“Yes, I got a wife and two kids. We lost a new one two years ago. I guess she was too old to be having kids.”
“Such a pity, your child dying.”
“One of those things, they happen all the time. I saw the kid only once so it wasn’t so bad.”
The Chief sat down beside the Chaplain. Duval reached in his pocket and took out a knife. Carefully he whittled his fingernails. He concentrated on what he was doing. He would think of nothing else for a while.
Suddenly the ship lurched and Duval was thrown off the bench. His knife clattered on the deck.
He got to his feet quickly. The Chaplain was holding onto the bench with both hands, his face very white. Hodges was braced against a table. Duval looked down at his hand, conscious of a sharp pain: he had cut one of his fingers and it was bleeding. He waved his hand in the air to cool away the pain. Bright red blood in a thin stream trickled down his hand. The waving did not help. He stuck his finger in his mouth.
“You’d better get a bandage on that,” said O’Mahoney helpfully.
“Yes,” agreed Hodges. “That’s dangerous, cutting yourself.”
“I know, I’ll fix it. You people better hang around here until Evans decides what to do. You might get the Major up.” Holding his finger in the air, Duval went quickly down the companionway and into his engine room.
His two assistants were sitting beside the engines. They wore dirty dungarees and thin shirts; it was hot in the engine room. One of the oilers crouched in a corner. He had come aboard only the week before. Fumes from the oil, as well as the motion of the ship, had made him sick.