“Hold off,” he said roughly. “What’s it from you?”
“Flowers for the shore gang,” said Rio, in a high voice.
The watchman laughed.
“Oh. It’s you, eh?” He passed his hand over the gray stubble on his chin. “I figured you’d be headin’ south about this time.”
“Who’s the mate, Watch?” asked Rio, who was now grinning.
“The same baby they had last trip,” answered the watchman, spitting abeam of the wind.
“Thanks, Cap,” said Rio. He went through the warehouse to the pier and started up the gangplank. A mess-boy, flour covering his shoulders, cried “Gangway!” Rio twisted past him, indifferently brushing his sleeve where the boy had bumped into him. At the top of the plank Rio called to the quartermaster. “Where’s the mate?”
“Up at No. 2.”
Rio started forward, then turned and went aft to the last house ’midships. He opened the door of the sailors’ messroom and walked in. A few men were sitting around the table which was covered with dirty oilcloth. They were drinking coffee. One of them got up.
“Hello, Rio. I ain’t seen you since you broke your wrist over the Old Man’s head in the Channel.” The sailor laughed. “From bridge to brig in one trip.” He rubbed his head with tattooed fingers while the crimson lady, dotted on his heavy forearm, danced. The printed line, ROTTERDAM GERTIE, under the figure, stretched as wide as the lady’s hips.