Bervick was hungry. He ate even the cold-storage eggs, which Smitty invariably served them and which they seldom ate.
Martin looked up. “Say, Evans,” he said, “what’s this story I hear about John Jones? You know, the Indian guy from Seldovia.”
“He killed himself.” Evans pushed himself back from the table and teetered his chair on the deck.
“What went wrong?” Bervick was interested. He had been on a power barge with Jones.
“He drank a bottle of methyl alcohol last night.” Evans made himself appear bored. He always did when anyone they knew died.
“Well, what did he do that for?” Evans irritated Bervick sometimes. Evans always wanted to be asked things, as if he were an authority.
“The girl he had back in Seldovia, an Indian girl, she left him and gets married. She writes him about it and he locks himself up in the head and drinks this stuff. They found him around midnight. He looked pretty awful they said. I guess he took the girl too seriously.” Bervick knew the last remark was intended for him and he did not like it. He would not kill himself for a woman, not himself, that was certain.
“That’s life,” said Martin helpfully. The Chaplain and the Major entered the salon. Both were cheerful and both looked rested. They announced that young Hodges was still asleep.
“We played poker for a little while last night. Where were you, Sergeant? We needed an extra man.” The Major spoke genially to show that aboard ship he was not conscious of rank.
“I was visiting friends in the village, sir.” Bervick shifted uneasily in his chair.