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Probably that wouldn't be possible, and you'd be sewed up in canvas, and resemble an exclamation point, and be dropped overboard to punctuate the end of the story. Chunk! you goes, and that's the end of you. Ship's fever is a nautical brand of typhoid, due to bad conditions aboard. The best thing for it is to get out of those conditions. Craney had the scurvy, and I had ship's fever.
"I never saw any ghost," said he, and Craney had to give it up, and report his failure to the commanding officer. "Ever try threatening him with discharge?" asked Bucketts, by way of being helpful. "Ever try? I don't have to try! The one time I started in on that lay he never let me finish; said all right, he'd go just as soon as he'd balanced the books.
Craney went with him to the private desk in the inner office, whence in five minutes out he came, buoyant as before, declined to sit in again, laughingly said he'd take his revenge on the back trip later, called for a night-cap all round, bade everybody in the room a cordial good-night and good-by, and left with Strong at his heels.
"By gad!" said Craney, "he may not play like a sport, but he pays like one, and a game one," and he locked a roll of treasury notes in his safe. Then he and Watts and the disappointed deputy doctor went off to bed, leaving "barkeep" to close up when the few loungers quit paying for drinks, and only in the common room was there further stir about the store.
And of such was Harris's leave taking, cool as his contribution to that happy rival's comfort, he thought, as he rode drearily away to the ford, with but a wave of the hand in response to the shout of Craney and Watts at the shack, while "Barkeep" and a few hangers-on stood gazing from under the canvas shade at the store, and Case, the silent bookkeeper, bent over his desk by the east window the desk wherein still reposed that big calibre 44, with every chamber loaded and the handle more coated with dust.
As an arguer on the Hebe Maitland his style was airy and gorgeous, contrary to the style of Stevey Todd, who was a cautious arguer, and gingerly. Craney was about forty years old at the time of the Hebe Maitland's loss, and Sadler about the same. There were four of us then, left at Colon, after Craney and Abe had gone. Pretty soon we were badly off.
Further Additions to Roll of Honor As the Holy Year expires I am overjoyed to announce to the assembled believers no less than thirteen additions to the Roll of Honor since transmission of the last message to the Conference a week ago: Clair Gung, Southern Rhodesia; Ursula von Brunn, Frisian Islands; Richard Nolen and family, Azores; Katherine Meyer, Margarita Island; Geraldine Craney, Hebrides; Fawzi Zeinolabedin and family, Spanish Morocco; Manouchihr Hezari, Morocco, International Zone; Earle Render, Leeward Islands; Ted Cardell, Southwest Africa; William Danjon, Andorra; Fred and Jean Allen, Cape Breton Island; Frederick and Elizabeth Laws, Basutoland; Amín Batt, Rió de Oro.
The prospector's cash was gone. The hitherto modest, retiring, silent man of the desk and ledgers had won heavily from the officer, yet only a trifle from his employers, and Craney suggested a recess until night. "Then we'll meet again and settle," said Willett, half extending his hand.
He took out a cigarette, and explained there had been a complaint lodged with the authorities against the keeper, that he'd been drawing illicit gains from the peasantry. In fact, Padre Filippo had complained. The Padre laughed again. "Why," says Craney, "I know something about that." "Truly, I think so!" chuckles the Padre.
On the other hand, if I'd had the money in Colon I might have gone back to the Windwards and to the triangle of three trees, with Sadler, Irish, and Stevey Todd, and so back to Greenough and Madge Pemberton, and been a hotel-keeper maybe, which is a good trade in Greenough. Craney was ambitious and enterprising.
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