"Three weeks in the hotel. Feathers loaned me two bucks Saturday."
"I've got an idea," said Kewpie. "Will you pose for Uncle?"
"Who's Uncle?"
"Uncle is going to take some more peep-show frolics this week. Would you work at it?"
Ken understood. "No. I couldn't."
"You've seen the pictures. You wear a black mask."
"How much does he pay?"
"Twenty-five a day."
Ken tried to recall the figures on the hotel bill. How much did he owe? Over twenty? Over thirty?
"I'm sorta sleepy," he said. "Call me tonight—I'll let you know."
That afternoon Ken went for a walk. He had eaten nothing, a spoonful of gin had touched his tongue—all that was left of a dozen bottles.
Walking erectly, head light, Ken crossed Broadway and traversed the two blocks to Riverside Drive. Tied to the pier at the foot of Seventy-sixth Street was an old-fashioned three-masted schooner. Ken breathed deeply, as he trod the rotting boards of the pier. He was tired, hungry. He decided to sit down. Near the stern of the sailing vessel he sat; below the ornate prow, the oily water of the river lapped lazily at the pier. Salt sea smell rising from the old hulk, Ken's feet dangling over the water.
An old man approached Ken. He wanted to talk of other days. "Used to have plenty of them three-masters in the harbor in my time," he said. "This old girl—she's one of the last. 'Buccaneer,' she is. Firm bankrupt. No one wants
