The Death Ship by B. Traven

at me with suspicion written all over his face.
    “You see, sir, I missed my ship.”
    “Drunk, eh?”
    “I never drink, sir. Not a drop. I believe in prohibition.”
    “But did you not tell me you are a sailor?”
    “Exactly. My ship got under weigh three hours before the time we were supposed to sail. I had presumed that we would go out with high water. As we had no cargo and were going home in ballast, the skipper didn’t have to wait for high water to come in, and so he ordered the ship to make off early in the night.”
    “Your papers were left aboard, I suppose?”
    “Right, sir.”
    “I might have known this before. Do you remember the register number of your sailor’s card?”
    “No, sir. I am sorry.”
    “So am I. Where was the card issued? By what shipping board?”
    “I don’t remember where it was. You see, I have shipped in coast traffic, Boston, New York, Philly, New Orleans, Galveston, and all along the Mexican Gulf. You see, sir, a sailor does not look every day at his card. In fact, I have never looked at all at what it said. Often it is not even asked for by the skipper when he signs you on. He takes it for granted that a guy has his card. More important to the skipper is what ship you have been on before, and under which master, and what you know about the job.”
    “I know. You don’t have to tell me.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Naturalized?”
    “No, sir. Native-born!”
    “Birth registered?”
    “I do not know, sir. When this happened, I was too small to remember exactly if it was done or not.”
    “Then your birth has not been registered.”
    “I said I do not know, sir.”
    “But I do know.”
    “Well, sir, if you know everything beforehand, why do you ask me?”
    “Now, don’t you get excited here. No reason for that. Was your mother married to your father?”
    “I never asked my mother. I thought it her own business, and that it concerns nobody else.”
    “Right. Excuse me. I was only thinking that the marriage license might be found somewhere. Your father was also a sailor, like you?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “I thought so. Never came home again I suppose?”
    “I do not know, sir.”
    “Any relatives alive?”
    “I do not know, sir. Never knew any.”
    “Know somebody in the States who has known you since you were a boy?”
    “I think there ought to be lots of people who ought to know me.”
    He took up a pencil and got ready to write down names and addresses. “Will you, please, name any of these people who have known you for a long time let us say fifteen years or so?”
    “How could I recall any of them, sir? They all are people of no importance. Just plain people. Working folks. Changing places whenever their work calls for it. I would not know their full names or even their real names, only the names we knew them by or called them.”
    “Have you a permanent address back home?”
    “No, sir. I could not pay for one. You see, I live on my ships, like most sailors do. When laid off for a while I stay in a sailors’ home or just in any cheap boarding-house near the waterfront.”
    “Your mother still alive?”
    “I think so. But I do not know for sure.”
    “You do not know for sure?”
    “How can I know for sure, sir? While I was away, she changed her address several times. Perhaps she’s married to somebody whose name I do not know. You see, sir, with us working people and sailors everything cannot be done as fine and smooth as with the rich guys that have an elegant house of their own and a swell bank-account and a telephone and a lot of servants. We have to look out first for a job, and afterwards we worry about other things. The job means eating. Without a job we are just like a farmer without a farm.”
    “Ever gone to the polls to vote in any state election?”
    “No, sir. I never had any time to mix with politics.”
    “You are a pacifist?”
    “A what, sir?”
    “Well, I mean you are communist. You do not want to fight for the country.”
    “I did