NOVEMBER 4

This morning B. was in the registry office again, signing the articles of agreement. In the afternoon our crew came on, four young German men, as like each other as painted wooden dolls; fresh complexions, mops of flaxen hair, bright blue eyes, and strong jaws. They stamp people out from molds in Europe, or so it seems to me. They are settling themselves in the forecastle as I write. They understand no English but officers’ orders. So I don’t envy Mr. Head, who will have to feed them and rouse them in shifts from their dreams of German girls and German beer and German songs to hot coffee and the call of duty. Oompah, Oompah, Oompah‑pah.

The weather is ugly, rain and a chill wind, so we are stuck below. Sophy’s cold is better and she is eating well. She occupies herself with her doll and her blocks and in looking at the album, naming the absent. She asks for Arthur now and then, always with a note of anticipation in her voice, as if she expects him to come in at the door. The way she says his name sounds like “Otter.”

Otter must be missing her as well – he is fond of his little sister, who is as full of energy and joy as he is lacking in both. My poor, shy, serious boy. He wanted to come with us badly, and his father would have taken him, but he’s doing too poorly in school to miss a few months and, saddest of all reasons, there’s just no place to put him aboard ship. So he will stay with his grandmother at Rose Cottage, where there is perhaps too much room. B. insisted on paying his mother for her grandson’s board. I’ve no doubt she’ll soon have him doing chores, as Mother Briggs is great on chores, and perhaps that will give him an appetite and he’ll put on weight. He wept when we left and promised to write to me at least once a week. His grandmother will see that he does that too.

We haven’t left the harbor and already I am hoping for letters.

Date: 2015-02-16; view: 586