Martin handed the ticket to the old man. He felt irritable as he sat down next to the boy.
“He can take it, and to hell with him,” he said.
The boy laughed.
“I felt like that when I paid off. Now, I’m Red, the Cockroach—and a tighter one you’ll never find in the galley sink!” He talked on rapidly, going from one subject to another and his freckled nose was so impudent that Martin had to smile with him. At last, the boy pulled off his cap, showing his dark red hair. “That’s why they call me ‘Red.’ And,” he continued, putting his hand in his pocket and pulling out a fistful of tickets, “that’s why I’m ‘Red, the Cockroach.’ How’s shipping?”
“I’m not trying to get out,” Martin replied. “No butter?” he added, looking at the stale, brownish bread.
“No butter,” answered the boy, nodding his head. “And watch the beans. See those black fellows?” He pointed to Martin’s plate. “They’ll come up.”
“We’ll leave them,” said Martin, running his fork through the pinkish mixture.
The boy had thrown his cap on the floor. He picked it up with a nervous gesture and got out of his chair.
“I’m going for a stick of weed,” he said. “Do you want to blow one up with me?”