Olga, a Norwegian girl at the Big Harbor, was the cause of their trouble. The year before she had come to work in a restaurant. Because she had let Bervick sleep with her for nothing, he had decided that it must be love and he had almost decided to marry her. Then one day he discovered that she was also seeing Duval and accepting his money and a great many other people’s money, too. He had asked her to stop but she was a thrifty girl, supporting her mother in Canada. She had told him that it was none of his business. Duval had laughed at him because of this and he had come to hate Duval and feel that it was his fault that Olga had changed.
Somewhat drowsily Martin listened to them talk. This time they were arguing whether the knife should be set on the table edge of blade toward the plate or away from it. Duval claimed the edge should be away from the plate and Bervick claimed it was toward the plate.
“I don’t suppose you’d know where it went anyway,” said Duval bitingly. “You probably always ate with your hands.”
This was a hard blow and Bervick countered, “I don’t guess you ever used anything but a knife to eat with. I’ve seen cajuns like you before.”
Duval was proud of his pure French ancestry. He came from a long-settled New Orleans family and he was sensitive about being thought a cajun.
“Cajun, hell,” he said, trying not to sound irritated. “You wouldn’t know one if you saw one.”
“I guess I’m talking to one.”
This was too much. The Chief Engineer remembered his rank. He stood up. “That’s enough, Sergeant,” he said with dignity.
Bervick stood up also. Martin could see he was pleased. It was always a victory when the Chief fell back on his rank. “Yes, Warrant Officer Junior Grade Duval,” he said.
“Better not get so fresh, Sergeant.” The Chief turned to Martin and said, “Just a little squabble.” Bervick left the salon, laughing. “Fresh bastard,” muttered the Chief.