CHAPTER X
Rio went down to the Seaman’s Institute for breakfast. He had come to a conclusion about Martin. He felt that it was useless to look for him. And Rio needed the sea. It would be easy to get a ship.
The Mediterranean?—Algiers on a hot night, a skiff rubbing its brown keel on a plaque of sand. Turpentine.... South America?—Through the deep night wind one single light on Tierra del Fuego, an invalid blonde on the cruise ship, port of Rio.... Intercoastal?—The French “Babee” Quarter in Cristobal, water changing under the heat.
Rio scuffed his shoes on the concrete floor and looked up moodily. Then he saw him. Martin was sitting alone at one of the small tables. Rio pushed back his chair and walked over to him.
“Well,” he said, looking at Martin’s white face. “Well.”
“Hello, Rio.” Martin raised his cup, but the coffee spilled before it reached his lips, and without drinking, he replaced the cup on the table.
“You’re a fine guy,” Rio was frowning.
“Yes.”