see?”
“Now it is too hot here for you, isn’t it? Polishing anchor-chains, hey?”
“You said it. How about stowing with you?”
“It might be done. Always a free hand for a sailor feller.”
“Where are you making for?” I asked.
“Lisbon and old Malta, and then Egypt. Can’t take ye that far, but welcome to Boulogne. From there on, you have to look out for your own future.”
“Boulogne will be okay with me.”
“See, the bos’n we have is a bloody devil, he is. If it were not for him, we could take you round the world sightseeing. Now, tell ye what we’ll do for you. You come round about eight at night. Then the bos’n will be so filled up he’ll be kicking over the rim. Doesn’t see anything and doesn’t hear anything. Now, you just come up. We’ll wait for you at the railing. Just look at me. If I tip my cap over onto my neck, everything is shipshape and you just hop on. But if anybody finds you aboard, don’t ever say who heaved you up. Sailor’s word.”
“Understand. I’ll be there at eight.”
I was there. The cap was cocked onto his neck. The bos’n was so well drenched that it lasted until Boulogne. There I got off, and that’s how I came to France.
I changed my money for French coin. Then I went to the depot. I bought a ticket to the first station on the way to Paris. The Paris Express. I boarded it.
The French are very polite gents. No one molested me to show my ticket.
The train pulled in at what they call a gare, which means their depot. So I came to Paris, which is supposed to be the paradise for Americans who have become sick of God’s country.
Now the tickets were asked for.
The police are quick in Paris. Since I had no ticket for Paris, and I had ridden all the way down from Boulogne on a very soft seat unmolested by anybody, I had become a case for the Paris criminal investigation police department, or something that sounded as highfalutin’ as that.
I knew a few words of French, and I hoped that this would save me, but these cops knew more about the English language than I shall ever be able to pick up. They must have had better teachers than we usually have.
Where did I come from? Boulogne. How did I come to Boulogne? On a ship. What ship? The Abraham Lincoln . No Abraham Lincoln lately in Boulogne. Where is my sailor’s card? Haven’t got any.
“You mean to say you have no —”
“No, I have no sailor’s card.”
I had become so used to that question that I would understand it even in Hindustani, whatever that may be. The tune of the words, and the gestures, and the lifted eyebrows that always accompany the question are so unmistakably alike among all the bureaucrats and policemen of the world that there never can be any doubt about what is asked.
“And I have no passport either. Nor have I an identification card of the French authorities. No immigration stamp. No customs-house seal. I have no papers at all. Never in all my life did I ever have any papers.”
I rattled off all this to spare them the work of questioning me for an hour. I could easily pass the toughest examination for immigration officers, because I have had the best schooling any guy ever can have.
The chief, who had wanted to spend an easy hour or two with me, became confused. He looked at me with dying eyes.
He seemed to feel that I had taken from him all his upholstered authority. He pushed around some papers lying on his desk to find a few questions for me. After a while, trying to compose himself, he gave up for the day.
Next day there was a hearing, of which I did not grasp a single word, since everyone spoke in French. When it was all over, somebody tried his best to explain to me that I had got ten days in prison for cheating the French railroad out of the money for a ticket to Paris. I learned later that in France one might get for such an offense as much as two years, but someone in court had said that I was too dumb to understand the French law and it would be an
“Now it is too hot here for you, isn’t it? Polishing anchor-chains, hey?”
“You said it. How about stowing with you?”
“It might be done. Always a free hand for a sailor feller.”
“Where are you making for?” I asked.
“Lisbon and old Malta, and then Egypt. Can’t take ye that far, but welcome to Boulogne. From there on, you have to look out for your own future.”
“Boulogne will be okay with me.”
“See, the bos’n we have is a bloody devil, he is. If it were not for him, we could take you round the world sightseeing. Now, tell ye what we’ll do for you. You come round about eight at night. Then the bos’n will be so filled up he’ll be kicking over the rim. Doesn’t see anything and doesn’t hear anything. Now, you just come up. We’ll wait for you at the railing. Just look at me. If I tip my cap over onto my neck, everything is shipshape and you just hop on. But if anybody finds you aboard, don’t ever say who heaved you up. Sailor’s word.”
“Understand. I’ll be there at eight.”
I was there. The cap was cocked onto his neck. The bos’n was so well drenched that it lasted until Boulogne. There I got off, and that’s how I came to France.
I changed my money for French coin. Then I went to the depot. I bought a ticket to the first station on the way to Paris. The Paris Express. I boarded it.
The French are very polite gents. No one molested me to show my ticket.
The train pulled in at what they call a gare, which means their depot. So I came to Paris, which is supposed to be the paradise for Americans who have become sick of God’s country.
Now the tickets were asked for.
The police are quick in Paris. Since I had no ticket for Paris, and I had ridden all the way down from Boulogne on a very soft seat unmolested by anybody, I had become a case for the Paris criminal investigation police department, or something that sounded as highfalutin’ as that.
I knew a few words of French, and I hoped that this would save me, but these cops knew more about the English language than I shall ever be able to pick up. They must have had better teachers than we usually have.
Where did I come from? Boulogne. How did I come to Boulogne? On a ship. What ship? The Abraham Lincoln . No Abraham Lincoln lately in Boulogne. Where is my sailor’s card? Haven’t got any.
“You mean to say you have no —”
“No, I have no sailor’s card.”
I had become so used to that question that I would understand it even in Hindustani, whatever that may be. The tune of the words, and the gestures, and the lifted eyebrows that always accompany the question are so unmistakably alike among all the bureaucrats and policemen of the world that there never can be any doubt about what is asked.
“And I have no passport either. Nor have I an identification card of the French authorities. No immigration stamp. No customs-house seal. I have no papers at all. Never in all my life did I ever have any papers.”
I rattled off all this to spare them the work of questioning me for an hour. I could easily pass the toughest examination for immigration officers, because I have had the best schooling any guy ever can have.
The chief, who had wanted to spend an easy hour or two with me, became confused. He looked at me with dying eyes.
He seemed to feel that I had taken from him all his upholstered authority. He pushed around some papers lying on his desk to find a few questions for me. After a while, trying to compose himself, he gave up for the day.
Next day there was a hearing, of which I did not grasp a single word, since everyone spoke in French. When it was all over, somebody tried his best to explain to me that I had got ten days in prison for cheating the French railroad out of the money for a ticket to Paris. I learned later that in France one might get for such an offense as much as two years, but someone in court had said that I was too dumb to understand the French law and it would be an
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