They walked west to the Strand bar. Rod looked at his companion as they stood ordering their liquor. The Strand was a far cry from the usual haunt of the logger. He flourished in what Andy called the "slave market" down on Cordova Street, a region of Semitic clothing stores, cheap hotels, employment agencies where the woodsmen flocked in hundreds, gathered in groups along the sidewalk, rioted in the bars, or sought a job with empty pockets.
And Andy Hall was a logger from his head to his heels. That was his trade, the only means of livelihood he ever practiced. But he did not look the typical logger now. Apparently he did not follow the average logger's cycle of a red-hot time in town as a reaction from intensive labor in the woods.
"This fracas interests me more than you'd think, maybe," Andy proceeded over his glass. "In the first place it was inevitable as the result of the constant extension of spheres of influence—which is merely a euphemism for control of certain markets. The world's getting too small for the competitive system. Commercial interests are bound to clash. Armies are the policemen of trade."
Rod smiled. It was not a new nor in any way revolutionary statement. He had heard the same interpretation of world affairs, more subtly expressed, in university classrooms.
"What's the navy?"
"The water patrol," Andy bantered.
"'Oh, the liner she's a lady
An' she never looks nor 'eeds.
The man o' war's 'er 'usband—'
"Out of the mouth of the greatest drum-beater in English letters I answer you."
"It's a wonder you aren't away," Hall changed his tone abruptly. "Your brother's gone. Or have you got better sense?"
"Sense? Is there any sense in a war?" Rod countered. "But we're in it. If fellows like me won't go, who will?"