"I shall want writing materials and some labels on my return," he said,
as he left the room with a somewhat unsteady step.
"On the razzle-dazzle last night, I expect," said the waiter, with a
wink at his fellow.
The fresh air seemed to relieve Cardo, in some degree, of the weight
which dragged him down; he was even well enough to notice that the
uneven streets were more like those of an old-fashioned English town
than anything he had expected to find in Australia. But this feeling
of relief did not last long. In the street which led down to the quay
he observed a chemist's shop, and, entering it, asked for a "draught or
pick-me-up" of some kind.
"I feel awfully seedy," he said, sinking into a chair.
"Yes, you look it," said the chemist; "what's wrong?"
"I think I must give in," said Cardo, "for I believe I am sickening for
typhoid fever."
The chemist looked grave.
"I advise you to go home at once, and to bed."
"Yes," replied Cardo, trying to rise to the emergency, and still
manfully struggling against the disease which threatened him. "Yes, I
will go home," he said again, walking out of the shop. He took the
wrong turning however, going down towards the harbour, instead of
returning to the hotel, and he was soon walking under a burning sun
amongst the piled-up bales and packages on the edge of the quay. A
heavy weight seemed to press on his head, and a red mist hung over
everything as he walked blindly on. At a point which he had just
reached, a heap of rough boxes obstructed his path, and at that moment
a huge crank swung its iron arm over the edge of the dock, a heavy
weight was hanging from it, and exactly as Cardo passed, it came with a
horizontal movement against the back of his head with terrible force,
throwing him forward insensible on the ground. The high pile of boxes
had hidden the accident from the crowd of loungers and pedestrians who
might otherwise have noticed the fall. The sudden lurch with which he
was thrown forward jerked his pocket-book from the breast-pocket of his
coat, and it fell to the ground a foot or two in front of him. It was
instantly picked up by a loafer, who had been leaning against the pile
of boxes, and who alone had witnessed the accident; he immediately
stooped to help the prostrate man, and finding him pale and still,
shouted for assistance, and was quickly joined by a knot of
"larrikins," who dragged the unconscious man a little further from the
edge of the quay.
It was not long before a small crowd had gathered round, the man who
had first observed him making a safe escape in the confusion, Cardo's
pocket-book carefully hidden under his tattered coat.