"Looks pretty good, sir," said he.
Kirk did not answer. He had not heard.
"Some burg," ventured the drummer.
Again encountering silence, he turned away, hurt. This churlish
attitude on the part of one returning to God's country on one of God's
own mornings surprised and wounded him.
To him all was right with the world. He had breakfasted well; he was
smoking a good cigar; and he was strong in the knowledge that he had
done well by the firm this trip and that bouquets were due to be handed
to him in the office on lower Broadway. He was annoyed with Kirk for
having cast even a tiny cloud upon his contentment.
He communicated his feelings to the third officer, who happened to come
on deck at that moment.
"Say, who _is_ that guy?" he asked complainingly. "The big son of
a gun leaning on the rail. Seems like he'd got a hangover this morning.
Is he deaf and dumb or just plain grouchy?"
The third officer eyed Kirk's back with sympathy.
"I shouldn't worry him, Freddie," he said. "I guess if you had been up
against it like him you'd be shy on the small talk. That's a fellow
called Winfield. They carried him on board at Colon. He was about all
in. Got fever in Colombia, inland at the mines, and nearly died. His
pal did die. Ever met Hank Jardine?"
"Long, thin man?"
The other nodded.
"One of the best.
Pages:
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169