“Where’s that god-damned lookout?” He fastened his pea-jacket and went out on the bridge. Rio could hear voices through the wind and shrugged his shoulders. After awhile, the second mate came back puffing.
“A fine lot—a fine lot to work with!” he said.
A seaman stepped inside the wheelhouse and addressed the mate.
“There’s a man missin’, sir.”
“A man missing—a man missing? What do you mean? What happened?”
“I dunno. The sailors’ delegate got drunk ashore. He was a little foggy and fell on the deck. He didn’t seem to mind and said he’d take a little air topside. When he didn’t come down we went up and looked around.”
“Mother of Christ!” cried the second mate. “Break out the crew—No!” He recalled the man. “I’ll get the skipper.” He ran out of the wheelhouse, his jacket open.
The man who had reported the accident looked at Rio. Rio’s face was dark and kindly from the glow of the binnacle light.
Several nights later they passed the Gulf Stream and when Rio got up about eleven in the morning he saw the deep-purple waters of the Caribbean Sea. It was getting warmer. He put on clean dungarees and went to the sailors’ mess for a plate of soup. He could tell little from the expression of the men around him, but rather, felt their sullen disapproval and was indifferent to it. He ate his soup, asked for another plateful, ate it and went up to the wheelhouse again. He had been steering for about five minutes with the second mate beside him when the latter went out of the house. Rio could hear him climb the ladder to the flying bridge to check the compass. When he came down, he walked in front of Rio and closed the door on the weather side, although it was hot already. He came back, looked at the compass and smiled a peculiar smile. Suddenly, there was a sharp noise and a saccharine odor and the second mate, still smiling, went out on the lee side of the bridge.
Rio held his nose.