Fo'castle Waltz

"See that?" and he held up an old heavy tweed vest. "Ya know how many pockets she got? Twenty of them." Then he probed about indicating twenty small pockets in the vest—in the lining and along the seams. He picked up a pair of shoes from the bottom of his locker.

"Look at this—" and with a shrewd grin he unscrewed the heel of one of the shoes revealing a little empty boxlike hollow.

"And this—" and it seemed that all his clothes, shoes, hats, contained secret empty pockets and carefully hidden compartments. He took two large watches from his pockets and undid the faces of them. They were empty, too—no works.

''When I git down to the Argentine, Til bring back a fortune." And he locked up his stuff, gave us a wink, and strutted out of the fo'castle whistling.

The big Russian who had come in during the display of the old guy's thousand-pocket trousseau grunted.

"Damn fool—dopes. He tinks he's wise guy—just a dopes."

"Seems like he knows something."

"Knows nyoting. Just a dopes smoogler."

My last visit over, I got back to the ship some time after one. The fo'castle was dark, lit only by a small bulb in the passageway. It was difficult to get to sleep. Some of those men snored with a sound like water rushing into a long pipeline. It must have been about two when Al came into the fo'castle, quietly undressed, folded his precious white pants away, and climbed into his bunk on the opposite side. He hadn't been there very long when someone else lurched into the fo'castle door. In the dim light I recognized the old guy with the battered face. Drunk and mumbling to himself, he stumbled about the fo'castle a bit, then wove his way to Al's bunk. There he steadied himself by grasping the iron rail that ran along the bunk with one hand and with the other he gently smoothed and patted Al's fine young arm with his gnarled old hand. He mumbled endearments.

I guess Al pretended he was already asleep.

The old guy began to work his arm around Al's shoulders and back. Suddenly Al, as if he were tossing in his sleep, whirled around, pinning the old drunk's upper arm between his strong shoulder and the iron railing with a bone-smashing crash.

The old guy let out a pain-racked yelp and shoved himself free. Then, rubbing his bruised arm, which seemed to hang limply, he got out on deck fast. I could see Al's head pop out of his bunk as he watched him go.

"Goddam old wolf," he muttered, and quietly turned over and went to sleep.

That old guy never showed up again. Al kidded about it the next morning, and somebody cracked to me:

"Guess he was looking for you, fat boy—couldn't find you in the dark."

5. Sailors Without Watches

FINALLY, AFTER TWO IMMENSE BOILERS HAD BEEN DERRICKED up on deck and lashed down, we were loaded down and ready to sail.

There was an air of tense expectancy as the men stood around on the afterdeck. The engine crew had already been called up to the officers' mess to sign articles. I heard some murmurs of admiration for the Captain's judgment. He had weeded out the sluggards, drunks, dopes, and queers from the black gang— and they looked almost clean as they sat out on the hatch, happy and relieved the ordeal was over for them. They were contracted to be fed and housed for four months of their lives at least, and they'd be paid for that ... all right, they'd work a little.

The deckhands were nervous. Most of the men who had just come aboard felt sure of themselves, but they, too, twitched and smoked their cigarettes quickly. The Captain's sharp eye might pick their flaws and refuse to sign them on as he had the black-thatched fireman and a couple of others—he'd slipped up only on Pat, the oiler. That old guy dyed his hair to look younger and he tanked up in every port we struck and stayed that way until we shipped out again.

The Captain weeded out the deck crew. The dope smuggler (to his complete amazement) and all the old port workers went. The Phi Beta Kappa's brother, using his favorite adjective, told the Bos'n what he thought of the ship, its Captain, and personnel, packed his duffle, gave us the bird, and disappeared down the gangplank.

Mush and I were the last ones called.

Captain Brandt gave me the first sign of recognition since he'd come aboard. He was sitting behind a table with the Swede Mate, and as Mush and I came in he gave us a wide, fatherly smile.

"These look like fine young men. Eh, Mister?"

"Yes, sir," the two-faced Swede nodded his agreement.

"Work good?"

My heart was in my mouth as that damn Swede rubbed his chin, eyed me, then slowly said, "We-ll, I'll say yes."

"Very well—sign here, son." The Old Man's smile was broader. He'd been making jokes, but then he went on, seriously:

"An' I don't want you mixing with that scum back aft in the fo'castle. Mister Mate, haven't we a cabin up for'ard where we can bunk these boys? They look like good, clean young fellers. What about that small one alongside the paint locker? What's in that?"