Archer and Trail were in the cabin, dressed in their shore-going rig. The scattered places in which they bought their clothes and their over-compensation for wearing uniform most of their lives gave them a startling appearance. Trail was particularly arresting. He wore a pair of green cotton trousers he had bought in Rio, a yellow shirt from Calcutta, the sort of sports coat that is, fortunately, popular only on the Australian beaches, suede shoes from Ceylon, and a tie with a luminous girl on it from New York.
We all sat down and drank determinedly. 'Have to drink beer ashore,' Trail said. 'A gin costs about twelve bob. I got some cruzeiros for you, Doc.' He handed me a bundle of dirty notes. 'That's the sub you put in for. How about you, Mr. Hornbeam?'
'Got some in the kitty,' he said thickly.
He pulled a tin out of his locker and spilt the contents on the table. There was currency from all over the world-Australian florins, South African sixpences, nickels and quarters, escudos and francs, Canadian dollars, Japanese yen, New Zealand pounds, rupees, pesos, pesetas, and guilders, a few marks, and a couple of Pitcairn Island postage stamps.
'Always like to have a bit of ready cash,' he explained, rummaging through the pile. 'No cruzeiros, though. What's this?' He held up a coin and squinted at it. 'Springbok ha'penny. No good. I'll take the dollars ashore and flog 'em. Don't you blokes go without me,' he added threateningly. 'I'll get a cob on if you don't wait. Where are we bound for, anyway? Have another peg.'
The Third drew a small book from his pocket and turned over to the letter S.
'Santos…' he said. 'Oh, that's fixed. We'll take the Doc to the Whores' Ball.'
'The what did you say?' I asked.
'The Whores' Ball. Funniest thing this side of the Line. It doesn't start till midnight. We'll look into the Ritz Bar first.'
'I want to see the Bidu Bar,' Archer added. 'I met a hot bit of blonde in there last time.'
'You game, Doc?'
By this time my critical faculties were mildly blunted with gin.
'Game? Of course I'm game. I'm a sailor, aren't I?'
'That's the spirit!' Trail said. 'Down the hatch, lads, and let's get moving. It's after eleven.'
'What about the Mate?' I asked. I turned to look at him. He was lying with his head in a pool of currency asleep.
'It's always the same with the Mate,' Archer explained. 'He never makes it. Hasn't been ashore for years. It's best to leave him there until he wakes up. Now for the bright lights!' Trail put down his glass. 'Come on, Doc!'
Singing softly we filed down the gangway and, slightly intoxicated, for the first time in my life I put foot on foreign soil.
There are few attractive cities in Brazil, and Santos is not one of them. In the centre is a fairly pleasant square with gardens in it, a new post office, and the Town Hall. It would pass for a little bastion of bourgeoisie in the South of France on a hot day. But the waterfront caters, efficiently, for different tastes. It is a tall line of buildings on a cobbled street that looks like the slums in Glasgow draped with neon.
The Third led us jauntily towards a lighted doorway with RITZ BAR-DRINKS AND GIRLS shining over it.
'Here we go lads!' he said. 'If our mothers could see us now!'
The three of us piled inside and took a table by the door. It was a long room, brightly lit, with a bar down one side, a small dance floor, and a band. The walls were lined with foreign flags and signs such as WELCOMES TO OUR BRITISH FRIENDS, HAVE A SWELL TIME BABY, and WE TAKE POUNDS AND DOLLARS. The room was full, but not with Brazilians. There seemed to be sailors there from every country with a seaboard. There were stiff blond Swedes and Norwegians, a crowd of drunk Greeks in the corner, some Dutchmen, a pack of Frenchmen arguing with Spaniards, blank-faced masticating Americans, and a good many small dark-eyed dangerous-looking men of unplaceable nationality. By the door, stroking his long moustache, stood a nervous Brazilian policeman.
'I say!' I exclaimed. I stared at the place like a child brought up to Town to see the lights. 'It looks a bit tough, doesn't it?'
'The Santos waterfront is the toughest in the world,' Archer said lightly. 'That's why we're sitting near the door. If anything starts don't wait to see what it's all about, but hop it. They have a habit of arresting everyone in sight down here. Ever been in jail?'
'Not yet.'
'This isn't the place to start. I got pinched two years ago for being drunk. They let me go next morning, luckily. Had to rub shoulders with some pretty queer birds. None of this single cell and bath business you get in Britain.'
A Brazilian girl, dark and rounded, in a black dress and a decorative lace apron came upon us.
'Trкs cerveja,' Trail said.
'Sure, baby.'
She strolled off, giving us the benefit of her hips.
'She brings the beer,' Trail explained. 'If you like you can dance with her. Look over there.'
