“They paid us off an’ are tryin’ to ship a fink crew,” answered the man, hitching the sign a little higher. “We dumped the mattresses over the side last night comin’ in. The bedbugs had made ’em Snug Harbor. I slept on the hatch off the coast of Mexico. And God!—what roaches!”
“Hmm,” said Rio, and he and Martin walked on.
They had started uptown when a man came out of the warehouse. One of the union men who was watching the doorway ran after him and knocked off his cap with the flat of his hand. The other tried to fight back but was smothered with punches before a policeman broke it up.
“Like old times,” said Martin.
“Yeah. Let’s go up to the Hall,” suggested Rio.
They reached South Ferry, walked to Pearl Street and went up the stairs into an old building. The room was crowded with seamen. Some of them, in chairs tilted against the wall, were sitting quietly or exchanging stories. Others were playing cards. The air was full of tobacco smoke, stale and close. Rio and Martin went to the desk. A jumpy-eyed man behind it knew them and nodded. Martin took out his book. His dues were paid to the following month, but he laid down eight more dollars.
The nervous fellow looked at him, then took the book and examined it carefully.
“I see you ain’t got in no picket duty since you left the west coast,” he said.
“No.”
“We could use a man on the line to-night.”