The boy, unlistening, wrapped a towel around his waist, grabbed another, put on wooden sandals and ran into the fo’c’sle. Rio was sitting on his bunk, his chin in his hands, staring straight before him. Exhilarated by the beer and the cold bath, the ordinary danced forward and snapped the towel, flicking it against Rio’s cheek. Instinctively, the big sailor jumped to the boy’s side, his fingers spread. The ordinary turned pale and backed away. At this, Rio’s eyes cleared. He regarded the lad as though seeing him for the first time and without a word, returned to his bunk. The ordinary took one more frightened look at him, went back to the washroom and was soon laughing again.
In the fo’c’sle Rio was silent. The other sailors began to drift in, but no one spoke to him. He sat on his bunk with his chin in his hands, thinking about Martin. He remembered the night on lookout, the ship’s foam and the low constellations. He remembered lights over Haiti and a young, impulsive face. Martin hadn’t understood. He knew what his friend had thought. By God!—he’d thought it himself for a minute or two.... Why had Martin got off in New York at this season? It would soon be winter. He didn’t have any money. His body was conditioned to the tropics. His clothes were light and his blood thin. He would sleep in a flop house, eat bad food and get sick from that cold east wind.
Rio got up from his bunk and went to his locker. He put on a new suit and new shoes. He packed his gear except for his sea boots and oilskins. These he laid on a bench. Then he put on his overcoat and a new hat, picked up his bag and walked out of the fo’c’sle.
None of the sailors had said anything while he packed. But when he had gone, the young ordinary looked around with wide eyes.
“For gosh sake!” he said. “What’s he doin’?”
No one answered him. An old sailor picked up Rio’s sea boots and inspected them.
“He blew his cork,” he said to the smoke.
“It’s his own cork,” answered the old sailor.
“Yeah,” said the A.B., picking up Rio’s oilskins and hanging them by his own locker.
“Let’s get a game,” suggested the ordinary, shuffling a pack of cards.
“Get your game with the black gang,” said the old sailor. “Them lights’re goin’ out.”