Rio sat up, took his coat and left. There was another chance. Martin might have registered at the Employment Station. Rio walked along Third Avenue, watching faces, stopping frequently to glance inside the saloons. A long line of men, waiting outside one of the Relief restaurants, attracted him. One of the men held out his hand.
“Two for a nickel, buddy,” he said, holding his fingers over the meal-tickets.
“Three for a nickel, pisan,” said Rio, walking on.
It was late afternoon when he reached the Employment Station. Roberts was at his desk when Rio approached. He was turning over the cards in some files and did not look up immediately. Rio, a rollicking expression in his eyes, put his hands on his hips and began to pose slightly. He looked like a male bear under morphine. The adviser glanced at him briefly, saw the attitude and dismissed it.
“Come back to-morrow. It’s five o’clock,” he said.
“I don’t want to sign up,” answered Rio, grinning now. “I’m lookin’ for a shipmate.”
Roberts shook his head.
“They’ll help you at Central Relief Headquarters. This is Employment.” He spoke peremptorily.
“I know,” said Rio. “He signed up over there and never checked out, but he ain’t around. I thought maybe he found a job here.”
“Five o’clock,” Roberts repeated, looking annoyed. “My secretary will check over the list for you.”