ship. Or even more than a rumour. Could it be that they all knew that he was being forced to sell out at the end of the voyage? Could that have been what Loder and Rankin had found so amusing?
But why the devil should he imagine anything of the kind? Any one of a thousand things could have made Rankin laugh; it didn’t have to be that.
With a muttered curse he left the bridge and went to his cabin.
TWO
FRACAS
C harlie W ilson went ashore in the evening with Sandy Moir, Aussie Lawson and Les Trubshaw. Wilson was twenty-two and the youngest of the party. He looked it too; he had a pink-cheeked, chubby face which needed shaving scarcely more than once a week and wide china-blue eyes that gave him an air of childish innocence. Secretly he was rather ashamed of his boyish appearance; he would have preferred to look mature and tough, like Lawson, the lean, rangy Australian with his long jaw and skin like old leather, or Moir, the hard-bitten Scot, whose face looked as though it had been hacked out of granite. They were real men.
He would not have wished to look like Trubshaw; that would have been going altogether too far. Trubshaw was grotesque; he stood hardly more than five feet tall, yet he had shoulders as broad as a heavyweight boxer’s; his chest was like a gorilla’s and you could see the muscles moving under his clothes. He was fifty years old and his face had suffered ill treatment in so many fights that what had started out as nothing to rave about even on its best days had gradually deteriorated into something calculated to give children nightmares. He had an evil temper to go with it, and those who knew him took care not to rouse it, unlessthey happened to be drunk or just downright reckless.
Not that Charlie Wilson was at all soft either, despite his boyish looks. He was six feet tall and well muscled, and if it came to the push he knew how to take care of himself. But he did not go looking for trouble, not like Trubshaw, or even, on occasion, Moir or Lawson. If trouble caught up with him he could handle it, but he would as soon keep out of it. Trouble meant getting hit, sometimes very hard, either with a fist or a blunt instrument or even maybe a broken bottle, and being hit with any one of those objects meant being hurt. Wilson did not enjoy being hurt; he left that to the masochists.
He had not really intended going ashore with Moir and Lawson and Trubshaw; they were not exactly pals of his, just messmates; but it so happened that they were going down the gang-plank together and Moir said: “You on your ownsome, laddie?”
Wilson admitted that he was and Lawson said: “Come and have a beer with us, chum. You could get into trouble with no one to look after you.”
There was not much chance of refusing because Trubshaw had taken a grip on his arm that felt like a steel clamp and was urging him along so that he had to fall into step with the others.
“You stick with us,” Trubshaw said in a voice like an old crow. “Then you can’t go wrong. A young sprog like you needs to be kept on the straight an’ narrer. Ain’t that so, mates?”
“Too true,” Lawson said, and he gave a slow wink. “If his mother was with us now she’d be begging us to keep an eye on her darling boy. There’s a great big wicked city just waiting to get its claws into infants like him and it’s up to us older blokes to stand between him and temptation.”
“Knock it off,” Wilson said. It was the kind of ribbing that touched him on the raw. “I don’t need anyone to look after me. I wasn’t born yesterday.”
Moir shook his head in mock sadness. “Will ye listen to that. Mon, it gi’es ye no encouragement to hold out the hand o’ friendship.”
“The hand of friendship is mangling my arm,” Wilson said. “Lay off it, Trub. What you think you’re doing—arresting me?”
Trubshaw released Wilson’s arm, grinning like a more than ordinarily repulsive gargoyle. “So you’ll join us?”
Wilson resigned
But why the devil should he imagine anything of the kind? Any one of a thousand things could have made Rankin laugh; it didn’t have to be that.
With a muttered curse he left the bridge and went to his cabin.
TWO
FRACAS
C harlie W ilson went ashore in the evening with Sandy Moir, Aussie Lawson and Les Trubshaw. Wilson was twenty-two and the youngest of the party. He looked it too; he had a pink-cheeked, chubby face which needed shaving scarcely more than once a week and wide china-blue eyes that gave him an air of childish innocence. Secretly he was rather ashamed of his boyish appearance; he would have preferred to look mature and tough, like Lawson, the lean, rangy Australian with his long jaw and skin like old leather, or Moir, the hard-bitten Scot, whose face looked as though it had been hacked out of granite. They were real men.
He would not have wished to look like Trubshaw; that would have been going altogether too far. Trubshaw was grotesque; he stood hardly more than five feet tall, yet he had shoulders as broad as a heavyweight boxer’s; his chest was like a gorilla’s and you could see the muscles moving under his clothes. He was fifty years old and his face had suffered ill treatment in so many fights that what had started out as nothing to rave about even on its best days had gradually deteriorated into something calculated to give children nightmares. He had an evil temper to go with it, and those who knew him took care not to rouse it, unlessthey happened to be drunk or just downright reckless.
Not that Charlie Wilson was at all soft either, despite his boyish looks. He was six feet tall and well muscled, and if it came to the push he knew how to take care of himself. But he did not go looking for trouble, not like Trubshaw, or even, on occasion, Moir or Lawson. If trouble caught up with him he could handle it, but he would as soon keep out of it. Trouble meant getting hit, sometimes very hard, either with a fist or a blunt instrument or even maybe a broken bottle, and being hit with any one of those objects meant being hurt. Wilson did not enjoy being hurt; he left that to the masochists.
He had not really intended going ashore with Moir and Lawson and Trubshaw; they were not exactly pals of his, just messmates; but it so happened that they were going down the gang-plank together and Moir said: “You on your ownsome, laddie?”
Wilson admitted that he was and Lawson said: “Come and have a beer with us, chum. You could get into trouble with no one to look after you.”
There was not much chance of refusing because Trubshaw had taken a grip on his arm that felt like a steel clamp and was urging him along so that he had to fall into step with the others.
“You stick with us,” Trubshaw said in a voice like an old crow. “Then you can’t go wrong. A young sprog like you needs to be kept on the straight an’ narrer. Ain’t that so, mates?”
“Too true,” Lawson said, and he gave a slow wink. “If his mother was with us now she’d be begging us to keep an eye on her darling boy. There’s a great big wicked city just waiting to get its claws into infants like him and it’s up to us older blokes to stand between him and temptation.”
“Knock it off,” Wilson said. It was the kind of ribbing that touched him on the raw. “I don’t need anyone to look after me. I wasn’t born yesterday.”
Moir shook his head in mock sadness. “Will ye listen to that. Mon, it gi’es ye no encouragement to hold out the hand o’ friendship.”
“The hand of friendship is mangling my arm,” Wilson said. “Lay off it, Trub. What you think you’re doing—arresting me?”
Trubshaw released Wilson’s arm, grinning like a more than ordinarily repulsive gargoyle. “So you’ll join us?”
Wilson resigned
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