behind the open door. It was Fairchild and the fat Jew, but they passed his door and entered the room next to his, from which he heard immediately sounds of activity that culminated in a thin concussion of glass and glass.
“My God, man’—the fat Jew’s voice—“what have you done? Do you really think we can move this boat?”
“Naw. I just want to stir em up a little. Life’s getting altogether too tame on this boat: nothing’s happened at all to-day. I did it principally to see Talliaferro and Mark Frost sweat some.” Fairchild laughed. His laughter died into chuckles, heavily. “But I have seen a little river tug no bigger than a Ford hauling a st—”
“Good Lord,” the other man said again. “Finish your drink. O immaculate cherubim,” he said, going on down the passage. Fairchild followed. Pete heard their feet on the stairs, then crossing the deck. He returned to the port.
Yes, sir, they were going to try it, sure as hell. They were now embarking in the tender: he could hear them, thumping and banging around and talking; a thin shriek of momentary alarm. Women, too (Damn to hell, I bet Jenny’s with ’em, Pete whispered to himself). And somebody that didn’t want to go at all.
Voices without; alarums and excursions, etc:
Come on, Mark, you’ve got to go. All the men will be needed, hey, Mrs. Maurier?
Yes, indeed; indeed, yes. All the men must help.
Sure: all you brave strong men have got to go.
I’m a poet, not an oarsman. I can’t—
So is Eva: look at her, she’s going.
Shelley could row a boat.
Yes, and remember what happened to him, too.
