There were the three gangsters and ex-jailbirds, anything
but seamen, yet in control of this affair that was peculiarly an
affair of the sea. With them was the Italian hound, Bombini, and
beside them were such strangely assorted men as Anton Sorensen, Lars
Jacobsen, Frank Fitzgibbon, and Richard Giller--also Arthur Deacon
the white slaver, John Hackey the San Francisco hoodlum, the Maltese
Cockney, and Tony the suicidal Greek.
I noticed the three strange ones, shouldering together and standing
apart from the others as they swayed to the lazy roll and dreamed
with their pale, topaz eyes. And there was the Faun, stone deaf but
observant, straining to understand what was taking place. Yes, and
Mulligan Jacobs and Andy Fay were bitterly and eagerly side by side,
and Ditman Olansen, crank-eyed, as if drawn by some affinity of
bitterness, stood behind them, his head appearing between their
heads. Farthest advanced of all was Charles Davis, the man who by
all rights should long since be dead, his face with its wax-like
pallor startlingly in contrast to the weathered faces of the rest.
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