
The decks were cleared, watches set at noon, and then began the never-ending cleaning-up at which steamship sailors put in so much of their time. Headed by a six-foot boatswain, a gang came aft on the starboard side, with, paint-buckets and brushes, and distributed themselves along the rail.
“Davits an’ stanchions, men—never mind the rail,” said the boatswain. “Ladies, better move your chairs back a little. Rowland, climb down out o’ that—you’ll be overboard. Take a ventilator—no, you’ll spill paint—put your bucket away an’ get some sandpaper from the yeoman. Work inboard till you get it out o’ you.”
The sailor addressed—a slight-built man of about thirty, black-bearded and bronzed to the semblance of healthy vigor, but watery-eyed and unsteady of movement—came down from the rail and shambled forward with his bucket. As he reached the group of ladies to whom the boatswain had spoken, his gaze rested on one—a sunny-haired young woman with the blue of the sea in her eyes—who had arisen at his approach. He started, turned aside as if to avoid her, and raising his hand in an embarrassed half-salute, passed on. Out of the boatswain’s sight he leaned against the deck-house and panted, while he held his hand to his breast.
