We took the food into the firemen's messroom, lighted by a single dark blue bulb, and sat opposite each other, a long, narrow, oak plank between us, picnic style. The cook enjoined us to shut the door, to cover even the dim illumination. The closed windows of the messroom were painted black so that not the slightest trace of light could escape.
"How do you feel this morning?" I asked.
"I am surprised at how well I do feel. If it wasn't for my hands I would feel fine," he replied cordially, sort of self-congratulatory, a half smile creeping about his non-secretive mouth.
"Moisten the inside of your gloves with petroleum, and your hands will soon heal if you are careful," I advised quietly. "The oilers will give you some."
"It is the first time in my life that my system has had the nicotine and other bug juices washed out of it; a cigarette tastes different now," he exulted, though evidently looking for sympathy.
"Do you know," he continued, as he cornered a chunk of meat in the bottom of the pan and tried to sever it with the ancient cutlery, "I always thought I could work, and now I know it."
"Then this is really your maiden labor sweat?" I asked, seemingly incredulous.
"Say," he began, still laboring with the meat, "I think this ship bought a job lot of sheep, and there were some granddaddies in the lot." I smiled an assent.
"If any one had told me a few days ago that I would be sitting on board a ship before an oak plank, eating old ram with relish, and out of a laundry vessel at that, I would have believed him insane."
I laughed outright and mumbled something about "crises in every one's life."