Chapter 214: A Bet

He said it like a dare, clearly expecting Finn to react with the same hotheaded boldness he’d displayed so far.

But Finn was already walking deeper into the shed, looking around for a workspace and tools. “Why should I do that?” he called back over his shoulder. “I have nothing to prove. If you want me out of here, you’ll have to try harder than that.”

Old Dog Mendoza seemed slightly taken aback. He paused, reassessing. Maybe he’d misjudged this young man after all. Maybe beneath that casual arrogance was someone who actually knew how to pick his battles.

But then Finn said something that completely threw off Old Dog Mendoza’s new assessment.

“I’ll only do it if the offer is at least quadrupled.” Finn turned back to face him, that lazy smile still in place. “And not just pay for one day. For five days.”

Old Dog Mendoza stilled. His frown became something darker, more serious. He stared at Finn like he was trying to see through layers of deception to whatever truth lay beneath.

“Who the hell are you?” he muttered.

Now everyone in the shed was interested. The space had become lively, and some workers were even calling out, praising Finn’s guts.

“Come on, boss! Humor the guy!”

“He’s shitting on our pride with that talk!”

“Let’s see if he can back it up!”

Old Dog Mendoza opened his mouth to respond, but Finn cut him off before he could speak.

“Of course, it wouldn’t be fair for me to gain more from the bet without balancing it out.” Finn’s smile widened. “So it goes both ways. With these new terms, if I lose, besides quitting this work, I’ll also walk the entire length of the docks in my underpants, screaming and apologizing repeatedly about the difficulty of oakum work and how wrong I was.” He paused for effect. “While also carrying a large banner that says the same thing.”

Everyone went silent for a second.

Then the shed erupted into absolute chaos.

Heckling, laughter, shouts of encouragement and mockery all blended together. Some thought Finn might actually be able to do it, simply because nobody would make such a bold bet without confidence. But most, especially those with years of oakum work experience, thought Finn definitely had a screw loose somewhere.

But everyone was now clearly invested and interested. They were practically begging Old Dog Mendoza to accept.

“Do it, boss!”

“Take the bet!”

“This is gonna be the best thing to happen all month!”

But Old Dog Mendoza was even more conflicted now. What kind of confidence could spur Finn to make such a bold bet? How had things spiraled to this point at all? His subordinates were all riled up and looking at him expectantly. He definitely couldn’t back out now without losing face.

In a normal scenario, he would have latched onto the original bet even when it was skewed in Finn’s favor, not to mention now that Finn had balanced it more. Old Dog Mendoza had been a sailor too, after all. Despite his injury and age, he was still a hardcore sailor to his core. Not the type to shirk from blatant challenges like this.

But for some reason, he felt like he’d be the one coming out of this on the losing end.

While he hesitated and while his subordinates began to wonder why their boss hadn’t spoken yet, Finn put the final nail in the coffin.

“If those terms aren’t enough,” Finn said casually, “then besides forfeiting the job and doing the humiliating display if I lose, I’ll also add something else. A blank favor. You can ask me for anything within reason, and I’ll do it. No questions asked.”

Old Dog Mendoza reluctantly sighed. At this point there was nothing else he could do but accept. If he didn’t, what face would he have left?

“Fine,” he said, his voice cutting through the noise. “You’re on. One sack before six o’clock. Quadruple pay for five days if you succeed. All those forfeitures if you fail.”

The shed burst into conversations and predictions. Some actually thought Finn would be able to do it for him to be this bold. Most were firmly of the opinion that Finn was just crazy in the head. It even seemed like side bets were beginning to spring up among the oakum workers, money changing hands as they wagered on the outcome.

But Old Dog Mendoza shut them all up. “Get back to work! All of you! We’ve still got quotas to meet!”

The workers returned to their stations, though the energy in the shed was completely different now. Everyone was watching Finn from the corners of their eyes.

Old Dog Mendoza headed to the back of the shed, casting one last long glance at Finn before disappearing behind the stacks of rope.

Finn smiled as the man left, then began to observe the oakum workers closer to him as they worked on the hardened cords.

One man in particular caught his attention. Old, probably in his sixties, completely silent as he worked. But his movements were practiced, efficient, the result of years of repetition.

Finn watched as the old man positioned a section of tar-hardened rope and began working his fid along it. The tool scraped against the blackened surface, flaking off chunks of hardened tar with short, controlled strokes. It wasn’t random scraping, there was a rhythm to it, a technique. The old man worked along the grain of the rope, following the natural twist of the fibers underneath.

After several minutes of scraping, patches of brown hemp began to emerge from beneath the black coating. The old man switched techniques then, using the pointed end of his fid to dig into the grooves between rope strands, prying out tar that had seeped deep into the weave.

It was meticulous work. Each section had to be cleaned thoroughly before moving to the next.

Once a length of the rope, maybe two feet or so, was cleared of tar, the old man set down his fid and began working with his fingers. The hemp underneath was still twisted together in thick strands. He carefully pulled these apart, untwisting them into smaller bundles. Then he separated those bundles into individual fibers, pulling them apart with a patience that spoke of thousands of hours doing exactly this.

The fibers were surprisingly soft once freed from the tar, almost fluffy. The old man gathered them into a neat pile beside him, then reached for the next section of rope and began the whole process again.

When the old man finally finished working through one complete section of cord and added the fibers to his sack, Finn noted with a sour expression that more than thirty minutes had passed, and that had only amounted to an amount that was just a little more than a handful of fibre, against a sack that was nearly as tall as he was.

“Damn… I might actually be fucked.”

The old man, who hadn’t spoken the entire time Finn had been watching, looked up at him with one eye open. His voice was dry as old leather.

“It’s not that you might be fucked, boy.”

He turned back to his work, pulling a fresh coil of tarred rope toward him.

“You are fucked.”

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