There was a nasty smell of burning rubber.
“Look out, uncle—the rubber!”
“Ah, yes, I’ve burnt them!”
Waves seemed to have sprung up and were beating faintly against the side of the ship, which was rocking in lullaby time. The shadows of the circle of men fell in a tangled fringe on the floor behind them. It was a calm night. From out of the door of the stove a red glow was reflected on the lower parts of their legs. The strange calmness of the night gave them a respite—a momentary respite only—to look back over their miserable lives.
“Haven’t you got a cigarette?”
“No.”
“Not one?”
“No.”
“Hell!”
“Hey, pass the whisky over this way.”
The owner held the square bottle upside down and shook it.
“Look out, don’t go wasting it.”
“Ha! ha! ha!”
“It’s a hell of a place, but we’re here, me too….” The fisherman who spoke had formerly worked in a Shibaura factory, and now he went on to tell of his experiences there. To these Hokkaido workers this factory sounded a wonderful place, beyond all imagination. “If they had even a hundredth of what we put up with here there’d be a strike,” he said.
This story led on to others, until they had all related their life experience. Opening up new
