Jan turned to the bartender, who was filling waiting stewards' hurried
orders calmly if not impassively. After every heavy sea he would stop
pouring or mixing to glance with unaffected interest at the beams above
him or the door opening onto the deck. He was an undersized man with
lean, pale cheeks, a hard chin, and a bright, cold eye. Once he looked
fairly at Jan and Jan looked fairly at him. It was like an introduction.
"You a sea-going man?" he asked.
"I used to go to sea," admitted Jan.
"I thought so. But those there,"--he lowered his voice and leaned across
the bar to Jan,--"they don't know whether this is a real bad gale or
just the reg'lar thing. One of 'em says a while ago: 'This is the kind
of weather I like!' I bet it's his first trip. But most of the
passengers, the stewards tell me, are turned in, trying to forget it."
"Better for 'em," said Jan.
"Maybe so, too; but what do you think of it?"
Jan shook his head. "I will be glad when morning comes."
"Same here. I've seen it as bad as this a couple of times before." He
picked up Jan's bill. "But this old shoe box ain't getting any younger.
Here's your brandy. It's good stuff--don't be afraid of it. Seventy-five
and fifteen--ninety."
"Have a cigar," said Jan, "and finish the dollar."
"Thanks. I will. But I'll smoke it later, when it's quieter, if it's all
the same to you.
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