After a prodigious meal and a favorite cigarette he again surprised me by putting a question that was hard to answer.
"Where do we go from here?" he asked, looking inside his hands, which were still in a deplorable state.
"What—so soon?" I parried.
"Yes—after I came out of my luny funk at the hospital, I had time to think things over, duly and truly and soberly. You know, I haven't had a drink since we left New York, and I don't want one. This strenuous life rather appeals to me now that I have found I have a good body—as good as any one's—and it's got to work without getting sore or fluffing up with blisters. Besides, the Governor gave me the toe of his shoe and said I wasn't worth a 'cuss,' and I am going to show him." There was great determination in the manner in which he blew out the smoke of his cigarette.
"I think we will find an employment office here," I suggested mildly.
"Take me to it. I'm ready now," he said quickly, though hardly able to sit up in bed, but when we came to the employment office he hung back, insisting that I should be the spokesman. The face of the man in charge was heavy and florid. He might easily have passed for a gambler, confidence man, or race-horse tout. He sized us up critically before he replied:
"The only man I need is quartermaster—ship bound for New Orleans to take on cotton. You can sign again there for Liverpool if you want to."
Strong heard what was said and I moved toward him inquiringly.
"I don't care what it is, so long as you think it's all right. It can't be any worse than firing."