"I have need of all my wits," he said, "and never befuddle my brain with tobacco. It's the curse of the age."
"I've got to have a cigarette," the sailor said. "I'll go crazy if I don't have one! I won't sleep a wink, either!" he whined.
Ned handed him a dime and pointed to the door.
"Go and buy some," he said, knowing that the fellow would be in fighting mood if he was not supplied with the narcotic. "Come back here and smoke."
The sailor looked at the dime sorrowfully, scorning the small piece of silver because it wasn't a dollar, as Ned concluded—pitying himself, too, because it would not buy what he wanted most—liquor!
Ned handed him a quarter and bade him hasten back. With the man's nerves crying out for accustomed stimulants, the boy knew that he could do nothing with him. He must get him into a companionable mood if possible. He dreaded the night, which seemed about to be passed in the fumes of tobacco and liquor, but there was no help for it that he could see.
Presently the sailor came back with a package of cigarettes, gin in a bottle, and a jug of water. He arranged the articles in a half-circle about him when he sat down on a mat. It seemed pitiful to the boy, the sailor's dependence on the nerve-destroying things he looked upon as necessary to his comfort. Only for these, only for their constant use for years, the man might have been honored and respected and possessed a home among his kind instead of being an object of contempt in a foreign port.
"Here's to the Flowery Kingdom!" the sailor said, the bottle at his lips. "Here's life to you, not existence! What's your name?" he added, stopping in the midst of a grin which wrinkled his dissipated face horribly to cast a glance of suspicion on the boy sitting in pity before him. "My name," he added, without waiting for Ned to reply to his question, "is Brown—B-R-O-W-N."
"Glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Brown," Ned said. "One is always glad to meet Americans in a place like this. Now," he went on, resolved to have his talk out before the sailor became too befuddled to talk coherently, "you spoke about wanting to get back to New York. Well, the Fultonia leaves for New York by way of Manila, to-morrow afternoon, and I may be able to arrange a passage for you. I'm a friend of the captain's."
"Not on your life! Not by way of Manila!" the sailor cried. "I wouldn't go back to Manila for all the gold there is in Standard Oil! I'm going to lose myself on a wind-jammer! Manila's unhealthy for me!" he added with a wink.