“Most of them are. There’s one that isn’t, though. She’s Norwegian. You know the type, real blonde and clean-looking. She’s real good. We been operating for some time now.”
“Is that so?” The Major wondered how, as an upholder of army regulations, he should take this. He decided he would forget it after a while.
“She’s gotten around a lot, of course. You know the mate. The squarehead, Bervick.”
The Major said he did.
“Well, him and this girl were hitting it off pretty well until I came along. So I give her some money and she’s like all the rest and quits him. He acts like a big fool then. He hasn’t caught on that she’s the kind that’ll carry on with any guy. He’s dumb that way and I got no time for a damn fool.”
“It seems a shame that you two shouldn’t get along better.”
“Oh, it’s not bad. He just shoots off his mouth every now and then a little too much. He’s a little crazy from being up here so long.”
“I can imagine he might be. It’s hard enough on shore with a lot of people. Must be a lot worse on a small ship.”
Duval agreed. “It is,” he said, “but you get used to it. When you get to be our age you don’t give much of a damn about things. You do what you please, isn’t that right, Major?”
Barkison nodded. He was somewhat irritated at being included in the same age group with the Chief. There was almost twenty years’ difference in their ages. Major Barkison tried to look youthful, less like Wellington. He looked too old for thirty-one.