The Chink's Head was a name the beach-combers gave to a wretched inn off the Rue Bouterie, kept by a one-eyed Chinaman, where for six sous you could sleep in a cot and for three on the floor. Here they made friends with others in as desperate condition as themselves, and when they were penniless and the night was bitter cold, they were glad to borrow from anyone who had earned a stray franc during the day the price of a roof over their heads. They were not niggardly, these tramps, and he who had money did not hesitate to share it among the rest. They belonged to all the countries in the world, but this was no bar to good-fellowship; for they felt themselves freemen of a country whose frontiers include them all, the great country of Cockaine.

"But I guess Strickland was an ugly customer when he was roused, " said Captain Nichols, reflectively. "One day we ran into Tough Bill in the Place, and he asked Charlie for the papers he'd given him. "

"`You'd better come and take them if you want them, ' says Charlie.

"He was a powerful fellow, Tough Bill, but he didn't quite like the look of Charlie, so he began cursing him. He called him pretty near every name he could lay hands on, and when Tough Bill began cursing it was worth listening to him. Well, Charlie stuck it for a bit, then he stepped forward and he just said: `Get out, you bloody swine. ' It wasn't so much what he said, but the way he said it. Tough Bill never spoke another word; you could see him go yellow, and he walked away as if he'd remembered he had a date. "

Strickland, according to Captain Nichols, did not use exactly the words I have given, but since this book is meant for family reading I have thought it better, at the expense of truth, to put into his mouth expressions familiar to the domestic circle.

Now, Tough Bill was not the man to put up with humiliation at the hands of a common sailor. His power depended on his prestige, and first one, then another, of the sailors who lived in his house told them that he had sworn to do Strickland in.

One night Captain Nichols and Strickland were sitting in one of the bars of the Rue Bouterie. The Rue Bouterie is a narrow street of one-storeyed houses, each house consisting of but one room; they are like the booths in a crowded fair or the cages of animals in a circus. At every door you see a woman. Some lean lazily against the side-posts, humming to themselves or calling to the passer-by in a raucous voice, and some listlessly read. They are French. Italian, Spanish, Japanese, coloured; some are fat and some are thin; and under the thick paint on their faces, the heavy smears on their eyebrows, and the scarlet of their lips, you see the lines of age and the scars of dissipation. Some wear black shifts and flesh-coloured stockings; some with curly hair, dyed yellow, are dressed like little girls in short muslin frocks. Through the open door you see a red-tiled floor, a large wooden bed, and on a deal table a ewer and a basin. A motley crowd saunters along the streets -- Lascars off a P. and O. , blond Northmen from a Swedish barque, Japanese from a man-of-war, English sailors, Spaniards, pleasant-looking fellows from a French cruiser, negroes off an American tramp. By day it is merely sordid, but at night, lit only by the lamps in the little huts, the street has a sinister beauty. The hideous lust that pervades the air is oppressive and horrible, and yet there is something mysterious in the sight which haunts and troubles you. You feel I know not what primitive force which repels and yet fascinates you. Here all the decencies of civilisation are swept away, and you feel that men are face to face with a sombre reality. There is an atmosphere that is at once intense and tragic.

In the bar in which Strickland and Nichols sat a mechanical piano was loudly grinding out dance music. Round the room people were sitting at table, here half a dozen sailors uproariously drunk, there a group of soldiers; and in the middle, crowded together, couples were dancing. Bearded sailors with brown faces and large horny hands clasped their partners in a tight embrace. The women wore nothing but a shift. Now and then two sailors would get up and dance together. The noise was deafening. People were singing, shouting, laughing; and when a man gave a long kiss to the girl sitting on his knees, cat-calls from the English sailors increased the din. The air was heavy with the dust beaten up by the heavy boots of the men, and gray with smoke. It was very hot. Behind the bar was seated a woman nursing her baby. The waiter, an undersized youth with a flat, spotty face, hurried to and fro carrying a tray laden with glasses of beer.

