They nodded stupidly.
"Got 'ny tin?" asked the red-haired man. The younger farm hand, a ruddy,
clean, foolish boy of twenty, jerked his thumb towards his friend.
"Dick's got it."
"Going to a job?"
"Maybe," said the elder of the two, a little on his guard.
"Well, what I was finkin' was vat vis is a six-weeks' trip, an' if we
was to pal in we could have a good time. I've done vis jaunt before, and
know ve ropes. I know how to square ve stewards to get drinks out of
hours, and little extrys."
The farm lads nodded comprehension, and the younger one began to talk
rather loudly of his prospects. The pock-marked man drew a little
closer.
"We're going out to start a little business," he began.
"Ole Fred," the red-haired man took up the tale, jerking his head
towards his friend, "he's bin runnin' a business down Poplar way--not a
business, in a manner o' speaking. It was a kip for sailors. On'y he got
acrorst the cops abaht a sailor as disappeared. So him an' me--we've
alwiz palled in wiv each ovver--fought we'd make a move over ve water.
If we was to pall in togevver vis trip maybe we might do somefing
togevver when we hit up in Sydney."
"Put it there, mate," said the pock-marked man, holding out his hand to
the farm lads, "and we'll wet it."
They all got up. Ole Fred, noticing Marcella looking at him with frank
curiosity as she tried to translate his queer, clipped English, gave her
what he imagined to be a friendly smile.
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