Laurent could not help but imagine himself back at the "local," after work, on the evenings when accounts were turned in. Several of the dockers had brought gifts to "their Jean," this one a pipe, that one a plug of tobacco. One of the good fellows had hit upon the idea of giving Vingerhout a box of paper in three colors. They had to provide against interception by the facenderos. If Jean wrote on white paper, it would be a sign that things were going well; the rose-colored paper would signify precarious, but supportable conditions; the green, profound distress. And that in spite of the fact that the letter would contain only optimistic and reassuring news.
The hour was at hand. Laurent disappeared from view to install the women between decks with Tilbak. At first some difficulty was made about Laurent's going on board. Access to the emigrants' quarters was strictly forbidden to the curious, and for good reason. Once on board the boat, the travellers were forbidden to return on shore, under penalty of losing their places and the price of their tickets. Nevertheless, thanks to the assistance of a sailor with whom Tilbak had formerly sailed, Paridael was allowed to inspect the new domicile of his friends.
The Gina contained over six hundred camp-beds, or rather, badly joined frames that folded up, coupled and piled one above the other in groups of a dozen. The bedding of these hammocks consisted of a bag crammed with fetid straw upon which a hog would have refused to stretch, a true receptacle for vermin.
In spite of the long airing, the corridors reeked with the indefinable smell of a badly kept hospital, a mixture of bottles and of rank stench. What was it going to be later, after all these stray mortals had piled
