“Ah! That’s better. I’m coming, friend.”
He walked up close to Martin who dropped his cigarette. Danny shot out his right hand and grabbed Martin’s shoulder; but feeling the broad, tensed muscle, he became suddenly quiet and stood for a long time running his hand up and down Martin’s arm. At last, he started to cry gently. Then, and only then, did Martin throw his arm about him and whisper all the lonely, desperate things that sailors know; until willingly, Danny let himself be led into his own room. Martin got down on his knees and took off Danny’s shoes. He covered him with a blanket, looked at him once to be sure he was sleeping and tiptoed out.
When he got back to his own room the boy was gone. So were his small camera and his pea-jacket.
He went out into the street and walked along until he saw a beer sign. He stood at the rail and kicked the sawdust angrily, thinking of his camera. As he took his glass he caught his reflection in the large mirror above the bar and burst out laughing; for his head seemingly rested between the enormous breasts of a nude which had been painted on the wall behind him. Amazed at this unsuspected liaison, he turned to regard with favor the immense mural. The lady reclined, supine and indifferent to the ardent glances of the drunken men about her. Her bottom rested on a couch of lurid green and one arm, disproportionate, held aloft a wreath of garden spray and roses.
Martin was still laughing when a little white-haired man with a thick nose and red eyes walked over to him.
“Ahoy, sailor,” said the little fellow, and blew two sharp notes between his teeth. “Ship ahoy!”
“Ship ahoy,” said Martin.
The little man giggled.
“I like you, mate.” He held out his hand, his eyes watering happily. “I’m a sailor, and my name’s Old Crackin. When my old lady’s sick—when she’s havin’ babies—I don’t take no tea for the fever. I don’t wait.”