I dug out my card case and ran through the collection of credentials I had picked up here and there by one means or another. The red card was the one I wanted. It identified me as Henry F. Neill, A.B. seaman, member in good standing of the Industrial Workers of the World. There wasn’t a word of truth in it.

I passed this card to Bill Quint. He read it carefully, front and back, returned it to my hand, and looked me over from hat to shoes, not trustfully.

“He’s not going to die any more,” he said. “Which way you going?”

“Any.”

We walked down the street together, turned a corner, aimlessly as far as I knew.

“What brought you in here, if you’re a sailor?” he asked casually.