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XIII

           What?Beginningagain?Hewishedhewouldn’t....

           Butitwasevenso.Theimaginativedrunkardontheothersideofthebulkheadshookoffthedeathlikestillnessthatafterhislastwordshadfallenonthedarkshipmooredtoasilentshore.

           “Don’tyoudaretosayanythingagainstGeorgeMassy,Esquire.Whenhe’stiredofwaitinghewilldoawaywithher.Lookout!Downshegoes—chumandall.He’llknowhowto...”

           Thevoicehesitated,weary,dreamy,lost,asifdyingawayinavastopenspace.

           “...Findatrickthatwillwork.He’suptoit—neverfear...”

           Hemusthavebeenverydrunk,foratlasttheheavysleepgrippedhimwiththesuddennessofamagicspell,andthelastwordlengtheneditselfintoaninterminable,noisy,in-drawnsnore.Andtheneventhesnoringstopped,andallwasstill.

           ButitseemedasthoughMr.Massyhadsuddenlycometodoubttheefficacyofsleepasagainstaman’stroubles;orperhapshehadfoundthereliefheneededinthestillnessofacalmcontemplationthatmaycontainthevividthoughtsofwealth,ofastrokeofluck,oflongidleness,andmaybringbeforeyoutheimaginedformofeverydesire;for,turningaboutandthrowinghisarmsovertheedgeofhisbunk,hestoodtherewithhisfeetonhisfavoriteoldcoat,lookingoutthroughtheroundportintothenightovertheriver.Sometimesabreathofwindwouldenterandtouchhisface,acoolbreathchargedwiththedamp,freshfeelfromavastbodyofwater

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Roboto Lora
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