Now there began to be signs of how the cattlemen would wander off
together when they came to land again. Understandings seemed to be
arrived at between threes and fours and half-dozens. It was not
exactly cliquishness--it was more a case of "birds of a feather"--No,
that simile is bad, as are most ready-made proverbs. Not their outward
parts, their mere feathers, but their inner parts arranged the
groupings. The snarling was all over; drink, and the effects of drink,
were old stories. One or two men, of course, were still left alone by
all, men so different as the Man with the Hat and the Man with the
Specs. Frenchy, or Pierre, his tobacco nearly done, and his
complaisance in giving it away in a like state, was now discarded by
some of the former spongers, but not by all. Probably those who had
been interested in him, as well as sponging upon him, were the ones who
now besought him to sing a French song, or to tell them what France
looked like.
The feeding and watering were by this time matters of routine, wakening
at four a habit. The cabin was almost tenantless, only the
cold-blooded, or those children of the slums who felt out of their
element unless they slept in rancid air, turned in there. Among the
diminishing hay near the hatches--all open again--or on the upper deck,
around the smoke-stack, and between the sheep-pens, most of the men
slept, snatching a nap during the day when the cattle did not call
them, sleeping there at night until only the extreme cold drove them
down, with short gasps, from the windy deck to the asthmatical cabin.
It was, indeed, easier to tolerate the cabin by day than by late night,
for by day, and early in the morning, there was some tobacco smoke--not
much now, to be sure--and the companion was open. At night the tobacco
smoke soon ceased to combat with the ammonia fumes as the men slept,
and some of the cold-blooded were sure to mount up and shut the
companion-door before turning in, making the cabin's atmosphere more
stifling still.
They began to talk of reaching Liverpool, of what they would do there,
to ask each other: "You coming back on her?" Cockney and Michael
exchanged friendly speech again. It is doubtful which started, but
they were again conversing. The Inquisitive One begged Frenchy to
"come with us," indicating the group round him; but Pierre explained
that he was going home. One told another about the loss of Frenchy's
valise, and Mike's recovery of it, as he might tell of the incident on
another ship one day if Frenchmen, or valises, were mentioned. Many of
the men fell to rubbing their chins, and announcing that they would be
the better of a shave. They asked each other: "Have you a razor?"
Frenchy taking warning by the cadging of tobacco that left him
smokeless now, pretended that he didn't know what "razor" meant, was
unusually dense to signs, could not be got to understand of what they
talked. Somebody commented that he _must_ have a shave, that they all
should shave, looked too tough, that the day after to-morrow, perhaps,
they would be in Liverpool, and if they went ashore like this they'd be
taken for cadgers by everybody.
Scholar took pity on them. He had managed to shave twice already,
despite the sea running. Now he offered the loan of his razor to one
man; and many others asked to be next. Some of them sneered, both at
the razor and at those who wished to use it. At any rate Scholar,
carefully propped, had his shave; and others--each using his razor,
each handing the razor back to him when finished. Thus, at least, they
acted to begin with.
"I wonder," said Mike, approaching him, "if ye would lend me the loan
of your razor, Scholar, if it's not too much to be asking ye."
"Certainly," answered Scholar, and Mike had his shave, then gave the
razor back. Another man had it, and thereafter there was no more talk
of the razor for an hour or two, when suddenly several were asking
where it was, and it was impossible to tell who had it. Mike was
greatly upset.
"I don't like it at all," he said, "not at all. Here's Scholar being
kind to youse, and there's some of you fellers can't see anything
without putting it in your pockut."
He looked round the crowd. Harry of the mad eyes sat humped, nursing
his knees, and smiling in front of him. Jack was smiling too, a
cynical smile it might be, however. Johnnie, over his shoulder, asked
them to shut up about that razor. Mike's eye rested with suspicion on
Mad Harry, but he was unshaven; still, that didn't signify. Cockney,
with a clean bandage on his head, tried to thrash out the question of
who had used the razor last. It was a task more thorny than
discovering who turned out the gas for fun at the Philanthropists'
Teetotal Hand Out. Little Michael, beginning to peer under his
eye-patch now--with an eye and a half, as it were--grumbled a great
deal about the disappearance. It would give a man who didn't know them
such a poor opinion of cattlemen! Mike turned his troubled face to
Michael, puzzling over him; with no vocabulary to express his feelings
he wondered dumbly if Michael really had so high an opinion of a
"Push." The Inquisitive One drew Scholar aside anxiously, and with
intense eagerness asked him: "You don't think I got it, do you?"
"No, no," said Scholar. "That's all right--don't worry about it."
"No, but I wouldn't like you to think I had it--straight I wouldn't."
Mike was gloomy all that day. At night there was again a sing-song,
but it was not a very great success. One man, called upon for a song,
said he couldn't sing; another said: "Get on your feet and sing. What
the hell's the matter with you? Are you sitting on the razor?"
Another, who had danced a breakdown without being asked, was told that
he was no dancer, and that if that there razor could only be found he'd
have his throat cut.
Mike watched to see which men found these recurrent references merely
amusing, which looked disgusted, which appeared guilty; but it was
impossible even to begin the winnowing in that way. A flutter of more
pleasant talk ricocheted about, Molls and Biddies, and what not--names
of streets, descriptions of where they lay. One man stood up and sang
the praises of a certain lady friend. Mike's eyes opened wide and he
stared; his face gloomed. He shot out a hand, pointing at the man.
"Do you know what I'm going to tell you about her?" he said. Faces
turned to see what Mike had to say, and he said. The man looked
belligerent for a moment.
"No, no!" cried Mike to those who laughed. "No, no! I'm not talking
fanciful. I know the woman."
That settled it. Those who had listened believed that she was beneath
contempt, for there was verity in Mike's gesture. One of those from
the lower deck, who had been in the razor queue, and was grateful,
called to Scholar: "If you don't know Liverpool, Michigan," evidently
he had heard whence Scholar had come, "you come with me. There's a
moll I know--you'll like her."
"Pay no attintion to them," broke in Mike. "Them fellers sees a crimp
in a petticoat and they starts singing about her."
"That's right," agreed another. "Don't you go with him. You come
along of me." He looked Scholar up and down. He would be rather proud
to introduce Scholar, as a shipmate, to the lady in question.
Mike growled: "Scholar's coming with me," and turning to Scholar, very
friendly, his manner reminiscent in a far-off way of a kindly host:
"You come with me, Scholar," he said. "There's a fine motherly woman I
know----" and he nodded. "I'll put you on to her."
Scholar wondered if he should say: "Thank you very much." Instead he
drew at his empty pipe and looked at nothingness before him; and the
propeller whirled, and the screws beat on.
"What a queer homecoming these fellows know," he thought.