“My dear sir, we could not think of depriving
you of your beds. No, indeed. Just a couple
of blankets if you have them, and we’ll sleep
very comfortable on these benches.”
The captain protested, politely twisting his back
and bobbing his head. The suspenders tugged and
creaked. The tall man partially suppressed a
cry, and took a step forward.
The freckled man was sleepily insistent, and shortly
the captain gave over his deprecatory contortions.
He fetched a pink quilt with yellow dots on it to
the freckled man, and a black one with red roses on
it to the tall man.
Again he vanished in the firmament. The tall
man gazed until the last remnant of trousers disappeared
from the sky. Then he wrapped himself up in his
quilt and lay down. The freckled man was puffing
contentedly, swathed like an infant. The yellow
polka-dots rose and fell on the vast pink of his chest.
The wanderers slept. In the quiet could be heard
the groanings of timbers as the sea seemed to crunch
them together. The lapping of water along the
vessel’s side sounded like gaspings. A hundred
spirits of the wind had got their wings entangled
in the rigging, and, in soft voices, were pleading
to be loosened.
The freckled man was awakened by a foreign noise.
He opened his eyes and saw his companion standing
by his couch.
His comrade’s face was wan with suffering.
His eyes glowed in the darkness. He raised his
arms, spreading them out like a clergyman at a grave.
He groaned deep in his chest.
“Good Lord!” yelled the freckled man,
starting up. “Tom, Tom, what’s th’
matter?”
The tall man spoke in a fearful voice. “To
New York,” he said, “to New York in our
bathing-suits.”
The freckled man sank back. The shadows of the
cabin threw mysteries about the figure of the tall
man, arrayed like some ancient and potent astrologer
in the black quilt with the red roses on it.
Directly the tall man went and lay down and began
to groan.
The freckled man felt the miseries of the world upon
him. He grew angry at the tall man awakening
him. They quarrelled.
“Well,” said the tall man, finally, “we’re
in a fix.”
“I know that,” said the other, sharply.
They regarded the ceiling in silence.
“What in the thunder are we going to do?”
demanded the tall man, after a time. His companion
was still silent. “Say,” repeated
he, angrily, “what in the thunder are we going
to do?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” said
the freckled man in a dismal voice.
“Well, think of something,” roared the
other. “Think of something, you old fool.
You don’t want to make any more idiots of yourself,
do you?”
“I ain’t made an idiot of myself.”
“Well, think. Know anybody in the city?”
“I know a fellow up in Harlem,” said the
freckled man.
