The Cruise of the Dry Dock | Page 4

converged on this center of the world's activities.
American curiosity almost prevented Madden from working at all. He
painted intermittently, between wonders, so to speak. As for Caradoc,
he made no pretense to labor, but propped a broad shoulder against the
supporting rope, stuck a cigarette under his white mustache and fell to
regarding the waterscape in a serious, preoccupied fashion.
"Say, old man," warned Leonard in an undertone, briskly plying his
brush, "that mate looked down at us then. He'll raise a rough house if
we don't get a move on and keep our section up."
Caradoc came out of his muse, tossed his cigarette into the swirling
water a few feet below him. "Impudent chap!" he snapped.

Madden laughed. "His trade is to get work out of men and it requires
impudence."
Caradoc grunted something, perhaps an assent. The two fell briskly to
work and soon made an impression on the blank iron wall. At first the
American chatted of this and that, rehearsing his own aimless
ramblings as men will, but presently he observed that Smith was
painting away and paying no attention to his partner's chatter.
"What's the worry, old man?" queried Madden lightly. "'Fraid the
paint'll give out?"
"I presume they have sufficient paint," answered Smith stiffly, as he
flapped his brush across the bright head of a big rivet.
"Why--yes," agreed Madden, a little taken aback, "but you look like
you might be getting up a grouch at something--"
"About time to pull up, isn't it?" interrupted Smith.
The brusqueness in the speech grated on Madden, but they hauled up
their platform without further remarks on either side. The Englishman
seemed to work slower than the American, but somehow covered as
much ground.
The coat of red paint had risen considerably on the dock when the
bosun's whistle gave a faint shrill from the deck. The whole string of
painters facing the pontoon's bow began hauling up their platforms.
The lads followed their example.
Malone was hastily pulling his crew together in the mess room on the
middle pontoon. He came by waving his short heavy arms in the
direction of the long eating room.
"Get along aft; you're to sign the ship's papers!" he bawled
monotonously. "Get along!"
Most of the men walked faster when the mate flung his arms at them.

Leonard felt the impulse to step livelier but held himself to Caradoc's
deliberate stride.
In the mess room the boys found a compact, black-haired, serious-faced
young man of unknown nationality reading the ship's articles in an
expressionless tone. Nobody listened, although various penalties were
prescribed for desertion, quitting ship without leave, disobedience of
orders, each with its particular fine or punishment. When the reader
finished, the men walked around one by one and signed the register.
Then a copy of the articles was pointed out on the side of the mess
room, and again no one observed.
The performance was hardly completed when the gong rang for supper.
There were not more than a dozen men at mess. Most were of stolid
English navvy type, dirty uncouth men whose gross irregular features
told of low birth and evil life. The foreign element comprised an
Irishman named Mike Hogan and the Frenchman whom the boys had
met when they first came aboard. The crowd called him Dashalong.
Upon inquiry, Leonard found it to be Deschaillon. The young man who
read the articles was named Farnol Greer. However, he proved a silent,
taciturn youth, who seemed to converse with no one and to have no
friends.
In the long narrow eating cabin mingled the clean smell of newly
sawed lumber and the odor of poor cookery. The meal proved rather
worse than ordinary steerage food. After the first taste Smith put it by,
grumbling. Leonard, who was hungry, consumed about half of his.
Beef stew and boiled white fish formed the menu. Perhaps there is
nothing quite so slippery and disheartening as boiled white fish grown
luke warm or cold. The navvies ate ravenously enough, but Hogan and
Deschaillon were not so wolfish.
Mike speared a bit on his fork and regarded it sadly. "This fish reminds
me uv a fun'ril," he observed, "an' yonder lad looks to be chief
mourner," he nodded toward Farnol Greer.
"He ees not mourning over the feesh," declared Deschaillon gayly. "He

ees struck on heemself, and found his affection ees misplaced."
Madden laughed. The spirits of the Celt and the Gaul seemed to
improve as their fare grew worse.
"Oh, av course a frog-atin' Frinchman loike you, Dashalong, would
think any kind av fish a reg'lar feast."
Deschaillon leaned over to inspect his portion. "Now eet does very
well--to wax zee mustache, Mike." He twirled his own.
Caradoc grunted disapproval of such doubtful table talk, arose and left
the rough