“Two half and halfs,” ordered the stranger.
When they were brought, he shoved one towards Wilson.
“Drink,” he said. “Might’s well.”
Wilson gulped down the bitter beer. It cleared his head and gave him new life. The stranger ordered another.
“Can’t talk to a man when he’s thirsty,” he observed.
The room grew hazily warm, and Wilson felt himself glowing with new life and fresh courage.
“My name is Stubbs––Jonathan Stubbs,” explained the stranger, as Wilson put down the empty mug. “Follered the sea for forty year. Rotten hard work––rotten bad grub––rotten poor pay. Same on 119 land as on sea, I reckon. No good anywhere. Got a friend who’s a longshoreman and says th’ same ’bout his work. No good anywhere.”
He paused as though waiting for the other to introduce himself.
“My name is Wilson, haven’t done much of anything––and that’s rotten poor fun. But I want to get to South America and I’ll do anything under the sun that will pay my way there.”
“Anything?”