Part 12 (1/2)

”d.i.c.k's got it.”

”Going to a job?”

”Maybe,” said the elder of the two, a little on his guard.

”Well, what I was finkin' was vat vis is a six-weeks' trip, an' if we was to pal in we could have a good time. I've done vis jaunt before, and know ve ropes. I know how to square ve stewards to get drinks out of hours, and little extrys.”

The farm lads nodded comprehension, and the younger one began to talk rather loudly of his prospects. The pock-marked man drew a little closer.

”We're going out to start a little business,” he began.

”Ole Fred,” the red-haired man took up the tale, jerking his head towards his friend, ”he's bin runnin' a business down Poplar way--not a business, in a manner o' speaking. It was a kip for sailors. On'y he got acrorst the cops abaht a sailor as disappeared. So him an' me--we've alwiz palled in wiv each ovver--fought we'd make a move over ve water.

If we was to pall in togevver vis trip maybe we might do somefing togevver when we hit up in Sydney.”

”Put it there, mate,” said the pock-marked man, holding out his hand to the farm lads, ”and we'll wet it.”

They all got up. Ole Fred, noticing Marcella looking at him with frank curiosity as she tried to translate his queer, clipped English, gave her what he imagined to be a friendly smile.

”Coming?” he asked, holding back, while the red-haired man gave a loud guffaw and dug him in the ribs.

”Now, now, Freddy--vat's his great weakness--a little bit o' skirt,” he explained to the others, who laughed loudly.

”Coming where?” asked Marcella with pleased interest, though she wished his face was not so appalling. ”Is it tea-time?”

”No. Come an' 'ave a drink,” he said.

”Oh, can we get one? I am glad. I missed lunch. You were luckier, I suppose, as you have been here before and understand the rules. It's very kind of you.”

”I never mind being kind to young ladies,” he said, leering at her.

”Look here, you sit down here an' I'll bring you a drink. Then we c'n have a little talk and get to know each other better.”

She sat down, feeling horrible at hating his face when he was so kind.

She heard laughter from the men who had gone a little way up the deck to a doorway, and then Ole Fred came back with a small tumbler in one hand and a large one in the other. The small one he put into Marcella's hand.

”Oh--” she began, looking at it doubtfully.

”What's up?” he asked, sitting down very close to her.

”I'm sorry. I wish I'd asked you to bring tea.”

”Oh, you can't get tea. Anyway, s.h.i.+p's tea is rotten. Drink that up, dear. It'll put a bit of go into you. I like young ladies with a bit of go.”

She frowned at him. Then the smell of the stuff in the tumbler was wafted to her. The green baize door came before her, almost tangible, and the book-room as it was the night her father died, when last she had smelt whisky as she and Wullie knelt on the floor beside him.

”Here, take it,” she cried, starting up wildly. ”Take it away! I'd die if I drank it.”

”What in h.e.l.l--” began the man, staring after her.

But she was already down the companion-way and rus.h.i.+ng towards her cabin. All the misery of her father's death and illness had swept back upon her. It was quite true, as Aunt Janet had said, that nothing would kill that pain until she had schooled herself not to feel. She felt the literal, physical weight of all that misery as she ran along the alley-way, her eyes swimming, her face flushed.