They were watching a game of cards. The
pock-marked man looked up from the pile of cards in front of him and
grinned at Jimmy.
"You find it easier to get off than I do, son," he shouted. Jimmy kicked
out at him as they passed, and there was a roar of laughter.
"I hate him--he's like the Beast," said the child as they went down the
companion-way.
"Poor man--he can't help that. The Beast turned into a prince, didn't
he?"
"He's a nasty man. He sleeps in with us. And the man with no fingers.
Ugh, they're dreadful. They stayed awake all night and so did daddy. And
they wouldn't let me put the bottles through the porthole this morning.
They put them themselves, and I did so want to see them go smash."
Marcella stopped dead. Things were trickling into her mind. She saw her
father and her little thin arm dangling sickeningly when he broke it
years ago; all her childish terrors of him came back, associated with
the whisky, changed into a general terror of anything that was a father.
She saw Jimmy's little arm broken--and there were three of them in that
tiny cabin to break his little arm!
"Oh, poor wee mannie! Jimmy, ye're just going to sleep in my little
house."
He started to dance with joy, holding on to her hand and hopping on one
foot in the alley-way. Then his face clouded over.
"There'll be nobody to make daddy get in bed, then," he said.
Pages:
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157