“Go back to your cabin, Danny,” he said. “We’ve taken on the pilot.”
Danny, shaking all over, looked once more at Martin and returned to his chair.
Martin handed his slip to the clerk who turned it nervously in his hand.
“Danny’s all right,” he said. “Liquor took his ticket. He never jumped like that before, though. Kind of look out, will you?”
“He didn’t mean anything.” Martin smiled reassuringly. “I jumped like that once myself.” He took his key and towel, packed his canvas up three flights of stairs and walked down the corridor to his room. It was a narrow, cell-like cubicle, furnished with a cot and a small locker. There was no light and the tiny window, high in the wall, admitted only a few indirect rays of sunshine. Martin sorted his gear, found his razor and went into the washroom.
Three men were huddled in a corner. As Martin lathered his face he looked in their direction and saw that they had a bottle of rubbing alcohol which they were diluting with warm water. After a good deal of grunting and shaking and laughing they held it to the light.
“Looks to me like Tri Gin,” said one whose hands shook violently.
“Looks to me like smoke,” said another, laughing and turning to Martin. “Have some smoke, Jack?” he asked.
Martin shook his head.
“Ulcers,” he said, pointing to his stomach, and started shaving.