mouths walking backwards and forwards all the time, like mechanical dolls, over the same strip of deck. It seemed to be a Russian ship—evidently told off to keep the Japanese crab steamers under surveillance.
On the deck the captain, looking like an admiral at least, smoked a cigarette as he sauntered up and down. At a short distance from his nose the exhaled smoke bent at an acute angle and blew away in separate puffs. One of the crew, swinging a bucket of food, passed hurriedly into the front cabin and then came out again. They were all ready to sail.
The two fishermen peered down into the dark hold where factory hands could be seen like birds popping their heads out of the nest. They were mere boys of fourteen or fifteen.
“Where are you from?”
“Street,” those in the bunk answered. They were all children of the Hakodate slums, and formed a group by themselves.
“That bunkload?”
“Nambu.”
“That one!”
“Akita.”
Each bunkfull was different.
“What part of Akita?”
“The north,” they answered. They were an unhealthy-looking lot. Their noses seemed to be running pus and their lower eyelids, also discharging, were red as if pulled back.
“From farms?”
“Yes.”
