“The strike may not come off, Rio. There’s always a lot of talk. And if it does, it’s no worse than the waterfront.”
“Well, anyway, I’m goin’ out for a smoke.” Rio walked into the little hallway, calling back over the banisters to Martin to find out how much longer he had to wait.
Martin glanced at his watch.
“I’ll be through in twenty minutes,” he said. “We can stop down the street for a nightcap.”
“I’ll be outside,” Rio mumbled, and went on down the stairs.
He was sitting on the steps when Martin joined him. His huge frame filled the doorway and as he arose lazily, Martin wondered, as he had wondered many times before, at the harmony of his movements.
Far beyond the reaches of the sulphur fumes, the soft tread of these men, accustomed as they were to the intricate, woven fabric of the sea, made scarcely a sound in the night.
Rio sniffed.
“New York,” he said, as they walked along. “It smells different this time of year.”