Strong labored with himself, still holding to his bag, half staggered to the counter and signed on the line indicated—"Hiram Strong, Jr."
The signature was plain and businesslike. Evidently the Candidate had known better days.
"He's been kicked out or disowned," muttered the first officer to me while he was signing up. "He won't be worth a cuss. Look—those hands never did a lick of work—but he will fill the list," he added, walking about nervously and sizing me up with apparent approbation.
The agency man came up at once and held the pen towards me, and without hesitation I signed "Ben Taylor" on the line beneath. While I was thus engaged Hiram leaned against the counter weak and listless, his bag between his feet. We had both signed as firemen or stokers on the steamship Domus for a round trip to an unnamed Gulf, or Mexican port.
Although pretty well awake by this time Strong did not resent my taking his arm and helping him a bit. He made no comment at first, but after he got used to the lively walk along the dock, he began to show signs of saying something.
"Old pal," he began, without turning his head, "I—I've got a headache—top's coming off—and my stomach is all jelly. It shakes as I walk and makes me sick," he ended under his breath.
"You'll be all right after you get some sleep."
"Y-e-s—I think—I h-h-ope so——I've had an awful time—an awful time, pardee—but this is my last—this is my last," he added, more to himself.
His bloodless face and lips, pink lids and bloodshot eyes indicated a disordered system urgently rebelling against recent abuses.
After we got aboard the harbor-master's tug, although very weak, he refused to sit down. Noting that I had found a seat, he lurched over to me.