Martin tried to hide his embarrassment.
“Unaccustomed as I am—” he began.
“Stow it,” interrupted Rio, jamming his cap on his head. “You got a job. I’ll see you later.”
“That’s right,” said Martin. He got out of bed and put on his coat. Then he stood looking solemnly at his friend. “I’ll probably be back next week—or sooner——”
“You better go.”
Martin kept looking at him. Then, without speaking further, he turned suddenly, went to the door and walked out.
When Rio could no longer hear his footsteps he sat down on the bed and lit a cigarette, but put it out immediately and carefully laid it on the washstand. For awhile he paced back and forth in his room. Then he went down to the desk and called out to the woman behind it.
“Where’s the Brat, Rosie?” he asked.
Rio left the Brat and went to the waterfront. The salt air, the breeze and the innocuous drainage of people took away some of his disgust. The Comber, bound for Buenos Aires, was tied up at Pier V 9. A watchman stopped Rio at the gate.