“Don’t bother with him,” said George. “Come on down below and let’s see what it’s like.”
They left the deck to Jake, still chewing, and came down the companion way to the cabin, where McGinnis and his afterguard had dwelt.
Bunks with tossed blankets appeared on either side; aft lay the captain’s cabin, door open and an oilskin swinging like a corpse from a nail; above, and through the atmosphere of must and bad tobacco, came the smell of the Heart, a perfume of shark oil, ineradicable, faint, but unforgettable, once smelt.
George opened the portholes and Tommie took her seat on a bunk edge, looking round her but saying nothing.
A cheap brass lamp swung from the beam above the table, the table was covered with white marbled oilcloth, stained and stamped with innumerable ring marks from the bottoms of coffee cups; about the whole place was that atmosphere of sordidness and misery that man alone can create.
Tommie sat absorbing it, whilst Hank and George explored lockers and investigated McGinnis’ cabin. Then she rose and took off her coat.
She stripped the oilcloth from the table, said, “Faugh!” rolled it up and flung it on the floor.
“Say!” cried she, “isn’t there any soap in this hooker?”
“Soap!” cried Hank, appearing from McGinnis’ cabin, carrying the log book and a tin box. “I dunno. Jake will know.”
“Go up and send him down. You can take the wheel for a minute whilst I get this place clean—Goodness!”