"You," she was catching at mementoes, "you remember—you helped me—my trunk—"
"Oh, yes, I remember," he said slowly. He was a Cuban, mix-blooded, soft-haired, and to him, as she stood there, a bare, primitive soul, her beauty and her sex seemed to be in utmost contrast to his mechanical surroundings.
"Can you," she said, in that half-hesitant way of hers, "can you give me some hot watah fo' my baby?"
He was briefly attired; overalls, a dirty, pink singlet. His reddish yellow face, chest and neck shone with the grease and sweat. His face was buttered with it.
"Sure," he replied, seizing an empty date can on the ledge of the port hole and filling it. "Be careful," he cautioned, handing it back to her.
She took it and their eyes meeting, fell.
She started to go, but a burning touch of his hand possessed her.
"Wait," he said, "I almost forgot something." From beneath the machine he exhumed an old moist gold dust box. Inside it he had pummeled, by some ornate instinct, odds and ends—echoes of the breakfast table. He gave the box to her, saying, "If any one should ask you where you got it, just say Jota Arosemena gave it to you."
"Hey, Porto Rico, wha' the hell yo' git dat stuff at, hotting stuff fo' decks?"
Both of them turned, and the Cuban paled at the jaunty mug of the cook's Negro mate.