Fo'castle Waltz

We stood there quietly. Some of the men had been through whatever was happening up there and they passed down again, squeezing by those of us who stood on the narrow ladder with a subdued polite grunt—that genteel, white-bearded aristocrat up there had already made his influence felt. This, I thought, was the work of a master diplomat, a true gentleman. . . .

"A damn old goat, dat's all he is."

Philip, the Captain's messboy, was grumbling in back of me. I turned so fast it almost knocked me off the ladder.

"Philip, what's the matter? The old guy with the whiskers? What did he do you?"

"No, no, not him," said Philip hastily. "Not him. He's a gentleman—I don't speak of him. I min that goddam ol' pilot, who came aboard last night. He's worse dan goat. He's pig—"

"What's the matter, Philip?" I'd never seen him carry on like that. That boy was always patient and soft-spoken.

Philip, ashy gray in his anger, told me how that old pilot had messed up the Second Mate's cabin, where he'd been bunked during the night—messed it up completely. There was a handsome polished-brass cuspidor in that cabin. The old pirate never even aimed for it, but hit out from every side and splashed overhead and bulkhead with equal disregard. And poor Philip had just now finished cleaning it up.

By this time, the line we were on had advanced until I was just sixth away from the Captain's cabin door and as we stood there, the door swung open and let out three more of the crew. They swaggered off the Captain's deck with embarrassed, self-conscious grins. The Bos'n who was acting as doorman let the three nearest the door into the cabin. I got a flash of what was going on inside. The Captain was seated at his desk and the red-headed Second Mate stood talking to the tall, bearded gentleman.

Listening to Philip's unsavory gripe further down the line, I hadn't had a chance to ask anybody what this was all about, and we now were too close to the cabin to speak—couldn't be indiscreet. Perhaps the thirty-two members of the crew were being formally presented to our distinguished visitor. That's what it looked like—Captain Brandt must be introducing us all proudly, three at a time, to this Secretary of State of Argentine—or maybe he was just a governor of one of the provinces.

So I thought as we stood shivering in the sun outside that door. There was a sharp wind and it found its way through the pea jacket, sweater, and two pair of dungarees I was wearing. Finally, the door swung open for us—a dirty, old guy from the black gang, the white-haired A.B. with the pink-lidded eyes, and me. The sun was bright in the cabin—the first and only time I ever saw the interior of the Old Man's quarters. It looked comfortable.

They all looked at us with a pleasant smile as we came in. The Argentinian towered over the others in stately dignity. He stood there rubbing his hands together. The red-headed Second, who had been talking to our visitor in a rapid Spanish, turned to us and said in English:

"All right, you guys, loosen your belts and open your pants."

We fumbled with our buttons and undid our trousers—what kind of a diplomatic reception is this? The Mate motioned me toward our visitor. I clumped forward holding up my pants.

The old gentleman had his snowy white starched shirt cuffs folded back over the sleeves of his elegant black jacket. With his long, pale, tapering hands, he directed me to stand facing him in the sun that came from one of the portholes. Then with a graceful wave he indicated something toward me and rippled in Spanish to the Mate.

"Take ya glasses off, kid, didn't ya hear him—?"

Now you try that sometime—try taking off a pair of springy specs that get caught in your matted hair (I hadn't had a haircut in a long time) from under a hat you'd had pulled down over your ears, while you're trying to keep up two pairs of pants that you're trying to hold on to under a lumped-up pea jacket and a sweater.

I did—and held my precious glasses in one hand and all the rest of me together with the other, while the old gentleman, smiling quietly, efficiently flicked up the upper lids of both my eyes, looking for something. Then with one quick movement, his slender fingers probed about on either side of my neck just back of the corners of my jaws. He said a word to the Captain, who scribbled it on the papers in front of him. Then this possible Secretary of State or governor of one of the provinces with no warning swooped those long aristocratic hands of his down and into my open trousers and out again so fast—surprising me so I gasped, fumbled, almost dropped my glasses, and lost my pants altogether.

Then he tapped me on the shoulder, said something again to the Captain, and dipped his hands in a bowl of water that smelled of disinfectant. He stood there wiping them on the clean towel while he waited until the embarrassed old white-haired guy with the pink lids arranged himself before him, trustingly but desperately holding up his pants.