No Good Deed 44

My mood was set no fairer than the weather. It seemed that it might rain, but that would have made little difference to the drab quality of the light. The Enterprise itself seemed affected by the turgidity of the conditions, I estimated that it was labouring to travel above one-and-a-half knots - and that downstream. Any thoughts of calculating the number of days until disembarkation in New Orleans were discouraged by this. My perambulations of the vessel took no longer than twenty minutes: this despite the throngs of passengers in the thoroughfares, which, by dint of by the sprawl of ill-matched superstructure covering almost the whole of the main deck, were strait indeed.

Finding myself once more at the door of the long saloon, I was on the point of entering when the strangely dressed crook-back cartwheeled out of it. Judging from the look on his face, he seemed to have received some assistance in achieving this unusual manner of egress. An instinct for the contrary provoked me to catch him by the tails of his coat as he flew past, or he would have bathed for ever in the muddy Mississippi, save that he were prodigiously gifted in the sport of natation. When he had recovered a little, he crouched, hands on his knees and gasped,

'M-mo-mo-Moff...'

I clamped a hand over his mouth and hissed,

'Northrup!'

It scarce seemed possible that his eyes might bulge still further, but by pinching his nostrils between my thumb and the palm covering his mouth, I proved that it was. His papery skin had taken on a lapis-lazuli hue before I removed my hand and this time the gasping was not accompanied by any attempt at discourse. Finally, he drew himself as upright as a man of his age with his affliction might.

'So,' I smiled, 'Cletus it shall be. Quid pro quo. The past is gone forever, is it not? Only a fool would travel back to such a far country.'

'Quite so, let the past be history.'

He had mustered a dignified grace, though he was yet a little hard of breathing.

'Why not?' I replied, 'as the Corsican said, it is only a version of the past that people have decided to agree on. A drink?'

He shivered a little, then licked his lips and I surmised that if such had not recently been the cause of his ejection, it would on some future occasion be so.

Inside the saloon, the bartender-cum-ship's agent glowered at my companion, but retreated under my gaze, pausing only to leave a full bottle of the dreadful whiskey on the table in front of us.

'So, a matinee, a show,' I said.

He gave a sigh, 'it is not the Fantoccini. Nor even Signor Bologna's Punchinello, but what is there for a broken old traveller, but to travel in company?'

'Who is this Cattermole? An actor? English?' I took pride in uttering this latter with only a modicum of contempt.

The hunchback cackled, 'as you or I, Mr Northrup, as you or I.'

My fist was clenched and half-raised before he added,

'You'll see for yourself, soon enough. Most of us need a little something before we take the stage.'

Perhaps he had the right of it, although I suspected it might be the audience who were more in need of the stimulatory effects of any strong spirits.