tted
against the forward bulkhead. Midway was an intersecting, thwart-ship
alleyway between the stores. At this point of intersection was the
stanchion, behind which was the boatswain, a hulking black blot in the
surrounding gloom.

He hunched himself along upon his knees, and reached the stanchion.

"Drink--dry--water," he gabbled painfully.

"Marty--Marty, lad, I'm glad you're 'ere!" came the heartfelt whisper
from the boatswain. "I feared 'e 'ad choked the life out o' ye. Dry,
ye say? So am I, lad. Cussed so much I can't spit--an' my back's
bloomin' well busted from bending over 'ugging this stanchion!"

Martin, leaning against a tier of boxes, was able to see the boatswain
more clearly. He could not make out the other's features plainly, but
he almost rubbed against an arm and leg, and he saw that the big man
was in his underwear. The boatswain was seated on the floor, and his
arms and legs encircled the stanchion.

"I'd 'a' come to you, Marty, but the blighters 'ave me ironed, ironed
'and an' foot around this bloody stanchion! Ow, but it's a black
business, lad! But can ye stand, Martin? 'Ave they ironed you, too?"

Martin desperately endeavored to swallow the dry lump in his throat.

"Behind back--hand," he managed to gulp out. "Throat bad--can't
talk--dry----"

"Be'ind your back!" broke in the boatswain. "Ow ---- blast the cruel
devils! Be'ind your back--ironed be'ind your back! An' you lyin' on
your arms these hours! That's cruel 'ard--'arder than me 'ugging this
ruddy post. Throat bad? I know--I seen them giving you the squeeze.
Ju-jitsu--swiggle me if it wasn't! But can ye stand, Martin? 'Ave you
the use o' your legs? Because, them boxes you're leanin' against are
canned goods, tomatoes an' such, and----"

But Martin heard no more. He had struggled to his feet, and begun to
investigate. For the boatswain's remark concerning canned goods had
brought two memories to his mind. One memory went back to the old,
half-forgotten days of his clerkhood in San Francisco. In those days
he had occasionally gone on Sunday hikes over the Marin hills, in
company with Fatty Jones, who worked in a neighboring office. And
Fatty Jones, he recalled, always carried with him, in preference to a
canteen, two cans of tomatoes for drinking purposes.

The second memory went back but a week. He, and the two Kanakas of his
watch, had been sent below to break out a fresh cask of beef. As they
struggl