uld suit me as well as Rio. It's more
to get away from here than anything."

"You has the right spirit, m' boy."

He paused, then added indifferently,

"Dunno but what I can find a berth fer you. Come if ye wanter, an'
we'll talk it over."

Wilson followed. This at least offered possibilities. The stranger
lolled the length of the dock shed and out into the street as
unconcernedly as though only upon a stroll. They turned into the main
thoroughfare among the drays and ship-chandlers' shops, out into the
busy, unconcerned life of the city. The stranger was as unconscious of
the confusion about him as though he were the only occupant of the
street, crossing in front of the heavy teams with a nonchalance that
forced frantic drivers to draw their horses to their haunches, and
motormen to bend double over their brakes. Oaths and warnings
apparently never reached him. Once Wilson clutched at his broad
shoulders to save him from a motor car. He merely spat at the rear
wheels.

"Couldn't git killed if I wanted to," he grumbled.

They brought up finally before a barroom and entered, passing through
to the small iron tables in the rear. The dim gas revealed smudged
walls ornamented with dusty English sporting prints--a cock fight, a
fist fight, and a coach and four done in colors. A dwarf of a waiter
swabbed off the wet disks made by beer glasses.

"Two half and halfs," ordered the stranger.

When they were brought, he shoved one towards Wilson.

"Drink," he said. "Might's well."

Wilson gulped down the bitter beer. It cleared his head and gave him
new life. The stranger ordered another.

"Can't talk to a man when he's thirsty," he observed.

The room grew hazily warm, and Wilson felt himself glowing with new
life and fresh courage.

"My name is Stubbs--Jonathan Stubbs," explained the stranger, as
Wilson put down the empty mug. "Follered the sea for forty year.
Rotten hard work--rotten bad grub--rotten poor pay. Same on land as
on sea, I reckon. No good anywhere. Got a friend who's a longshoreman
and says th' same 'bout his work. No good anywhere."

He paused as though waiting for the other to introduce _himself_.

"My name is Wilson, haven't done much of anything--and that's rotten
poor fun. But I want to get to South America and I'll do anything
under the sun that will pay my way there."

"Anything?"

"Yes," laughed Wilson, "anything, to heaving coal."

"'Fraid of your neck?" asked Stubbs.

"Try me."