“Gee, McLean,” I exclaimed, “do you think I could ever have a ship on my chest?”
He moved his wad of tobacco to the other side of his cheek, looked at me scornfully and then condescended to answer:
“Naw, can’t be tattooed like me unless you got hair on your chest.”
That finished me, for my chest was as smooth as a piece of silk. But I wasn’t to be outdone. I went to my father and asked him what made hair grow on people’s chest. That question played right into his hand because he replied:
“Hair on your chest, Joan? Well, let me see. I warrant if you was to eat your pea soup every meal that would grow hair on your chest.”
And I hated pea soup, but if it was necessary to cause a growth on my chest like McLean’s, I would endure it. So for weeks I ate the pea soup with the secret consolation that some morning I would awake with a thick crop of hair on my chest. We arrived in Adelaide, South Australia, and still no hair on my chest. I was worried for fear I would probably never be able to grow any, so I went to McLean who was in the hold of the ship unloading copra.
“McLean,” I confided, “I’ve looked every morning for nine weeks and there isn’t any hairs on me yet—not even any fuzz. What shall I do?”
He grinned, one of his rare indulgences, and said:
“Hey, Skipper, is the Old Man aboard?”
“No, he isn’t. He’s up at the American Consul’s office this morning.”