“The same.”
“Then I’ll stay,” said the sailor, who was still busy with his face. “I heard tell of No. 8 out abroad. I’m an A.B., you know. Before the mast on half the seas of the world! I met a sailor who was here; not here, but at No. 8. Ah! he had great stories of the place. So I said that I’d come here too, if ever I came to Glasgow. Damn! that one-armed pig he almost blinded me, did the beggar. But I gave one to him on the jowl that he’ll not forget.... Where can I wash my face?”
“On the landing,” Norah told him, and handed the man a towel.
He went out and washed. Presently he re-appeared and Norah took stock of him. He was dressed in sailors’ garb; his eyes were hazy from intoxication, one of his hard and knotted hands was tattooed on the back, his dark and heavy moustache was draggled at both ends and a red scar on his right cheek-bone showed where the soldier had hit him. He was young, probably not over thirty years of age. He sat down again.
“D’ye know what it is?” he exclaimed, striking his fist heavily against his knee. “A woman of yer kind may be as good as most and better than many. I always say that, always. Some of them may be bad, but for the others——”
He banged his fist again against his knee and paused as if collecting words for an emphatic finish to his sentence.
“Others are as good as pure gold,” he concluded. He was silent for a moment as if deep in thought, then he fixed his eyes on the girl. “Come here and sit on my knee,” he said.
She sat down on his knee and laughed, but her laugh was forced and hollow.
“Ye’re unhappy,” said the man, looking at her fixedly, and stroking his face with his hand. “Don’t say that ye aren’t, for I know that ye are. Ye’ll be new at this game, maybe.... D’ye belong to Glasgow?”
“I do.”