Ностромо

           Ijusthadonelook....Useless.”

           ButhepromisedtoseeoldViolaandtheothergirlthatverynight.Hecouldgetthepolice-boattotakehimofftotheisland.Heremainedinthestreet,lookingafterthelandaurollingawayslowlybehindthewhitemules.

           Therumourofsomeaccident—anaccidenttoCaptainFidanza—hadbeenspreadingalongthenewquayswiththeirrowsoflampsandthedarkshapesoftoweringcranes.Aknotofnightprowlers—thepoorestofthepoor—hungaboutthedoorofthefirst-aidhospital,whisperinginthemoonlightoftheemptystreet.

           Therewasnoonewiththewoundedmanbutthepalephotographer,small,frail,bloodthirsty,thehaterofcapitalists,perchedonahighstoolneartheheadofthebedwithhiskneesupandhischininhishands.Hehadbeenfetchedbyacomradewho,workinglateonthewharf,hadheardfromanegrobelongingtoalancha,thatCaptainFidanzahadbeenbroughtashoremortallywounded.

           “Haveyouanydispositionstomake,comrade?”heasked,anxiously.“Donotforgetthatwewantmoneyforourwork.Therichmustbefoughtwiththeirownweapons.”

           Nostromomadenoanswer.Theotherdidnotinsist,remaininghuddleduponthestool,shock-headed,wildlyhairy,likeahunchbackedmonkey.Then,afteralongsilence—

           “ComradeFidanza,”hebegan,solemnly,“youhaverefusedallaidfromthatdoctor.