“It’s too old to hurt now,” answered Martin.
“Go on,” said Rio.
“It wasn’t much. It taught me to drink incredibly bad gin—corrosive enough that it’s a wonder I have any guts left. Why go on?”
“I know,” said Rio. “You had it your way, and I had it mine. But it was all the same.... I had the wind you longed for, and it put scissors in my throat! Let’s forget it. Look!” He pointed to a wharf near them. One group of men walking along it held signs in the air. Another, grimly silent, stood by the entrance to the warehouse pier, watching those who came out and those who entered. “We’ll forget our trouble in that scramble, Martin! It looks like our boys have tied up a ship.”
“Let’s see. That’s Pier V7. What ship’s that?”
“The Leana. She makes Pedro, and Puget Sound, I think.”
One of the men who were carrying signs stopped when he saw them.
“Howdy, Rio.”
“Hello, Brick. What’s the jibe?”