“Carol,” he said, his arm around him, “I want you to know that I’m your friend.” Impulsively he went to his desk and searched through a drawer. He drew out a snapshot and handed it to Carol. “Here I am,” he said, “climbing a king post at the beginning of a bad day.” It was a plain little picture of a ship at a crazy tilt with the sea, and Martin hanging tightly as he worked with a lashing; but Carol put it carefully in his pocket and smiled happily.
The days were getting warmer. Rio stopped by Martin’s house in the early afternoon and together they walked to the Battery where they sat down on a bench out of the sun. People were pouring in and out of the Aquarium. Boats leaving for Bedloe’s Island whistled and grunted against the docks. Liberty herself, as statuesque as ever, shone from her spring cleaning and seemed to hold her torch still higher and more independently.
Turning away from the water, Rio glanced at Martin’s hand, his attention called to it, perhaps, by a ray of sunlight which fell slantingly upon a flat block of black onyx with a point of ruby in one corner which Martin wore upon his middle finger.
“I’ve always wanted to ask you about that funny ring you got there,” said Rio, yawning. “Where’d you find it?”
Martin twisted the ring until it caught the sun more evenly before he spoke.
“Sounds like somethin’ back of it,” persisted Rio.
“There is.” Martin locked his hands around one knee and leaned forward in an attitude of tenseness. “The year before I met you, Rio, I got hurt on the old _Silver Cross_. She’s being scrapped now, and this was when she made her last trip to the East. I was pretty bad in the Indian Ocean, and the weather didn’t help any. I was worse at Aden; and they had to take me off at Massaua. When I was getting well I met a fellow named Nahrinja who was agent for a man who owned a pearl-fishing fleet. I wanted to get out on one of the boats to see how the boys went about it. So when I was better he gave me a knock-down to one of the Arab skippers and we set out.
“The Sudanese divers all seemed to like me, for I took to their native lute as though I’d played it all my life. In a few days I could do their ancient chants on the tamboura—somehow, understanding this sad, lost music. One Sudanese in particular, a boy named Sali, used to squat silently on the deck and watch me by the hour.