“What ship was that?” asked Harbutt.
“I’ve forgot her name, it was a good bit back—but it’s the truth.”
“Of course it’s the truth,” replied the other, “who’s doubtin’ you, any dog’s trick played on a sailorman’s the truth, you can lay to that. I’ve had four years of sea and I oughta know.”
“What’s this you were?” asked Raft.
“Oh, I was a lot o’ things,” replied Harbutt. “Wished I’d never left them to join this b—y business, but it’s the same ashore, owners all the time stuffin’ themselves and gettin’ rich, workers starvin’.”
Raft belonged to the old time labour world dating from Pelagon, he grumbled, but had no grudge against owners in general, it was only in drink that Pelagon rose in him. Harbutt was an atom of the new voice that is heard everywhere now, even in fo’c’sles. He had failed in everything on land and a’board ship he was a slacker. You cannot be a voice and an A.B. at the same time.
“What was your last job ashore?” went on Raft with the persistence of a child, always wanting to know.
“Cleanin’ out pig sties,” said Harbutt viciously. “Drove to it. I tell you when a chap’s down he’s down, the chaps that has money tramples on the chaps that hasn’t. I’ve been through it and I know. It’s the rich man does it.”
“Well,” said Raft, “I don’t even remember seeing one.”
“Haven’t you ever been in no cities?”