The men were violently opposed types Turner, tall, heavy-shouldered,
morose by habit, with a prominent nose and rapidly thinning hair, and
with strong, pale blue eyes, congested from hard drinking; Vail,
shorter by three inches, dark, good-looking, with that dusky flush
under the skin which shows good red blood, and as temperate as Turner
was dissipated.
Vail was strong, too. After I had held Williams over the rail I
turned to find him looking on, amused. And when the frightened darky
had taken himself, muttering threats, to the galley, Vail came over
to me and ran his hand down my arm.
"Where did you get it?" he asked.
"Oh, I've always had some muscle," I said. "I'm in bad shape now;
just getting over fever."
"Fever, eh? I thought it was jail. Look here."
He threw out his biceps for me to feel. It was a ball of iron under
my fingers. The man was as strong as an ox. He smiled at my
surprise, and, after looking to see that no one was in sight, offered
to mix me a highball from a decanter and siphon on a table.
I refused.
It was his turn to be surprised.
"I gave it up when I was in train-- in the hospital," I corrected
myself. "I find I don't miss it."
He eyed me with some curiosity over his glass, and, sauntering away,
left me to my work of folding rugs.
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