“No.” He shook his head. “I want it dark and heavy and raging. I want it so fierce it will bring me home much faster.”
“Let me have it my way, Martin,” she urged softly. “I want it gentle so that no part of you will be hurt. I’ve never been patient about most things; but I will be—about this.” Deane spoke so tenderly that the cool night wind stopped blowing, and a moment of such stillness ensued that all outside was hidden—all sound, all waves of sound and color—everything was hidden.
“Almighty God!” whispered Martin, staring at her—staring at her coral cheeks and swollen bosom. “The Scylla Deeps—a sea no man has found—” Aloud he cried, “It will be done your way, Deane. In the end, it will always be your way.” The tears were coming into his eyes without restraint. He opened the door, saw the silhouette of the woman sitting quietly on the couch, looked for a moment through the window at the lights which seemed to be nodding to him and went into the hall.
Outside, in the street, he hesitated, then turned toward the river. For a long time he wandered about the waterfront. Wearily, at last, he sat down on one of the piers and watched the moon set. When dawn came he got up stiffly and went to the Seaman’s Institute.
CHAPTER XXX
Martin went into the large main room of the Institute, found a vacant chair, sat down and looked at the men. He couldn’t recognize a single face although the seamen were going through the usual formulas. Some of them were lined up before the marble bar, drinking coffee and eating doughnuts. Others stood in groups, talking to each other; while a few, like himself, sat quietly, knowing themselves on the fringe of the stream. Some of these few were regarding their history—pressing their falls and errors out of the past. Some were rubbing the small change in their pockets, wondering whether to buy “smoke” and for a brief period drift into the senseless drunkenness and blindness of the poison, or to try again—to use this precious remnant of their money for getting to a pier already lined with men as desperate to ship out as themselves.
A man walked in, brown-skinned, alert. He went, in turn, to several groups of seamen. They welcomed him and he shook their hands. “I wonder how long he’ll last,” thought Martin. “A week, I guess, if he’s paid off.” He heard the men question the newcomer about the ship—the food. Had he seen Ella in Coconut Grove?... Was Charlie’s Punch Bowl as alive as ever?... Had he paid off?... The man grinned when they mentioned Ella, nodded his head vigorously about Jamaica; but said “No!” about paying off.
“I can’t get that way again, boys.” He pointed to a few deadheads, snoring in their chairs. His finger swung to Martin. “For Christ’s sake,” he said, walking rapidly to him. For a moment he stood in front of him, shaking his head, his hands on his hips. “You look like one of them crawlers we used to swat in Morocco. Is your short-arm jammed?”