“For gosh sake!” he said. “What’s he doin’?”
No one answered him. An old sailor picked up Rio’s sea boots and inspected them.
“There’s a god-damned hole,” he said.
An able-bodied seaman lit a cigarette.
“He blew his cork,” he said to the smoke.
“It’s his own cork,” answered the old sailor.
“Yeah,” said the A.B., picking up Rio’s oilskins and hanging them by his own locker.
“Let’s get a game,” suggested the ordinary, shuffling a pack of cards.
“Get your game with the black gang,” said the old sailor. “Them lights’re goin’ out.”
“So’m I,” said the A.B., pulling on a blue jacket. “There’s a bag on Sand Street that thinks I’m papa.”