Martin looked around the fo’c’sle, swung open the locker door to see if he had packed all his gear and looked under the blankets on his bunk.
“So long, boys,” he said. “I’m shoving off.”
The seamen at the card table and those lying in their bunks glanced up from newspapers and cigarettes.
He pulled his duffel-bag over his shoulder and walked up the ladder to the afterdeck. Languorous winds and the dark waters of streaming nights lurked in the corners of the bulkheads. Yet the knowledge of his late intimacy with these secrets had no quality of nostalgia for him. He was surprised at the indifference he felt on leaving the ship, all the more so because he had no reason for this coldness.
The chief mate saw him standing by the rail. He had often wondered about Martin—that strange sailor who had gone about his duties so quietly. That was part of it. He was so damned quiet. No wonder the other sailors hadn’t liked that. He did his work well and was the best helmsman on the ship; but off watch, he had the air of a man looking for the unnecessary. He avoided the sailors with such instinctive thoroughness that it was obvious even to them that he intended no offense. It was more, thought the mate, as if he seemed to be thinking a great deal and never getting anywhere with it. Frequently, on sultry nights, when the mate couldn’t sleep and had taken a turn around the ’midship deck, he’d seen Martin sitting alone on the afterhatch looking at the sky. The officer had a few books on psychology which he read instead of fiction; and therefore felt himself pretty well up on the distressed mind. He was a kind-hearted man, and one night he’d called Martin into his cabin to “sort of decide what made him tick,” as he said afterwards. What was it Martin had said?... Something about the sea being a fine girl for a man, or some such rot; and said quite pleasantly. And when the mate had pulled him round to psychology, Martin had agreed with him that it was a nice vehicle for a malingering neurasthenic.... No—damn it!—the fellow had said that first, himself! It was easy to see the chap had read a bit. He addressed the mate’s most ponderous terms with earnestness; but always he’d wound up in a theoretical mess that half sounded like a laugh. Still, one couldn’t get upset over something that wasn’t there; and certainly there was no laughter in Martin’s expression. The mate was sure of it. It was a damned odd feeling though, to have him sitting there looking at you patiently with that peculiar, absent manner. He’d told Martin that it was best for the sailors to get along together and to yarn a bit and get things off their chests. And then the queerest thing happened. Martin had told him that good-fellowship was not only essential, but unavoidable; and from there on, he’d continued to speak in English; only what he was saying didn’t make sense. It was like dumping words into a pot and shoveling them around with your finger. By God!—it was a strange feeling listening to that! And then Martin had gone.... Just the same, when the mate saw him with his duffel-bag beside him, looking out at the bulk of the city, it made him feel funny—sort of lonely for him. And he went over.