The men shook their heads sympathetically. This, they understood. They were dancing to the clapping of hands when Martin left.
In the low glim of his room he changed his shirt. He was about to lock his door when a lad ran frantically down the narrow hall, bumping into him. Martin held the boy coldly.
“Hide me,” sobbed the lad. “It’s Danny. He’s had smoke—” the sobs continued. “Danny thinks ... for Christ’s sake!—hide me!”
Martin shoved the boy inside his little room and closed the door, then took a cigarette from his pocket. A moment later, Danny put his head around the shadowy corner and walked slowly toward him. When he was closer, Martin struck a match and lit his cigarette abstractedly.
“Where is he?” asked Danny in a hard whisper. “Where’s my little galley rat?”
“Speak American, buddy,” said Martin. “This is an American vessel—not a Limey.”
“Don’t lie to me, you damned school-ship!” cried Danny, coming forward. “Where is he?”
Martin sighed resignedly.
“He’s here, Danny—under my shirt. Come get him.”