Belfast wandered
about as though he had lost his way in the dim forecastle, and nearly
fell over Donkin. He contemplated him from on high for a while. "Ain't
ye going to turn in?" he asked. Donkin looked up hopelessly.--"That
black'earted Scotch son of a thief kicked me!" he whispered from the
floor, in a tone of utter desolation.--"And a good job, too!" said
Belfast, still very depressed; "You were as near hanging as damn-it
to-night, sonny. Don't you play any of your murthering games around my
Jimmy! You haven't pulled him out. You just mind! 'Cos if I start to
kick you"--he brightened up a bit--"if I start to kick you, it will be
Yankee fashion--to break something!" He tapped lightly with his knuckles
the top of the bowed head. "You moind that, my bhoy!" he concluded,
cheerily. Donkin let it pass.--"Will they split on me?" he asked, with
pained anxiety.--"Who--split?" hissed Belfast, coming back a step. "I
would split your nose this minyt if I hadn't Jimmy to look after! Who
d'ye think we are?" Donkin rose and watched Belfast's back lurch through
the doorway. On all sides invisible men slept, breathing calmly. He
seemed to draw courage and fury from the peace around him.
Pages:
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210