Fo'castle Waltz

There were two important topics of conversation at lunch. One, how did the Chief Engineer break his arm? And the other, the prizefights at the Seamen's Mission the crew were all invited to that evening.

Some along the table said the Second and the Chief had squabbled over some dame, and the Second broke old One-Ton's arm—that was too preposterous and no one believed that. Others thought the old bastard had got tanked up, toppled over, and just cracked his arm with a fall. That, incidently, we found out from Philip later, was the story. The Chief had been up around the deck that morning with his right arm in a sling and swathed in bandages. They said he looked very sad, grousing around the deck with his eyes bleary and bloodshot, sipping long drinks of bromo seltzer. From the look of him you couldn't tell if it was his arm or his head that hurt him most.

The second topic of talk was the Seamen's Mission boxing bouts. It seems the crews from the Limey ship, the Belgian, the Hog-Islander, and we were all invited. It was free. No collection to be taken up, no religious service, no strings attached at all, and there was a rumor lemonade would be served (old Pat coughed so hard at that he almost upped his lunch).

And who was going to fight? Us. The purser of the Limey ship had been a middleweight ham and beaner and he would referee the bouts. There'd be a real roped-off ring set up in the Mission. Any of us who had any talent for boxing could pair off. A nice old guy from the Mission had come aboard that morning and given the dope to some of our crew.

There was no great enthusiasm shown for the boxing bouts. The crew felt it was a trap, a device (Perry called it) to steer them away from the houses and the barrooms. Nobody was going. What did they think we were—a bunch of dopes? None of us would be caught dead in a Seamen's Mission.

Perry nailed Joe and me as we stalled through the afternoon. We'd been fussing with some gear in the shelter deck, and we'd been taking turns sleeping off the effects of the morning's wine. He had contacted a swell outlet for our cigarettes—a small shop in Ingeniero White that serviced the fishermen of the harbor. Perry had sold a number of cartons the night before and was sure we'd get the best prices there.

After supper we tucked the cartons of cigarettes under our jackets and went ashore. Neither Joe nor Perry was satisfied with the way I carried contraband. They complained the stuff showed, and tried to poke the long cartons around under my jacket so they'd be less conspicuous. They complained I bulged too much, particularly around that box of Sweet Caporals. We'd never get by the cops. I maintained my bulges were natural and I knew more about the possibilities of anatomical structure than either of them or as much as both of them put together.

Had either of them ever heard of the curious physical developments prevalent among the Hottentot and Kalahari Bush people? Naturally, I referred to the mature female of the species, but I didn't mention that—we weren't talking sex.

Joe, because of the build of him, was a natural-born smuggler. His shoulders were so broad he easily carried a few packages under his armpits without disturbing the line of the loose windbreaker he wore, but Perry showed his stuff all over and I must admit I swelled with a peculiar angularity in spots.

The first cop we passed was picking his teeth—he had been working on the back molars as we came along and his mouth was so wide open he couldn't have taken a good look at us as we passed.

The desultory blast he blew on his whistle didn't sound very suspicious, so naturally, his brother cop further along the road, after a quick glance at us, went on reading his newspaper as we passed under his lamppost. Neither he nor any of the cops were very vigilant so soon after supper.

We got to the little shack and we unloaded with no preliminary ceremonies.

Perry who was handling negotiations for all of us seemed disturbed at the prices the fat Argentinian was willing to pay. The market was decidedly bearish—there were too many American cigarettes around. That gang of Hog-Islanders had probably dumped a carload all over Ingeniero White and sent the prices crashing.

The best Perry could get was four pesos fifty a carton—just a profit of sixty cents American money and hardly worth risking a fine or a stretch in one of those unpleasant Argentine jails. After a lot of pretending that we wouldn't sell—Perry would pile all the packages up on one arm as he kept howling what must have been the Spanish equivalent of Skinflint, Robber, Shylock—and then he'd wave us out with his free arm with a "Come on, fellers, t'hell with dis Jew." And as we reached the door. Perry would whirl and waggle his finger as he hoarsely warned that no Nord Americano sailor would ever enter this shop, etc., etc.

The fat Argentinian just shrugged his massive shoulders at all that.