In a little while Tough Bill, accompanied by two huge negroes, came in, and it was easy to see that he was already three parts drunk. He was looking for trouble. He lurched against a table at which three soldiers were sitting and knocked over a glass of beer. There was an angry altercation, and the owner of the bar stepped forward and ordered Tough Bill to go. He was a hefty fellow, in the habit of standing no nonsense from his customers, and Tough Bill hesitated. The landlord was not a man he cared to tackle, for the police were on his side, and with an oath he turned on his heel. Suddenly he caught sight of Strickland. He rolled up to him. He did not speak. He gathered the spittle in his mouth and spat full in Strickland's face. Strickland seized his glass and flung it at him. The dancers stopped suddenly still. There was an instant of complete silence, but when Tough Bill threw himself on Strickland the lust of battle seized them all, and in a moment there was a confused scrimmage. Tables were overturned, glasses crashed to the ground. There was a hellish row. The women scattered to the door and behind the bar. Passers-by surged in from the street. You heard curses in every tongue the sound of blows, cries; and in the middle of the room a dozen men were fighting with all their might. On a sudden the police rushed in, and everyone who could made for the door. When the bar was more or less cleared, Tough Bill was lying insensible on the floor with a great gash in his head. Captain Nichols dragged Strickland, bleeding from a wound in his arm, his clothes in rags, into the street. His own face was covered with blood from a blow on the nose.

"I guess you'd better get out of Marseilles before Tough Bill comes out of hospital, " he said to Strickland, when they had got back to the Chink's Head and were cleaning themselves.

"This beats cock-fighting, " said Strickland.

I could see his sardonic smile.

Captain Nichols was anxious. He knew Tough Bill's vindictiveness. Strickland had downed the mulatto twice, and the mulatto, sober, was a man to be reckoned with. He would bide his time stealthily. He would be in no hurry, but one night Strickland would get a knife-thrust in his back, and in a day or two the corpse of a nameless beach-comber would be fished out of the dirty water of the harbour. Nichols went next evening to Tough Bill's house and made enquiries. He was in hospital still, but his wife, who had been to see him, said he was swearing hard to kill Strickland when they let him out.

A week passed.

"That's what I always say, " reflected Captain Nichols, "when you hurt a man, hurt him bad. It gives you a bit of time to look about and think what you'll do next. "

Then Strickland had a bit of luck. A ship bound for Australia had sent to the Sailors' Home for a stoker in place of one who had thrown himself overboard off Gibraltar in an attack of delirium tremens.

"You double down to the harbour, my lad, " said the Captain to Strickland, "and sign on. You've got your papers. "

Strickland set off at once, and that was the last Captain Nichols saw of him. The ship was only in port for six hours, and in the evening Captain Nichols watched the vanishing smoke from her funnels as she ploughed East through the wintry sea.

I have narrated all this as best I could, because I like the contrast of these episodes with the life that I had seen Strickland live in Ashley Gardens when he was occupied with stocks and shares; but I am aware that Captain Nichols was an outrageous liar, and I dare say there is not a word of truth in anything he told me. I should not be surprised to learn that he had never seen Strickland in his life, and owed his knowledge of Marseilles to the pages of a magazine.

“中国茅房”，这是一个流浪汉给一个独眼的中国人在布特里路附近开的一家鸡毛店起的名字。六个铜子可以睡在一张小床上，三个铜子儿可以打一宵地铺。他们在这里认识了不少同他们一样穷困潦倒的朋友，遇到他们分文不名、而夜里又天气奇冷的时候，他们会毫不犹豫地同哪个白天凑巧挣到一法郎的人借几文宿费。这些流浪汉并不吝啬，谁手头有钱都乐于同别人分享。他们来自世界各个地方，但是大家都很讲交情，并不因国籍不同而彼此见外，因为他们都觉得自己是一个国家——安乐乡的自由臣民；这个国家领土辽阔，把他们这些人全部囊括在自己的领域里。

“可是思特里克兰德要是生起气来，我看可不是好惹的，”尼柯尔斯船长回忆当时的情况说，“有一天我们在广场上碰见了硬汉子彼尔，彼尔想讨回他给查理斯的身份证明。”

“‘你要是想要，就自己来拿吧，’查理斯说。”

