No Good Deed 66

Miss Elspeth Ginever,now poorer by the twenty silver dollars she had been carrying about her person, was left the richer for her experiences in my company. It was 10 in the morning of a crisp, Spring day. A low fellow in a topcoat made for a man several hands taller at the shoulder than himself was muttering whilst scraping mud from a pair of ill-matched boots. Since - to all appearances – the preceding night had been as dry as that fine morning, I stopped to observe him. There were few others in the street outside the Hotel and they seemed too preoccupied with the business of the day to wonder at this incongruity. The man was unleashing a most colourful collection of oaths and curses: he did not have the look of a sailor, however; although under the voluminous topcoat he might have sported any number of exemplars of the tattooist's art. On my asking him the whereabouts of the New Orleans Mint, the man leapt as though bitten by the rattling snake of the prairies.

'Whassat there? Mint ye say? Who wants to know?'

It was the snarl of a Dandy Dinmont terrier, which is to say that it might have been more threatening had it emerged from a creature of somewhat greater size.

'Why I do, sir,' I laughed, at least until he sprang at me brandishing a rusty blade.

The removal of this weapon from his tiny hand I effected without incurring the slightest scratch. Indeed, the smell of spirits on his breath might well have done more damage. Grasping his throat with sufficient force to hold him on tip-toe whilst allowing him to answer me, I asked him his name.

'Ishmael, they call me Ishmael, though I only asked but once.' He hawked from the tips of those very toes and spat to the side. His eyes rolled and he began singing. 'Hourra les filles a Cinq deniers': I realised that the fellow was quite mad, since such a sum would not have bought a woman in Marseilles, much less in New Orleans. Still, I found him entertaining, not least for his singing, so I brought his face close to mine and hissed:

'I need an ally, an associate, a... confederate. You'll do for me, Ishmael. A full-witted fellow would never do.'

He seemed to understand and followed me down the street like a dog.

Several women I importuned to ask directions to the Mint recoiled when Ishmael did something indecorous, whether it was another verse about 50 cent whores or urinating in the street. However, he managed to restrain himself long enough in the presence of a matron of redoubtable size to enable me to ascertain that we ought to be heading for the Vieux Carré. To be exact the Mint was on the north-eastern extreme of the French Quarter; my companion and I strode briskly through the fresh vernal air, Ishmael reiterating his peculiar shanty from time to time, while I whistled a descant for luck.