Page:Oriental Stories v01 n01 (1930-10).djvu/11

 which hung from a huge black hook in the center of the room. Instead of illuminating the chamber it only served to make the gloom of the farthest corners more pronounced, and yet it seemed fitting for the room to be almost in darkness, for it was a place of shadows. The men who lolled there, bleary-eyed, unshaven and half drugged with liquor, seemed only to be shadows also. They sat and consumed glass after glass of the strong golden-yellow wine for which the establishment of Mr. Isaacs was famous. A few drinks were sufficient to sink them into a torpor, after which they just sat and mechanically drank and drank like inanimate things, scarcely conscious of their actions. Mr. Isaacs continually filled up the glasses as fast as they were emptied, never waiting for a second order, and always when one of the revellers roused himself sufficiently to make a settlement, Mr. Isaacs charged for twice as many drinks as had been consumed.

In one corner of the room was a dilapidated piano, so decrepit-looking it had probably found its way there because it was unfit for any place else. Every key was out of tune. Whenever any one tried to play it the symphony of discord was maddening. A young fellow named Bourse McGill was banging away at it most of the time. He had a rather doleful, gloomy voice, not without a certain charm, and hour after hour he would sing My Mother Was a Lady.

Sandy Lawrence, who represented an American trading company, would stand it as long as he could, then he'd shriek, "If your mother was such a fine lady, why the hell did you leave her?"

In spite of himself Dick Varney became interested in studying the weird stream of patrons which continually surged in and out. A perpetual habitue was a one-eyed man named Lew. He sat alone at a table, never saying a word, scarcely even moving, and yet his single eye kept constantly searching for something—perhaps for the other eye. Then there was the Welshman. He never told his name. He went about Singapore anonymously, an enigma which nobody took the trouble to solve. He was neither pleasing-looking nor ugly. He was neutral, the type that submerges itself into the throng unnoticed. He lacked individuality. He never said a thing worth listening to, and yet he talked a lot. Nobody heard him. His voice was low and monotonous. It failed to carry. About his drab person there was only one thing that distinguished him from the common herd: a huge wart on the side of his nose, a wart as big as a bean. It bobbed up and down as he walked. It seemed momentarily in danger of falling off.

"When it does," mused Dick, "the Welshman will lose his last flicker of individuality. He'll go out like a candle. Nobody'll ever look at him again. It is rather pathetic because he seems to yearn for notoriety, to be constantly in the spotlight. Where did he come from? Where did any of this crowd come from? Where are they going? Here they are, sitting and drinking. They have paused at a bar in Singapore, the Highway of the World. Where does the Highway lead? What will be the end?"

He motioned to Mr. Isaacs. "A glass of wine," he said curtly.

Mr. Isaacs conferred upon him a look of such undisguised hatred that Dick would probably have commented upon it if he had noticed. Nevertheless he brought the wine, a quart bottle and a glass. Dick poured a generous drink and then another. It tasted rather good. It caused the spell of ennui to lift somewhat.