Disorder was smothered before it started. A lifted hand, a word of reproof from Mike, or a threat to summon the boss, and quarrelsome topers subsided. This threat of summoning the boss seemed to be most effective. Unseen, he exercised a potent influence.
There would be no opportunity to engage the attention of the persuasive bartender until the crowd had thinned. Rubio Sanchez lingered and looked on with the curious feeling that a kindly star had guided the pilgrimage to this Broadway Front. It was like a comforting intuition.
In the company that swirled along the bar was a boyish bluejacket, clean-built, jolly, with the red bars of a petty officer on his sleeve. He looked winsome and unspoiled, but eager to see what life was like. His two companions were older and harder Navy men. It was his money that carelessly paid for the rounds of drinks. He displayed crumpled bills by the fistful. It was like so much trash that burned holes in his pockets.
An argument arose. His companions had another engagement for the evening. They conferred with their heads together. The youngster laughed and refused to be dragged along. He was heard to call them a pair of boobs. The Navy patrol would be sure to pinch them if they rambled into the red-light district and, anyhow, they ought to know better. None of that for him. They borrowed money of him and rolled out to charter a seagoing hack.
The youngster stood undecided what to do next. It was early for the music and dancing in the cabaret across the hall. He drifted over to a table, sprawled in a chair, and glanced around the room. Two or three penniless loafers would have joined him, but he curtly told them to beat it. The young South American sitting alone with a lemonade and a straw impressed him favorably. He sauntered over, the round Navy hat balanced on the back of his head, and affably remarked:
“Hello, kid! How’s tricks? Don’t you go drowning yourself in too many buckets of that pink lemonade. What you need is one of Mike’s vermouth stingarees. I’ll buy.”
“Too much sting in it for me,” said the black-haired Rubio Sanchez, with a shy smile. “A little claret and vichy this time, if you don’t mind.”
“Suit yourself, buddy. I’m no souse myself. What’s your game? I don’t see anybody to play with but that bunch of doughboys with their bellies against the bar. God may love the Army, but I pass. What’s your home port? You were born under a cocoanut tree somewheres.”
“Colombia, but you can’t lose me in New York,” replied Rubio. “I used to sail there.”
“You don’t look husky enough. What’s your ship?”