“彼尔是个身强力壮的大汉，但是被查理斯的样子给镇住了，他只是不住口地咒骂，所有能够用上的脏字眼儿都用到了。硬汉子彼尔开口骂人是很值得一听的事。开始的时候，查理斯不动声色地听着，过了一会儿，他往前迈了一步，只说了一句：‘滚蛋，你他妈的这只猪猡。’他骂的这句话倒没什么，重要的是他骂人的样子。硬汉子彼尔马上住了口，你可以看出来他胆怯了。他连忙转身走开，好象突然记起自己还有个约会似的。”

按照尼柯尔斯船长的叙述，思特里克兰德当时骂人的话同我写的并不一样，但既然这是一本供家庭阅读消遣的书，我觉得不妨违反一些真实性，还是改换几个雅俗共赏的字眼儿为好。

且说硬汉子彼尔并不是个受了普通水手侮辱而隐忍不发的人。他的权势完全靠着他的威信；一个住在他开的寄宿舍的水手对他俩说，彼尔发誓要把思特里克兰德干掉，后来又有另外一个人告诉他们同样的消息。

一天晚上，尼柯尔斯船长和思特里克兰德正坐在布特里路的一家酒吧间里。布特里路是一条狭窄的街道，两旁都是一间间的平房，每所房子只有一间小屋，就象拥挤的集市棚子或者马戏团的兽笼。每间屋子门口都可以看到一个女人。有的懒洋洋地靠着门框，或者哼着小曲，或者用沙哑的嗓子向过路人打招呼，也有的无精打采地看一本书。她们有的是法国人，有的是意大利人，有的是西班牙人，有的是日本人，也有的是黑人；有的胖，有的瘦；在厚厚的脂粉、乌黑的眼眉和猩红的唇脂下面，你可以看到岁月在她们脸上刻下的痕迹和堕落放荡留下的伤疤。她们有的人穿着黑色内衫和肉色长袜，有的头发卷曲、染成金黄颜色，穿着纱衣，打扮得象小女孩。从敞开的门外边，可以看到屋子里的红砖地，一张大木床，牌桌上摆着一只大口水罐和一个面盆。街头上形形色色的人踱来踱去——邮轮上的印度水手，瑞典三桅帆船上的金发的北欧人，军舰上的日本兵，英国水手，西班牙人，法国巡洋舰上英俊的水兵，美国货轮上的黑人。白天，这里污秽肮脏，但是到了夜里，在小屋子的灯光照耀下，这条街就有一种罪恶的魅力。弥漫在空中的丑恶的淫欲使人感到窒息，简直是可怕的，但是在这一切缠绕着你、激动着你的景象里却有某种神秘的东西。你觉得有一种人们并不了解的原始力量又让你厌恶，又深深地把你迷住。在这里，一切文明、体面都已荡然无存，人们面对的只是阴郁的现实，一种既热烈又悲哀的气氛笼罩着一切。

在思特里克兰德和尼柯尔斯坐的酒吧间里摆着一架自动钢琴，机械地演奏着喧噪聒耳的舞曲。屋子四周人们围坐在小桌旁边，这边六七个水手已经喝得半醉，吵吵嚷嚷，那边坐着的是一群士兵。屋子中央人们正一对对地挤在一起跳舞。留着大胡子、面色黝黑的水手用粗硬的大手使劲搂着自己的舞伴。女人们身上只穿着内衫。不时地也有两个水手站起来互相搂着跳舞。喧闹的声音震耳欲聋。没有一个人不在喝，不在叫，不在高声大笑；当一个人使劲吻了一下坐在他膝头上的女人时，英国的水手中就有人嘘叫，更增加了屋子的嘈杂。男人们的大靴子扬起的尘土和口里喷出的烟雾弄得屋子乌烟瘴气。空气又闷又热。卖酒的柜台后面坐着一个女人在给孩子喂奶。一个身材矮小、生着一张长满雀斑的扁脸年轻侍者，托着摆满啤酒杯子的托盘不住脚地走来走去。

