The S.S. Glory

Somebody was playing a mouth-organ in the midst of a group of "hard cases" that waited on a certain wharf at Montreal. You who arrive there in spick and span passenger steamers can pick out the place from the promenade decks as you come alongside, for on the shed roofs is painted, with waterproof paint, "The Saint Lawrence Shipping and Transport Co., Ltd."

At the gable of these sheds the Hard Cases waited, alert for anybody of importance coming from citywards. But they did not forget that the important person might be already in the sheds. Therefore, as they strolled a step or two forth and back, or double-shuffled in response to the mouth organ, they cast glances now and then into the shed, between the lattice-work of a barrier at its end, a barrier that continued the slope of the roof to the wharf-side and about a foot beyond. A determined man could have clambered round it at the projecting part, or over it for that matter--although it looked fragile at the top as well as showing many prominent nails. But no one did clamber over it, or round it even. In America there is a sneaking regard for the man who climbs over, or crawls round, barricades; but it was hardly likely that any of the Hard Cases, who waited for a job outside the barrier, would have obtained that job at the end of such gymnastics. These men were not hoboes, tramps, sundowners, beachcombers, though there was not a handkerchief-full of luggage in the crowd. They were cattlemen, who lead a life more hard and uncertain than that of sparrows, crossing and recrossing the great, grey Atlantic, with Liverpool for their British port; and, for their American ports, Montreal, Halifax, Boston.

"Well, what's this?" said one of them, Big Mike.

The "Push" glanced at "this"--a lean man, brown as an Indian, wearing a broad-brimmed hat that set him apart from the "Push," which wore, chiefly, scooped sailor-caps, and, secondly, dilapidated Trilbys. True, the latter were of felt, but only in regard to material were they like this hat that hove in sight on the newcomer's head.

"What's he?" asked Jack, a slender and finely-built young man with a face handsome and devil-may-care and cunning, a face oddly aristocratic though leathery, and bearing signs that ablution was not a daily matter in his life any more than in the lives of the others.

"It's one of them cow-boys," said Mike. "One of them fellers that comes from beyant, in the cars with the cattle, and takes a thrip over sometimes to see what its loike in our counthry."

"I suppose 'e'll go fer nuthin'," said Cockney. "Do one of hus out of a job."

"Well, ye needn't be supposing till ye hear," answered Mike. "I never seen wan of them do that yet."

The newcomer approached more closely and looked at the crowd, one of whose members, an inquisitive youth, caught his eye and daringly proffered assistance.

"You goin' on this ship?" he asked.

"I hope so. I've just come down to see how the chances are."

The "Push" that had been listening mostly in quarter and three-quarter face, wheeled about, and all their "dials," as they would have expressed it, confronted him.

"'Ow much you goin' to hask?" said Cockney.

"What do they usually give?"

"Oh, I don't know," several replied.

Jack extracted himself from the "Push" to spit over the wharf-side, and then turned back again.

"Thirty shillings," he said.

"Is that what you get?" asked the Inquisitive One.

Canted back, hands in pockets, Jack leered at him.

"You hask thirty shillings then," said Cockney.

Big Mike pushed through.

"What are ye all talking about?" he said. "I tell ye what it is, now," he went on, turning to the stranger. "There's some of these fellers go over for tin shillin's; the most of them don't get more'n a pound, and when it's getting cold here you'll find 'em runnin' round and saying, 'I'll go for fifteen shillin's, mister.' But if ye came down from beyant in the cars yourself ye're all right. You fellers that come down from The Great Plains goes on with your own cattle on the ships if ye want."

Some of the lesser lights in the "Push" snarled.

"Want more than ten shillings," said the subject of their discussion. "Ten shillings for across the Atlantic! Good Lord!"

"There now! What was I tellin' ye?" asked Mike of Cockney.

"What does he want comin' round?" said a man with eyes in which madness showed.

"Did ye come down on the cars?" asked Mike again.

"No--I didn't come down with cattle. I can't tell them that so as to get on."

"There you are then!" cried he of the mad eyes, and walked away.

Mike looked frowningly at the young man.

"Well, young feller," he said, "you've no cause for worry. It doesn't matter whether ye came down in the cattle cars or not. That hat of yours will get ye the first chance."

Some of them laughed, and he turned and looked scathingly at them, but did not deign to explain that he was serious. Cockney, who had understood the significance of Mike's words, if he did not now come over exactly as ally to the newcomer, at least withdrew from his position as a possible enemy.

"That's right!" he declared. "That's the kind of 'at the fellers wear up there w'ere the cattle comes from. You hask thirty shillings. You know about cattle any'ow wiv that 'at. They'll bring yer down to a quid. Well, that's all right, ain't it? Good luck."

The others seemed to see the justice of this. Mike hitched his belt and regained his position as Bull of that herd by saying: "Pay no attintion to thim----"

"To me?" yelled Cockney, breaking in.

"That's all right, that's all right," said Mike soothingly to him. "You're all right. See, young feller,"--to the man with the Stetson hat--"you come over here beside me and I'll tell you when there's a chance."

The young fellow came toward him.

"Good luck!" said Cockney.

"What I get," added Mike, "is none of their business."

"Well," said the young fellow, "ten bob to 'tend cattle across the Atlantic seems pretty poor. I'll ask thirty."