"You were a seaman?" asked the Governor politely.
"A seaman, v-d man, hard-a-lee man, a demon," sang the sailor. "Blast and damn me, I've fathered six hundred bastards in all colors—white don't count, naturally—from Chile to Chihili, from Timbuctoo to Kalamazoo. Have a drink."
The Governor looked around. On a long bar were ranged dozens of bottles, most of them empty. He picked up the nearest full one. It was cold, green, opened, and full of beer. He put it to his lips, tilted it, realized his throat had been dry, parched. "Thanks," he muttered, taking it away reluctantly.
"Ah," said the cripple, "you should know the thanks I've had." He indicated his medals carelessly. "Decorated, cited, saluted, handshook, kissed on both cheeks. I've been thanked in Java and Ungava, in the Hebrides and the Celebes, in Tripoli and Trincomalee, in Lombok and Vladivostock. Have another drink."
"Thanks," repeated Lampley.
"Pleasure," responded the cripple. "Never drink alone, sleep alone, die alone. You haven't been here before?"
Lampley was puzzled how to answer. "Yes and no," he said at last.
The other nodded approvingly, tossed a ball into the air and caught it. "Caution. Many a poor sailor's been drowned dead because the captain or the mate yessed when he should have noed. Yes-and-no's a snug berth in a landlocked harbor."
"I only meant...."