Fo'castle Waltz

Every evening about eight, we'd hear the regular tramp of the bullet-headed guy up on the poopdeck overhead. That guy, with his fine ripply muscles, was taking his regular exercise up there, regular as the postman, rain or storm—fancy stepping about with dumbbells and stuff like that. But this bullet-headed guy, who exercised so carefully every night from eight to nine, never did any work. True, he'd go through all the motions, but he never wasted any of his precious muscle on pulling or lifting gear or anything else. He'd appear to be, and whenever we'd be tugging in a line, I could see light come through where his hands grasped the line and his arms would move back and forth in rhythm with ours but he wasn't tugging—one of Bernarr MacFadden's Develop-Your-Manly-Beauty-Without-Work types—mustn't unbalance your development with work stuff.

He'd come down from his calisthenics about nine, switch the lights off near his bunk, climb into it, close his curtains, and we could hear him grumbling and grinding his teeth until all talk, music and stirring around in the fo'castle had completely died down.

We'd go forward to our own cabin and Al would go with us. Some evenings Philip would join us there, bringing along some treat—a jar of jam and some crackers he'd swiped from the officers' mess—and big Joe'd come along and we'd talk late. That cabin became quite a hangout as the nights got colder and longer and I piled up a lot of drawings.

It looked as if, with all the work I'd done and all the water colors and drawings I planned to do in the Argentine, I'd be able to give a show when I got back to the city.

On one of those nights when it was too drizzly and tough to stumble back to the fo'castle after supper, we were sitting around talking in our cabin. Philip had come up and so had Birdneck. Joe, who had been standing look-out up on the prow, came down to our place dripping wet and splashed himself down in Mush's clean, dry bunk—wet as he was. Mush howled, but nothing could be done about it. Joe was a big guy and hard to move. He sang what he said was a Tahitian song appropriate for the occasion—a chant to drive away the weather demons.

When he was in the middle of it someone knocked at the door. I shouted: "Come in, lug. Open 'er up."

He did. Joe shut up. So did everybody else.

It was the Old Man, old Captain Brandt himself, standing there wearing a heavy rubber raincoat, his mustache dripping, and a benign smile on his mug. Philip and Birdneck slipped out behind the Old Man's back; Joe stayed on. He didn't give a damn for any of the officers, including the Old Man.

"H-m-m. I hear you're doing pictures of the members of the crew. H-m-m. I came for'ard to—h-m-m. Let's take a look at some."

Since he was already in our crowded cabin and he was Captain of the vessel—could I say no?

"Yes, sir. Here they are, sir, hanging up here. Here's Philip and then there's Kennedy." Those sailors had last names but I couldn't remember many.

"Yes, m-m, I can recognize 'em—recognize 'em all." He had adjusted his pince-nez attached to its dripping cable, set it on the end of his nose, and inspected my drawings with the manner of a dilettante, a patron des beaux arts.

His attitude and affectations were excellent—I've seen a lot worse in the red-carpeted galleries along Fifty-seventh Street. He studied all the drawings carefully. Then he tapped his pince-nez on his chin, readjusted it again on the end of his nose, and peered at all my work with his head thrown back. He slowly opened his mouth to comment. I was prepared for something that smacked of the connoisseur—an appreciation for the sensitivity of my line or an awareness of my masterly use of chiaroscuro. What he said was:

"Yep, I recognizes 'em all, but it don't look like 'em. This of Philip here—it's too old looking. Then that A.B. you got there—his hair ain't right—" And so on, right down the line.

Why, that old Newfoundland, bluenosed, salted-down chowder-head!

As Captain of his ship, he was judge, king, and second to God—I granted. He had the rights of life and death over us. But this stuff was extracurricular! Pd be damned if he could elect himself judge, juror and art critic of my work, my own drawings, my water colors. I sneered him off, but it's evident it didn't take, so I switched the conversation and said I hoped to get more drawing and painting done down in the Argentine and . . .

"You hope to get more painting done? Where?"

He turned and looked at me with his brows lifted in a nasty arch.

"Why, yes. I expected that—"

"What do you think you're going to do when we tie up in the Argentine?"

"Well, as I was saying, I hope to pack up some portfolios and take along my paints and brushes and get out into the interior. I understand there's some interesting paintable stuff there—" After all, he talked as if he understood the jargon of the studios, so I was giving it.

"Young feller, when we get down to Argentine, you're gonna work this ship."