A Sun of the Sun by Jack London

drop. What can a poor devil do? My death will be on their heads, that’s all.

Come on down and join me.”

He released his clutch on the rail, and would have fallen had Grief not

caught his arm. He seemed to undergo a transformation, to stiffen

physically, to thrust his chin forward aggressively, and to glint harshly in

his eyes.

“I won’t let them kill me. And they’ll be sorry. I’ve offered them fifty

thousand—later on, of course. They laughed. They don’t know. But I

know.” He fumbled in his coat pocket and drew forth an object that

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22

flashed in the faint light. “They don’t know the meaning of that. But I do.”

He looked at Grief with abrupt suspicion. “What do you make out of it,

eh? What do you make out of it?”

David Grief caught a swift vision of an alcoholic degenerate putting a very

loving young couple to death with a copper spike, for a copper spike was

what he held in his hand, an evident old-fashioned ship- fastening.

“My mother thinks I’m up here to get cured of the booze habit. She doesn’t

know. I bribed the doctor to prescribe a voyage. When we get to Papeete

my manager is going to charter a schooner and away we’ll sail. But they

don’t dream. They think it’s the booze. I know. I only know. Good night,

sir. I’m going to bed—unless—er—you’ll join me in a night cap. One last

drink, you know.”

II

In the week that followed at Papeete Grief caught numerous and bizarre

glimpses of Aloysius Pankburn. So did everybody else in the little island

capital; for neither the beach nor Lavina’s boarding house had been so

scandalized in years. In midday, bareheaded, clad only in swimming

trunks, Aloysius Pankburn ran down the main street from Lavina’s to the

water front. He put on the gloves with a fireman from the Berthe in a

scheduled four-round bout at the Folies Bergères, and was knocked out in

the second round. He tried insanely to drown himself in a two-foot pool of

water, dived drunkenly and splendidly from fifty feet up in the rigging of

the Mariposa lying at the wharf, and chartered the cutter Toerau at more

than her purchase price and was only saved by his manager’s refusal

financially to ratify the agreement. He bought out the old blind leper at the

market, and sold breadfruit, plantains, and sweet potatoes at such cut-rates

that the gendarmes were called out to break the rush of bargain-hunting

natives. For that matter, three times the gendarmes arrested him for riotous

behaviour, and three times his manager ceased from love-making long

enough to pay the fines imposed by a needy colonial administration.

Then the Mariposa sailed for San Francisco, and in the bridal suite were

the manager and the trained nurse, fresh-married. Before departing, the

manager had thoughtfully bestowed eight five-pound banknotes on

Aloysius, with the foreseen result that Aloysius awoke several days later

to find himself broke and perilously near to delirium tremens. Lavina,

famed for her good heart even among the driftage of South Pacific rogues

and scamps, nursed him around and never let it filter into his returning

intelligence that there was neither manager nor money to pay his board.

It was several evenings after this that David Grief, lounging under the

after deck awning of the Kittiwake and idly scanning the meagre columns

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of the Papeete Avant-Coureur, sat suddenly up and almost rubbed his

eyes. It was unbelievable, but there it was. The old South Seas Romance

was not dead. He read:

WANTED—To exchange a half interest in buried treasure,

worth five million francs, for transportation for one to an

unknown island in the Pacific and facilities for carrying

away the loot. Ask for FOLLY, at Lavina’s.

Grief looked at his watch. It was early yet, only eight o’clock.

“Mr. Carlsen,” he called in the direction of a glowing pipe. “Get the crew

for the whaleboat. I’m going ashore.”

The husky voice of the Norwegian mate was raised for’ard, and half a

dozen strapping Rapa Islanders ceased their singing and manned the boat.

“I came to see Folly, Mr. Folly, I imagine,” David Grief told Lavina.

He noted the quick interest in her eyes as she turned her head and flung a

command in native across two open rooms to the outstanding kitchen. A

few minutes later a barefooted native girl padded in and shook her head.

Lavina’s disappointment was evident.

“You’re stopping aboard the Kittiwake, aren’t you?” she said. “I’ll tell him

you called.”

“Then it is a he?” Grief queried.

Lavina nodded.

“I hope you can do something for him, Captain Grief. I’m only a good-

natured woman. I don’t know. But he’s a likable man, and he may be

telling the truth; I don’t know. You’ll know. You’re not a softhearted fool

like me. Can’t I mix you a cocktail?”

III

Back on board his schooner and dozing in a deck chair under a three-

months-old magazine, David Grief was aroused by a sobbing, Blubbering

noise from overside. He opened his eyes. From the Chilean cruiser, a

quarter of a mile away, came the stroke of eight bells. It was midnight.

From overside came a splash and another slubbering noise. To him it

seemed half amphibian, half the sounds of a man crying to himself and

querulously chanting his sorrows to the general universe.

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A jump took David Grief to the low rail. Beneath, centred about the

slubbering noise, was an area of agitated phosphorescence. Leaning over,

he locked his hand under the armpit of a man, and, with pull and heave

and quick-changing grips, he drew on deck the naked form of Aloysius

Pankburn.

“I didn’t have a sou-markee,” he complained. “I had to swim it, and I

couldn’t find your gangway. It was very miserable. Pardon me. If you have

a towel to put about my middle, and a good stiff drink, I’ll be more myself.

I’m Mr. Folly, and you’re the Captain Grief, I presume, who

called on me when I was out. No, I’m not drunk. Nor am I cold. This isn’t

shivering. Lavina allowed me only two drinks to-day. I’m on the edge of

the horrors, that’s all, and I was beginning to see things when I couldn’t

find the gangway. If you’ll take me below I’ll be very grateful. You are the

only one that answered my advertisement.”

He was shaking pitiably in the warm night, and down in the cabin, before

he got his towel, Grief saw to it that a half-tumbler of whiskey was in his

hand.

“Now fire ahead,” Grief said, when he had got his guest into a shirt and a

pair of duck trousers. “What’s this advertisement of yours? I’m listening. ”

Pankburn looked at the whiskey bottle, but Grief shook his head.

“All right, Captain, though I tell you on whatever is left of my honour that

I am not drunk—not in the least. Also, what I shall tell you is true, and I

shall tell it briefly, for it is clear to me that you are a man of affairs and

action. Likewise, your chemistry is good. To you alcohol has never been a

million maggots gnawing at every cell of you. You’ve never been to hell. I

am there now. I am scorching. Now listen.

“My mother is alive. She is English. I was born in Australia. I was

educated at York and Yale. I am a master of arts, a doctor of philosophy;

and I am no good. Furthermore, I am an alcoholic. I have been an athlete. I

used to swan-dive a hundred and ten feet in the clear. I hold several

amateur records. I am a fish. I learned the crawl-stroke from the first of the

Cavilles. I have done thirty miles in a rough sea. I have another record. I

have punished more whiskey than any man of my years. I will steal

sixpence from you for the price of a drink. Finally, I will tell you the truth.

“My father was an American—an Annapolis man. He was a midshipman

in the War of the Rebellion. In ’66 he was a lieutenant on the Suwanee.

Her captain was Paul Shirley. In ’66 the Suwanee coaled at an island in the

Pacific which I do not care to mention, under a protectorate which did not

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exist then and which shall be nameless. Ashore, behind the bar of a public

house, my father saw three copper spikes—ship’s spikes.”

David Grief smiled quietly.

“And now I can tell you the name of the coaling station and of the

protectorate that came afterward,” he said.

“And of the three spikes?” Pankburn asked with equal quietness. “Go

ahead, for they are in my possession now.”

“Certainly. They were behind German Oscar’s bar at Peenoo-Peenee.

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