“‘Warmth’—of your civilization?” he repeated. “I’m astonished.”
“Perhaps the word was ill-chosen,” answered Roberts. “But whatever our qualities may be, I hope that you prefer them to those which emanate from the fo’c’sle of a West Indian freighter. Now, it is my turn to be astonished. Why did you say ‘your civilization’? Are you not—” Roberts hesitated, “one of us?”
“I’m a seaman. We don’t fit in anywhere on land.” Roberts changed—seemed more severe in the passing light.
“This bold and masterful deception of all seamen is, to me, Martin, a shabby thing. I see it as a trite avoidance of each standard which, although sometimes unbeautiful, is present in the world. Such life, irrelevant and irreverent of all doctrine, is but a switching of responsibilities—a turning of the back that’s shielded by mere boastfulness. In honesty to myself, I must admit that there’s a careless beauty in its physical, sweet shape—the wrap of dungarees—and forgetfulness in song. And yet, it’s impotent. Quite sterile in its loveliness.... And finally, I see the man—the dungarees—the very songs in pity.” The color surged into Roberts’ cheeks and he leaned nearer. “You’ve abused yourself, Martin. There’s been dishonesty in plenty for yourself. And what, dear boy, quite comes of it?”
“Perhaps I do it to hear you drain yourself,” said Martin dryly.
Roberts answered with immediate fierceness.
“I don’t believe I’ve ever talked this way before. But I’ll use your method now, Martin. You need a job. From your card I noticed that you’ve been a printer. Can you operate a linotype?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll arrange things. Now, in heaven’s name—let’s leave this miserable economic status. It’s impossible.”
Martin frowned slightly.