过了不大一会儿工夫，硬汉子彼尔在两个高大黑人的陪同下走了进来。一眼就可以看出，他已经有七八分醉意了。他正在故意寻衅闹事。一进门彼尔就东倒西歪地撞在一张台子上，把一杯啤酒打翻了。坐在这张桌子边上的是三个士兵，双方马上争吵起来。酒吧间老板走出来，叫硬汉子彼尔走出去。老板脾气暴烈，从来不容顾客在他的酒馆闹事。硬汉子彼尔气焰有些收敛，他不太敢同酒吧间老板冲突，因为老板有警察作后盾。彼尔骂了一句，掉转了身躯。忽然，他一眼看见了思特里克兰德。他摇摇晃晃地走到思特里克兰德前边，一句话不说，嘬了一口唾沫，直啐到思特里克兰德脸上。思特里克兰德抄起酒杯，向他扔去。跳舞的人都停了下来。有那么一分钟，整个酒吧间变得非常安静，一点声音也没有。但是等硬汉子彼尔扑到思特里克兰德身上的时候，所有的人的斗志都变得激昂起来。刹那间，酒吧间开始了一场混战。啤酒台子打翻了，玻璃杯在地上摔得粉碎。双方厮打得越来越厉害。女人们躲到门边和柜台后面去，过路的行人从街头涌进来。只听见到处一片咒骂声、拳击声、喊叫声，屋子中间，一打左右的人打得难解难分。突然间，警察冲了进来，所有的人都争先恐后地往门外窜。当酒吧间里多少清静下来以后，只见硬汉子彼尔人事不醒地躺在地上，头上裂了个大口子。尼柯尔斯船长拽着思特里克兰德逃到外面街上，思特里克兰德的胳臂淌着血，衣服撕得一条一条的。尼柯尔斯船长也是满脸血污；他的鼻子挨了一拳。

“我看在硬汉子彼尔出院以前，你还是离开马赛吧，”当他俩回到“中国茅房”开始清洗的时候，他对思特里克兰德说。

“真比斗鸡还热闹，”思特里克兰德说。

我仿佛看到了他脸上讥嘲的笑容。

尼柯尔斯船长非常担心。他知道硬汉子彼尔是睚眦必报的。思特里克兰德叫这个混血儿丢了大脸，彼尔头脑清醒的时候，是要小心提防的。他不会马上就动手，他会暗中等待一个适宜时机。早晚有一天夜里，思特里克兰德的脊背上会叫人捅上一刀，一两天以后，从港口的污水里会捞上一具无名流浪汉的尸体。第二天晚上尼柯尔斯到硬汉子彼尔家里去打听了一下。彼尔仍然住在医院里，但是他妻子已经去看过他。据他妻子说，彼尔赌天誓日说，他一出院就要结果思特里克兰德的性命。

又过了一个星期。

“我总是说，”尼柯尔斯船长继续回忆当时的情况，“要打人就把他打得厉厉害害的。这会给你一点时间，思考一下下一步该怎么办。”

这以后思特里克兰德交了一步好运。一艘开往澳大利亚的轮船到水手之家去要一名司炉，原来的司炉因为神经错乱在直布罗陀附近投海自杀了。

“你一分钟也别耽误，伙计，立刻到码头去，”船长对思特里克兰德说，“赶快签上你的名字。你是有证明文件的。”

思特里克兰德马上就出发了。尼柯尔斯船长从此再也没有同他见面。这艘轮船在码头只停泊了六小时，傍晚时分，尼柯尔斯船长看着轮船烟囱冒出的黑烟逐渐稀薄，轮船正在寒冬的海面上乘风破浪向东驶去。

我尽量把这些故事叙述得生动一些，因为我喜欢拿这一段经历同他住在伦敦阿施里花园时的生活进行对比，当时他忙着做股票生意，那时的生活我是亲眼见过的。但是我也非常清楚，尼柯尔斯船长是个大言不惭的牛皮大王，他告诉我的这些事也有可能没有一句是真话。今后我如果发现思特里克兰德在世的时候根本不认识他，他对马赛的知识完全来自一本杂志，我是一点也不会感到吃惊的。