Flotsam Read Free Page B

Kern. Kern shook his head.
    “Drink, Baby,” Steiner said. “It’s part of this business. You’ve got to learn.”
    “Vodka very good,” the Pole agreed.
    Kern took a small swallow and handed the bottle to the Pole, who tilted it to his lips with an accomplished gesture.
    “That egg-fiend is swigging it all up,” growled the Man with the Chicken, tearing the bottle away from him. “There’s not much left,” he said regretfully to the Russian after he had drunk.
    The latter waved it aside. “It doesn’t matter, I’m getting out tonight at the latest.”
    “Are you sure of that?” Steiner asked.
    The Russian made a little bow. “Yes. I might almost say, unfortunately. As a Russian I have a Nansen passport.”
    “Nansen passport!” repeated the Chicken admiringly. “That makes you one of the aristocracy of men without a country.”
    “I’m sorry you haven’t the same advantage,” the Russian said politely.
    “You got the start of us there,” Steiner replied. “You were the first. You got the lion’s share of the world’s sympathy. We only have the leftovers. People pity us, but we’re a nuisance and unwanted.”
    The Russian shrugged his shoulders. Then he handed the bottle to the last man in the cell, who had hitherto sat in silence. “Please have a swallow too.”
    “No thanks,” the man replied arrogantly. “I don’t belong in your crowd.”
    They all looked at him.
    “I have a passport, a country, a permit to stay here and a permit to work.”
    They were all silent. “Pardon the question,” the Russian said presently in a hesitant tone, “but then why are you here?”
    “Because of my profession,” the man explained haughtily. “I’m no fly-by-night refugee without papers. I’m a substantial pickpocket and professional gambler, with full rights of citizenship.”
    At noon there was bean soup without beans. In the evening the same thing, only this time it was called “coffee” and a piece of bread came with it.
    At seven o’clock there was a knock on the door. The Russian was released, as he had predicted. He said good-by as though to old friends. “In two weeks I’ll look in at the Café Sperler,” he said to Steiner. “Perhaps by then you’ll be there and I may have something for you. Good-by.”
    By eight o’clock the substantial citizen and cardsharp was ready to capitulate. He brought out a package of cigarettes and handed them around. Everyone began to smoke. The twilight and the glowing cigarettes gave the cell an almost homelike air. The pickpocket explained that the police were just giving him a routine going-over to see if they could pin anything on him during the last six months. He didn’t think they could. Then he proposed a game and conjured up a pack of cards out of his coat.
    It had grown dark and the electric light had not been turned on. But the cardsharp was equal to the situation. He waved his hands again and produced a candle and matches. The candle was stuck in a ledge in the wall where it gave a dim flickering light.
    The Chicken, the Pole, and Steiner drew up. “We’re not playing for money, are we?” the Chicken asked.
    “Of course not.” The cardsharp smiled.
    “Aren’t you going to play too?” Steiner asked Kern.
    “I can’t play cards.”
    “That’s something you’ll have to learn. What else can you do in the evenings?”
    “Not today—tomorrow.”
    Steiner turned around. The light dug deep furrows in his face. “Is there something the matter with you?”
    Kern shook his head. “No. Just a little tired. I’ll lie down for a while on the bunk.”
    The cardsharp was already shuffling. He had an elegant, brisk way of letting the cards snap together. “Who deals?” asked the Chicken. The substantial citizen offered the cards around. The Pole drew a nine, the Chicken a queen, Steiner and the cardsharp each an ace.
    The cardsharp glanced up quickly. “A tie.”
    He drew another ace. He smiled and handed the deck to Steiner. The