The ordinary stopped him.
“Loan me a dollar, Al. An’ I’ll go with you.”
The A.B. laughed.
“A dollar?” He laughed again without looking.
“I’ll pay you back in Panama,” said the ordinary.
“We don’t get no draw in Panama,” said Al, and left.
Some of the men followed him and the others climbed into their bunks. The lights went out. The old sailor snored uneasily through the bitter ghosts of his life. In the bunk above him the young ordinary tried to forget Sand Street. He wanted to think about a secluded little valley on the Pacific coast—so far away. He remembered the thick smell of clover and the believing, fresh eyes of a girl he had left—for this? His bunk felt damp and he turned wearily.... His shipmate was on Sand Street now. There would be light-haired women and dark-haired women. There would be dancing and an orchestra.... The boy rolled on his stomach and held a pillow tightly against his eyes. The darkness brought fields and sunsets; branches and yellow, curving rivers. Memory covered Sand Street—Sand Street with its gin-mills, its red mouth and perspiration. The boy held the pillow tighter. Smelling the girl’s lips and the clover—dreaming of the bright, soft land—so far—his mother, his sweetheart, he went to sleep.