U.S.A_ - John Dos Passos [244]
much. The men at the oars had to work hard to keep her bow into the little chop that came up. Each sea a little bigger than the others drenched them with spray. They had on wool sweaters and lifepreservers but the cold seeped through. At last the fog greyed a little and it was day. Joe's boat and the captain's boat managed to keep to-gether until late that afternoon they were picked up by a big fishing schooner, a banker bound for Boston.
When they were picked up old Cap'n Perry was in a
bad way. The master of the fishing schooner did every-thing he could for him, but he was unconscious when they reached Boston four days later and died on the way to the hospital. The doctors said it was pneumonia. Next morning Joe and the mate went to the office of the agent of Perkins and El erman, the owners, to see about getting themselves and the crew paid off. There was some kind of damn monkeydoodle business about the vessel's having changed owners in midAtlantic, a man named
Rosenberg had bought her on a speculation and now he couldn't be found and the Chase National Bank was
claiming ownership and the underwriters were raising cain. The agent said he was sure claiming ownership and the underwriters were raising cain. The agent said he was sure they'd be paid al right, because Rosenberg had posted bond, but it would be some time.
"And what the hel do they expect us to do al that
-153-time, eat grass?" The clerk said he was sorry but they'd have to take it up direct with Mr. Rosenberg.
Joe and the first mate stood side by side on the curb outside the office and cursed for a while, then the mate went over to South Boston to break the news to the chief who lived there.
It was a warm June afternoon. Joe started to go around the shipping offices to see what he could do in the way of a berth. He got tired of that and went and sat on a bench on the Common, staring at the sparrows and the gobs loafing around and the shop girls coming home from work, their little heels clattering on the asphalt paths. Joe hung around Boston broke for a couple of weeks. The Salvation Army took care of the survivors, serving
'em beans and watery soup and a lot of hymns off key that didn't appeal to Joe the way he felt just then. He was crazy to get enough jack to go to Norfolk to see Del. He wrote her every day but the letters he got back to General Delivery seemed kinder cool. She was worried about the rent and wanted some spring clothes and was afraid they wouldn't like it at the office if they found out about her being married.
Joe sat on the benches on the Common and roamed
around among the flowerbeds in the Public Garden, and cal ed regularly at the agent's office to ask about a berth, but final y he got sick of hanging around and went down and signed on as quartermaster, on a United Fruit boat, the Callao. He thought it ud be a short run and by the time he got back in a couple of weeks he'd be able to get his money. On the home trip they had to wait several days an-chored outside in the roads at Roseau in Dominica, for the limes they were going to load to be crated. Every-body was sore at the port authorities, a lot of damn Brit-ish niggers, on account of the quarantine and the limes not being ready and how slow the lighters were coming
-154-off from the shore. The last night in port Joe and Larry, one of the other quartermasters, got kidding some young coons in a bumboat that had been sel ing fruit and liquor to the crew under the stern; first thing they knew they'd offered 'em a dol ar each to take 'em ashore and land 'em down the beach so's the officers wouldn't see them. The town smelt of niggers. There were no lights in the streets. A little coalblack youngster