Tod smiled ruefully. "But everything is so different from what I was taught to expect."
"It always is, Joe Macaroni. Before a boy grows up, he has to unlearn all those pretty myths about life and death which have been taught him by tender-minded ladies of both sexes. I feel sorry for the poof kids. They have to go through hell. . . . Most of them don't, though. Instead, they commit intellectual suicide; they remain simply children." Jarvis fixed his keen glance on Tod and his face softened. "Somehow, I feel you won't do that. You'll kick off those swaddling clothes. . . . But I pity you in the process—I pity you."
He paused, puffed for a second, then went on. "I've watched you, Joe Macaroni, taking good things in for the stoker to eat. But he couldn't eat them because he was dying. . . . Dying? How could that be? you thought. Why was he saved that night if he was only to die there in the stuffy fo'c's'le? That isn't even like those tales of glorious deaths—young men swimming along the pathway of the moon, old men sailing into the sunset. You thought that if death were necessary, at least there was beauty in it. You held on. At the very end, you thought, wouldn't his face light up in a smile? Couldn't one envision his soul going out—across? . . . Instead, you feel his hands grow cold. You see a purple death creep hour by hour up his limbs. You hear the laboured breathing of a body given up to dissolution. Oh, those pretty myths! Where are they? . . . Dying within you, Joe Macaroni, dying in agony, like the stoker."
Tod raised his wistful eyes. "I guess I want too much," he said simply.
Jarvis nodded. "For a kid of your age, it seems to me that you think an awful lot. But it always pays to take regular observations and not trust to dead reckonings," he advised. "Well, cheer up! Let's get busy. It's almost time to feed the animals."
As the men congregated amidships with their tins for chow, Tod noticed an undercurrent of surly discontent which pervaded their talk. The little group of firemen sat apart. Their voices were low, whispering; their glances toward the deck crew were those of sullen hate. All the mistrust and dislike between the deck and the engine room had been brought to the surface by the illness of the stoker in the forecastle. The deck gang, in their turn, were evidently not willing to assume blame for the man's condition. They met dark looks with darker scowls, and passed on that storm of hatred toward any officer who came within range of their vision.
Toppy's voice drifted in to Tod through the open port. "Lookit those dirty Finns! And they used ter be as friendly as cockroaches!"
"Yen," replied another voice. "Those guys is a nice lookin' bunch—the scum, the muck, the swine! Ain't I right now?"
"Aw, pipe down," said Nelson the Dane. "This here tub has got trouble enough on her without you startin' any more."
The cook, in the act of pouring the split-pea soup into a bucket, gave Tod a glance of understanding. His short thick lips were humming a song in an uncertain key.
"Oh, it's a jolly life, a gay life, This life on the o—cean wave. . . ."
Tod was filling a bucket with steaming potatoes for the men, and but for the steam, he would probably have laughed loudly; as it was, he merely grinned and passed the food to the men at the door.
The atmosphere of the little galley was increasingly hot, and stale, too, with the odours of boiled pork and cabbage. As they worked side by side after the evening mess, Tod clearing up while the cook prepared dough on the bread board, the boy pressed the man with questions.
"Tom!"
"Yes?"
"Why does a shark follow a ship?"
"Is this a riddle? No? Well, I suppose because he's hungry. There's always good feedin' round an old tramp what doesn't go too fast."
The boy meditated a moment. "Yes—but the crew says that when a shark follows a ship, it means bad luck—somebody dying soon, that he's waiting for us to throw overboard the stoker's body."
"Cut it, Joe Macaroni. The stoker isn't dead yet." Jarvis turned, his great hands buried in the dough. "So they've been talkin' like that, have they? Well, it's all superstition. It harks back to the savages. You better wad up your ears."
Tod began washing up the dishes in the trough. "I know it sounds foolish here when the sun hasn't yet gone down; but there in the fo'c's'le at night, with the stoker sick and moaning and breathing hard just the other side of the bulkhead, and the crew all talking—well, it's different then. Toppy was on a windjammer in the Caribbean once that was followed by a shark for three days. The crew knew that one of their messmates was numbered—and he was, too. Off Trinidad, a Portugee went crazy and jumped overboard."
"And did the shark stop following?"
"Yes. Queer, wasn't it?"
The cook grunted scornfully. "Those birds in the fo'c's'le are plumb loony. Superstitions cling to 'em like barnacles to a ship's bottom. Don't listen to 'em. Get me?"
Tod placed a saucer of canned milk on the floor for the ship's cat. "I don't believe them, but they get on a fellow's nerves. They all say that the Araby is an unlucky old tub. She's had half a dozen collisions. She went aground in the Columbia River, was sunk there till the war came along, and then reconditioned for supply carrying. Her name's been changed more than once. Toppy says that's bad luck, too."
For the first time since Tod had begun his conversation, the cook appeared interested. He turned and scrutinized the boy narrowly. "Did they say what her old name had been?"
"No; they didn't seem to know."
"H-m. I guess they don't know too blamed much, those guys. Ain't I right, now?" His mimicking voice, so like Red Mitchell's, brought a smile to Tod's lips.
"Of course, Red does rave on a lot," the boy admitted; "but after all, isn't there a lot of truth in what he says? If the officers had acted quick enough that night the stoker could have been rescued in fifteen minutes instead of an hour. He wouldn't be dying now, if it wasn't for the mate."
"Oh, he blames Hawkes, does he? Well, he might be right. But I don't see why Red Mitchell should be growling. I didn't notice him stepping forward as a volunteer for the boat."
"Yes, that's just it. The men guy him for not going along, and now he's sore at you. He thinks you insulted him when you didn't choose him, too."
"That coal-passer—a sailorman! Sufferin' sea gulls!" The Tattooed Man's voice boomed out in mirth.
Night was closing on the freighter when Tod left the galley. The sea was heaving gently, with a breath of air blowing from the starboard bow. Up from the stokehole ventilators came the rattle of the ash buckets; the end of the watch was near. As he crossed the deck, he encountered Nelson going forward.
"Hello, kid," said the old seaman, his weatherbeaten face screwed into a frown. "Have ye seen him yet— the shark? Damn him!"
"No," Tod answered, almost in a whisper. "Is he there still?"
The old man solemnly nodded his gray head. "Tony the Wop just told me the stoker's about dead. The shark is following, waiting. Sonny, take my word for it, he'll be there till he gets what he wants. . . . Go and see. There ain't no one on the poop now."
Tod turned slowly and, going aft, climbed the ladder to the poop deck. It was dark beneath the awning. Leaning over the taffrail near the line of the patent log, he gave a start at the sound of a metallic click close by. He sighed; it was merely the dial marking off the miles behind them. Above him the luminous tropic sky was faintly studded with stars. On the water below, like a ghostly shadow of the Milky Way, extended the churning wake with its blue flames of phosphorus burning without warmth. He watched the blue iridescent glow intently; but the brooding loneliness of the sea appeared undisturbed.