The Isle of Seven Moons/Chapter 4
CHAPTER IV
SHADOWS
Into Water Street, which runs along the harbour front, irregular alleys trickle, and at the corners of two of these, fronting the five-storied warehouses, is a coagulation of low-ceilinged, dark saloons, a patch upon the whiteness of Salthaven. Tom Grogan's, the most notorious, was, of course, officially closed for the seventh day of the week, but just before moonrise, three shadows seemed to detach themselves from the yard at the rear, and stole up the passageway, singlefile because of its narrowness.
"He said tonight," said the first, assuming form and voice.
"At eight bells at Ole Man Veldmann's," the second shadow, broad-shouldered and hulking like the first, and with the same pugilistic crouch. Then he grumbled,—"Vat the tinhorn tank? He always keep us vaitin'."
"Ease off, Swedie, he's no — — uv a tinhorn," admonished the third, a little weazened figure of a man, "an' don't ye go monkeyin' with him. Yuh'd better try practisin' on a buzz saw fust."
They turned as a footfall sounded on the rough cobbles.
"It's him, all right."
The fourth shadow rounded the corner, taller than the other three, more cosmopolitan in carriage. The voice, too, though it gave the few low directions with a roughness and menace, assumed for the sake of command, was smoother and ice-cold. Even his silhouette seemed more crisply cut.
"Will Huntington show up?" he asked.
"Couldn't keep him away," the first responded, "he's spilin' to win back some u' that wad he lost the other night."
"Well, start things when I give the signal—just throw a scare into him, but don't beat him up." Then, as in the teeth of the wind that blew up the alley, he lighted his cigarette with a deftness that somehow seemed consonant with the crispness of his voice, of his very silhouette, and symbolic of skill in many things, he added,—"Use your usual discretion. Pete."
"All right, cap, we're on."
He left, and a little later, the trio lounged out of the alley, and sauntered towards the beach.