The
crew of the _Narcissus_, broken up into knots, pushed in the corners.
They had new shore togs, smart jackets that looked as if they had
been shaped with an axe, glossy trousers that seemed made of crumpled
sheet-iron, collarless flannel shirts, shiny new boots. They tapped on
shoulders, button-holed one another, asked:--> "Where did you sleep last
night?" whispered gaily, slapped their thighs with bursts of subdued
laughter. Most had clean, radiant faces; only one or two turned up
dishevelled and sad; the two-young Norwegians looked tidy, meek, and
altogether of a promising material for the kind ladies who patronise
the Scandinavian Home. Wamibo, still in his working clothes, dreamed,
upright and burly in the middle of the room, and, when Archie came in,
woke up for a smile. But the wide-awake clerk called out a name, and the
paying-off business began.
One by one they came up to the pay-table to get the wages of their
glorious and obscure toil. They swept the money with care into broad
palms, rammed it trustfully into trousers' pockets, or, turning their
backs on the table, reckoned with difficulty in the hollow of their
stiff hands.
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