"These young lads"—Trench waved a hand toward the stretched-out shapes all around—"they don't seem to mind it."
"They're young, sir."
"Young? I didn't think there was a tougher man, young or old, in the navy than you."
"A man's body," said Killorin, "can take comfort atop of a hot galley stove—or a cold one. A man's mind—'tis not so simply eased."
"Trench," said Carlin, when they had left Killorin, "when I was a boy there was a great hero in our school. Half the girls I knew carried his picture on their bureaus. And most of the other half were suspected of hiding one away. One of those athletic heroes, a husky Apollo—this Killorin makes me think of him. But suddenly he disappeared from the middle of his glory."
"Any crime?"
"No, no crime. Wild, but straight. His name was Delaney."
"Killorin's right name," said Trench after a while, "is Delaney."
Carlin left Trench and walked around deck, in and out among the sleeping forms. Here was one in a hammock, here one on a cot, but mostly they slept on the bare deck in their blankets. Every odd corner and open space held them. They were tucked in against hatchways, under turrets, inboard of boats, outboard of boats, next the smoke-pipes, in the lee of gypsies, of winches, cook's galley. Everyhow and everywhere they slept—on their backs, their stomachs, on their sides, curled up and stretched out. Some whistled, some groaned, some snored, but mostly they slept like babes.
It was hot, as sometimes it seems to be hotter in the night than ever it can be in the day, even in the tropics.