A Ship's Tale by N. Jay Young

at the Inn. The last twenty-four hours had held more intrigue than I’d been accustomed to. Although there was an element of intrigue, I had to admit all this made me extremely nervous.

Chapter 4
    AN EVENING AT THE INN
    The fog was billowing up like great clouds of smoke in the chilly air as I went to the pub side of the Inn. It was one place we were not likely to run into Mrs. Beasley. Even though the pub bore her name, the licensee was actually a seasoned tapster by the name of Martin who was a pleasant character well liked by his customers. In the evening Mrs. Beasley liked to stay safely in her parlour sipping sherry.
    I paused at the shed long enough to throw in the rake and clippers I’d been using in the garden. I was too tired to walk in and hang them up. I’d find them tomorrow right enough.
    As I got to the entrance, Harris’s car came bumping along the road and parked on the other side. A young lad ran over to meet it, and after a few words disappeared into the fog. Bowman and Edward had just arrived and we all met up at the door of the pub. Bowman straightaway asked, “Do ye think yer friend will help us?”
    â€œIf he can, I’m sure he will. He’s been there only a few months, so it may…wait a moment. Let’s get inside and talk. I, for one, need a drink,” I said shivering. Everyone nodded and we pushed open the pub door. “Who was that boy?” I asked Harris.
    â€œJust a kid,” said Harris. “You’ll soon meet him.”
    Going in, my first impression was that it seemed no less foggy inside than out, so thick was the tobacco smoke. It was a damned sight warmer at least. This was the local and boasted a good view of the water. Men were sipping and storytelling as a game of darts was in progress. Luck was on our side, for the table nearest the fireplace was just coming free. We quickly took our seats by the welcome glow of the flames. I saw Boris at the bar with the collar of his wool coat still turned up and his knit cap pulled down. Harris hailed him, “Ahoy there, Boris!” The Russian smiled and came over, pulling off his watch cap. He sat down and whispered something of interest to Harris. I strained to hear, but it was lost in the noise of the pub.
    â€œRight then,” I said, “looks like we’re all here except Robert. I’m sure he’ll be along any time now.”
    Bowman gestured to our group, “No introductions for this part of the crew.”
    â€œYou mean there are more?” I asked.
    â€œQuestions, questions,” said Bowman. “Everything in its own good time.”
    A dart game was being played by a couple of drunken lads. The more they drank, the wilder the contest and their aim became. The murky air buzzed with flitting darts. Suddenly, Harris snapped at the air with one hand as though catching a fly. Then he brought his hand down and opened it on the table. There, plucked in mid-flight, was a stray dart. I couldn’t believe my eyes.
    â€œChrist, Edward!” Harris boomed. “This quite nearly flew up your nose.” Everyone laughed. Edward’s lips moved, but without words.
    Harris rose and stood looming, “Now then boys, game’s over.” It seemed for a moment as if all talk in the pub stopped. “Let me have the other darts,” he said, walking over to the two drunks. He spoke to them in a soft but steady voice. “I think you’ve had too many pints to be throwing these about.”
    â€œOh, do you now?” began one of the two, as his friend tried to dissuade him from offering any further challenge. The first fellow truculently shrugged off the other’s restraining hands and stood his ground. Harris extended one hand towards him, holding the dart in his fist point up, thumb against its shaft. As the fellow reached for it, Harris pushed his thumb forward, and with one flick, broke it neatly in two and placed it in the drunk’s hand. From