly. Eugene knows he has lost already. He decided on The Croesus Cache in the assumption that the captain, teeth-picking aside, would have some education. But how would this grey-faced drone know of an ancient king said to have incalculable wealth? Ah, well, he’ll know less of some backwater French city trod on by history and happenstance. And he does not seem a religious man either, given the cursing Eugene heard from him earlier. The Spaniard is out, then. And by the way he stared at the Welsh brothers, Eugene doubts he has time for the delightful, mysterious rhythms of languages not his own.
    â€œThe Jessica Bell. I’ll be picking that one. Women’s what we’re needing ’round here. Not more men with their heads stuck in the clouds.”
    â€œI knew it,” Eugene says. “To women. The lovely devils. Congratulations Mr. . . . Mr.?”
    â€œOswald. Ain’t Mr. Nothing. Oswald is god-blamed all.”
    â€œAh, then congratulations, Oswald.” Eugene raises his glass. The American takes little note of this sportsmanship. Instead he scoops up his winnings, nearly forgetting to give the dollar to the purser who is standing by with one long hand open.
    â€œA song now, friends!” Eugene shouts.
    Faintly as tolls the ev’ng chimes
    Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time
    Soon as the woods on shore look dim,
    We’ll sing at ta da, ta da, Ah, hell
    Row, brothers, row, the streams runs fast
    The rapids are near, and the daylight’s gone, no,
    past, the daylight’s past.
    He sings the lyrics more or less on his own, though the others heartily join in the chorus. The German grabs one of the Welsh brothers and leads him in a dance. The Welshman grimly follows his steps. Puffs of soot rise under their boots. Les Canadiens thump their glasses, then join in the dancing. Oswald pulls out a mouth harp and plays, to Eugene’s surprise, not badly at all.
    There are more songs, more drinks, more dancing. The saloon floor shudders, rocks. Eugene learns a Scottish jig, a Canadian reel. The German is his partner now. The man insists on leading, treads heavily on Eugene’s boots, smells of camphor and mint. Eugene begs off and grabs a jug that is being passed about. His glass. Damn. Where? Ah, well. He tilts the jug back, looks full into a lamp that sways as if in gentle disapproval. This night is nearly as splendid as that soiree aboard the SS Grappler . As usual, Dora cared little for propriety, nor did she notice the