The street was a blur of people, smells, and sounds. Kincade had marched from the wedding to the Thistle hall; he was unsure why, but it seemed this was the right place for jilted lovers. A bar, several drinks, and the look on the face of murderous intent.

The bar patrons move around, coming and going in waves of types. At one moment, the printers with ink-stained fingers had come drunk and gone. Then smiths had come and gone, leaving piles of coal dust here and there. With each wave, Kincade ordered a new pitcher of beer and slowly worked his way through, mumbling to himself as he reviewed the last year of his life. His latest revelation was that his so-called fiancé had not even waited for him. She had a lovely life with that moppet Hutchens, and then together the two of them had conspired to stab him in the heart. After all, he had sent letters, and these two had not lifted a finger to help, and not one message was returned. So he had to get himself back to New Zealand alone; he had to live a daily nightmare of torture and then break free through his own acts. And those two must have known he had been shanghaied. Neither Hutchens nor Amelia had lifted a finger to do anything but make doe eyes at each other.

In truth, Hutchens had used his position to catch Amelia's attention. But, then, Kincade was sure, she offered no rebuff but saw the option to grab at another man, who clearly befuddled the poor woman. With each pitcher of beer, Kincade repeated these notions and, with each retelling, affirmed that his anger and rage renewed the fire given wool and coal with each retelling.

Kincade was working on the third pitcher of beer, seeking to see the bottom of the pot, repeat the review of his life, and surrender his sanity and reason to malted barley. With a head too heavy to hold up and one arm hung by his side, the chair and table worked to keep him upright and shipshape, and for now, they did Jonny-jack-tars job of it. The Inn's electric light bulbs' were given life a few hours ago. They were new, and progress stops for no man, Kincade supposed. His musing at this point was mumbled at the bar staff, who only heard, "What's this then? Arrrr load of bollocks." And in the night, one of the bar staff, either as a warning to treat, had slipped the front page for the paper under his beer. There was the drawn image of a wild man who looked like Kincade if you were drunk enough. But more than that, they had described what was being called crimes against the crown and companies.

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So much so that he had not taken note of people who had left and joined the other patrons; the maids swept through the ocean of people like a cutter ship through the waves. Kincade's ears picked out a name spoken like the clanging sound of a church bell. Every other sound disappeared.

"Harry McCabe." A man's voice called out.

"Harry McCabe can sell a chicken its feathers, and what more convinces the damned thing it's a fox. And if it wants the feathers it brought, it can get them off another chicken in its own hen house," the man said to his table, and there was a round of cheers.

At this, Kincade tried to straighten this spin, and what more, he would sober up by the force of his will. And all before his feet touched the ground.

Kincade stumbled to the table where the name of that bastard was uttered. Several men sat at the table, and not one of them was Harry. Sitting at the table, Kincade greeted them with a smile and shake of a half-full pot. Each of the seated group, in turn, looked at Kincade, then down to his cheek to see the scar, and each looked to each other and mouthed, "Octopus?"

Kincade focused and gave each of the four men at the table his best look of friendship. He smiled and bowed slightly. From the other side of the effort it came across as this guy is a murderous, concussed escaped prisoner hell-bent on eating their faces.

"So then…You all know Harry, how's that happen?" Kincade started.

"Piss off wanker." The smallest of them replied, followed by the other.

"Yeah." And "To the right, get away with ya." Kincade took a deep and loud nasal breath, turning to look at each of the faces of the four men at the table.

"To be sure that I have been having what some may call a bad fuck'in year. It would be an understatement, and here I am, nice and polite, and I just want to ask if you can tell me where I may find your man, Harry. I thought he would have gone to the fancy wedding for his man Hutchens this afternoon." Kincade mused and, sure enough, at the mention of the wedding and people are known to be associated with Harry, gave the men room to claim down.

All four men stood up, looking at each other randomly and sat. But the little one, that little one, remained standing and waited for the moment that he could launch at Kincade. Swing. He was too short to connect with Kincade, who swayed back and caught the more petite man pulling him in and spinning him. So that Kincade chest was against the man's back, and once again. The simple knife that had changed so much of Kincade's life was in his hand. The blade's sharp edge held against the small man's neck. Kincade looked back at the seated men and said, "Tut tut. No need to move, gents. You see, I seem to have made a habit of late of stabbing this here knife into more than one person. All I want is to know where I may find my good friend Harry?" Kincade said.

The small man spat out, "He will be at the new factory over by the Cuba district warehouses by that Maori Pa, that small village of theirs ." Kincade pushed the small man onto the table and ran for the exit, going through the crowd and into the night. No one followed.