He was a short, heavy-set fellow of some
eighteen years. His hair grew straight up from an overhanging
forehead, under which two small eyes seemed always to be furtively
watching each other over the bridge of his flat snub nose. His lips
met with difficulty across large, irregular teeth. Such was Ricks
Wilson, the most unprepossessing soul on board the good ship
_America_.
"You see, it's this way," explained Ricks as the boys sat behind the
smokestack and Sandy became initiated into the mysteries of a
wonderful game called "craps." "I didn't have no more 'n you've got. I
lived down South, clean off the track of ever'thing. I puts my foot in
my hand and went out and seen the world. I tramps up to New York,
works my way over to England, tramps and peddles, and gits enough
dough to pay my way back. Say, it's bum slow over there. Why, they
ain't even on to street-cars in London! I makes more in a week at home
than I do in a month in England. Say, where you goin' at when we
land?"
Sandy shook his head ruefully. "I got to go back," he said.
Ricks glanced around cautiously, then moved closer.
"You ain't that big a sucker, are you? Any feller that couldn't hop
the twig offen this old boat ain't much, that's all I got to say.
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