Fo'castle Waltz

No matter how far away the piece of meat you got was from the tail of the bird, it all was flavored from that end—right up to the neck. But to my amazement none of the crew squawked, though no one ate the chicken. They filled up on the vegetables and sea biscuits. That first Sunday I tried gnawing at the drumstick that was my lot. Pat the oiler, when Flip's back was turned, reached across the table, touched my elbow and said in a low voice:

"Leave it, kid."

"Huh?"

He gave me a wink and said nothing. I looked along the table. Nobody even touched their chicken. Something was up!

Flip came back to the table, looked at the untouched main course, and his eyebrows lifted at their inner comers. Then he began picking up the plates.

"Plum-dove or opricock pie," he announced.

Mush turned on the charm, "Both, Flip."

"No! One. Plum-dove—opricock pie."

Almost everybody wanted the pie. I took plum duff, and it was swell. A big hunk of it—it tasted good though it didn't digest so well.

We left the mess after guzzling down our coffee. Nothing had developed over that chicken stew and I was disappointed. Since no one mentioned it, I let it drop.

Word had got around we were going to have a fire and boat drill at six bells on the third watch (three o'clock). The Fat Guy from whom we had heard nothing for a while now—he slept through the morning, and he'd been the only one of the crew who ate the chicken—burst out, "What d'hell on my day off. Why d'hell's he gotta have a boat drill on Sunday—the Lord's Day."

Others took it up as we sat on the after hatch. Perry, who was a specialist on the rights of seamen according to the Maritime Union constitution and by-laws, held forth at length on boat drills, etc.

The stocky white-haired guy with the pink-lidded eyes was sitting alongside me on the hatch. He was sitting around until it was his turn to relieve the bullet-headed guy at the wheel. No deck work for the men on watch on Sunday, either.

He laughed softly and in his low husky voice said to me, "There's a regular sea lawyer—a Philadelphia sea lawyer."

"Ain't Perry right though?"

"Yes, and no. If the Mate orders a boat drill on Sunday, he can. He can whenever he wants to. But it ain't nice to do it on a day when all the men are resting a little—"

Perry directed everyone's attention to Mush and me with a wild sweep of his arm. "An' look. What about dese kids here? They're signed on as deck boys. Are dey gettin' any trainin' as seamen—? No! Are ye, kids?" I said, "Huh?"

"Did the or Man ever call you up to d'wheelhouse and give ya any instruction at d'wheel?"

"Well, no—do we have to do that?" "I dunno—but he does. It says in Article—" And Perry rattled off some long constitutional sounding stuff that seemed to mean that old Captain Brandt hadn't been doing his duty by Mush and me. We should have been getting educated. I looked over at Mush. It seemed as if he was convinced—we were being gypped. I didn't mind. I remembered my unfortunate experience as a Boy Scout—boxing the compass and all that stuff—and hoped Captain Brandt would continue on his nefarious course of crooking us out of our just dues. I didn't want to be educated.

But Perry, who never sailed along on one line of argument very long, was off on another tack completely.

"And what provision—" that three-syllable word interwoven into ordinary deck conversation got everybody's attention, and Perry, sensing the effect of it, repeated—"An' what provision is being made for d'crossing d'Equator ceremonies—?"

I was amazed at the response to that. Some guys haw-hawed, others slapped their neighbors on the back—evidently that was funny and serious both to everybody but Mush and me. We looked at each other stupidly. Then I noticed a pale, rangy guy from the black gang who seemed to get paler.

The third oiler (Pat and Birdneck were the other two) spoke up. He was the one everybody called the Maverick.

"Who's d'wictims? Hey, you guy wit d'glasses. You ever been across d'line?"

"What line?"

"D'Equator."

I said, "No. I never—"

"All right. We'll take care of you," and he laughed in that nasty way he had and slapped the pale, rangy guy on the back in glee. "Hey—wait a minute—you ain't eider, have you? You was saying you had dat reg'lar run t'Norway—"

The pale guy gulped and said, "No—I ain't never been South—"

"O-o-h boy! anudder wictim. . . . And you, blubber-mouth." He was talking to Mush. "You too—"

I asked the white-haired guy:

"What's this Equator stuff?"

"Oh—it's nothin' if they ain't rough. ..."

The Maverick heard that.

"Surewewon't be rough—haw-haw. Wait'll Ol' Fadder Neptune gives him a shave and wait'll Fadder Neptune's redheaded daughter gives him a kiss—"

The Bos'n had come down to the deck. The hilarity quieted down a little, though nothing could hold that Maverick guy now that he had some nasty business planned. He was noisy and swaggered around.