The third officer had a minute way of telling his little
experiences, to which Kieran always listened patiently. If Kieran had
not, Jenkins would have had no audience at all, for the second officer,
a Norwegian, and the first officer, a Vermont Yankee, had no use for any
Englishman whatever; and besides that he was only the third officer.
The pump-man had sympathy for Jenkins, but not so much that he would sit
and listen while Jenkins talked himself to sleep; so, once he saw
Jenkins into his bunk, Kieran used to fly for the open deck.
And here it was the passenger joined him, pacing the long gangway. The
passenger turned and they paced together.
The sound of the captain's voice floated down from the bridge. The
passenger, who had small use for the captain, suggested that they go
forward; and so they made for the bow of the ship and ascended the
ladder to the forec's'le head, and here, after a decent interval, to
allow Kieran to absorb the beauty of the tropic night, the passenger
said, "How about that bull-fight in Peru?"
"Oh-h--" said Kieran, and after a silence went on to say:
"Well, the day of the bull-fight came, and that afternoon the
bull-fighters marched into the ring; and in their smooth-fitting
tights--black, white, green, pink, blue, purple, all colors--their short
jackets, puffed-out shirts, with the queer little hats and the neat
black slippers, well-built fellows, all of them--they made a great
showing.
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