“Don’t know. Who’s the bos’n?”
“I am. Seventy-five dollars, my own boy and radio.”
“Company man, Joe?”
“Yeah. I never pass up this chicory.” The bos’n poured more coffee. “Have some,” he said.
Rio looked around the messroom. He saw the college boys staring at him, the flies on the wall and a cockroach settled under the percolator.
“Take it, Joe,” he said. “And my compliments to B.A.”
The bos’n followed him out of the messroom and walked beside him on the pier.
“They’re all the same, Rio,” he said, a little sadly. “The ships, the turnips and the crew. By God!—I won’t rot on shore, though.”
“I won’t neither,” said Rio. “I’ll go back sometime.”
They were passing a waterfront cafe. Its sign read: beer parlour. Joe pulled Rio inside and they sat down at a table.