It was, and as Cleary came on board, leg over rail, saluting Satan with the affability of old acquaintanceship and the quarterdeck with a squirt of tobacco juice, Ratcliffe fell to wondering what sort of place Havana might be and what else it might give up in the way of detrimentals.
Carquinez was bad and Sellers was bad, but Cleary was—Cleary. Against the gold and blue of afternoon, the sight of this faded man, who looked as though he had seen better days, who suggested a broken-down schoolmaster, with a slungshot in his pocket, struck Ratcliffe with astonishment and depression. It was as though the dazzling air had suddenly split to disclose a London slum.
“Hullo! Hullo!” said Cleary. “Thought I recognized the old hooker. What you doin’ down here away?”
Jude made a dive for the galley, and Ratcliffe could hear her choking. The sound banished the feeling of depression and repulsion created by the newcomer and brightened him somehow.
Here was the comic man of the pantomime come aboard.
“What am I doin’?” said Satan. “I’m fishin’ for chair-backs. What are you doin’ yourself?”
Cleary turned, spat his quid overboard, and then, leaning on the rail, looking seaward, with his back to the others, and, just as easy as though he were aboard his own ship, laughed.
“Fishin’ for chair-backs!” Then, sluing his head half round, “How’s the abalone fishin’ gone?”
“Jude!” cried Satan.
“Hullo!”