The Voice in the Fog | Page 9

mother's family
name and grandmother's family name and great-grandmother's, with the
immediate paternal cognomen as a period. Thomas' full name was a
rosary, if you like, of yeomen, of soldiers, of farmers, of artists, of
gentle bloods, of dreamers. The latest transfusion of blood is always
most powerful in effect upon the receiver; and as Thomas' father had
died in penury for the sake of an idea, it was in order that the son
should be something of a dreamer too. Poetry is but an expression of
life seen through dreams.
His father had been a scholar, risen from the people; his mother had
been gentle. From his seventh year the boy had faced life alone. He had
never gone with the stream but had always found lodgment in the
backwaters. There is no employment quieter, peacefuller than that of a

clerk in a haberdashery. From Mondays till Saturdays, calm; a perfect
environment for a poet. You would be surprised to learn of the vast
army of poets and novelists and dramatists who dispense four-in-hands,
collars, buttons and hosiery six days in the week and who go
a-picnicking on the seventh, provided it does not rain.
Thomas had an idea. It was not a reflection of his lamented father's; it
was wholly his own. He wanted to be loved. His father's idea had been
to love; thus, humanity had laughed him into the grave. So it will be
seen that Thomas' idea was the more sensible of the two.
The voyage was uneventful. Blue day followed blue day. When at
length the great port of New York loomed in the distance, Thomas felt
a thrilling in his spine. Perhaps yonder he might make his fortune; no
matter what else he did, that remained to be accomplished, for he was a
fortune-hunter, of the ancient type; that is, he expected to work for it.
Shore leave would be his, and if during that time he found nothing,
why, he was determined to finish the summer as a steward; and by fall
he would have enough in wages and tips to give him a start in life. At
present he could jingle but seven-and-six in his pocket; and jingle it
frequently he did, to assure himself that it was not wearing away.
An important tug came bustling alongside. By the yellow flag he knew
that it carried the quarantine officials, inspectors, and a few privileged
citizens. Among others who came aboard Thomas noted a sturdy
thick-chested man in a derby hat--bowler, Thomas called it. Quietly
this man sought the captain and handed him what looked to Thomas
like a cablegram. The captain read it and shook his head. Thomas
overheard a little of their conversation.
"You're welcome to look about, Mr. Haggerty; but I don't think you'll
find the person you seek."
"If you don't mind, I'll take a prowl. Special case, Captain. Mr.
Killigrew thought perhaps I'd see a face I knew."
"Valuable?"

"Fine sapphires. A chance that they may come int' this port. They
haven't yet."
"Your customs inspectors ought to be able to help you," observed the
captain, hiding a smile. "Nothing but motes can slip through their
fingers."
"Sometimes they're tripped up," replied Haggerty. "A case like this is
due t' slip through. I'll take a look."
Thomas heard no more. A detective. Unobserved, he went down to his
stuffy cabin, took off the chamois bag and locked it in his trunk. So
long as it remained on board, it was in British territory.
The following day he went into the great city of man-made cliffs. He
walked miles and miles. Naturally he sought the haberdashers along
Broadway. No employment was offered him: for the reason that he
failed to state his accomplishments. But he was in nowise discouraged.
He would go back to Liverpool. The ship would sail with full cabin
strength, and this trip there would be tips, three sovereigns at least, and
maybe more, if his charges happened to be generous.
He tied the chamois bag round his neck again, and turned in. He was
terribly tired and footsore. He slept fitfully. At half after nine he sat up,
fully awake. His cabin-mate (whom he rather disliked) was not in his
bunk. Indeed, the bunk had not been touched. Suddenly Thomas' hand
flew to his breast. The chamois bag was gone!
CHAPTER IV
Iambic and hexameter, farewell! In that moment the poet died in
Thomas; I mean, the poet who had to dig his expressions of life out of
ink-pots. Things boil up quickly and unexpectedly in the soul;
century-old impulses, undreamed of by the inheritor; and when these
bubble and spill over the kettle's lip, watch out. There is an island in the
South Seas where small mud-geysers burst forth under the pressure of
the foot.