To the pirates and urchin gods of Bottle Alley, Gerald was the bait that lured a swarm of felt-hatted pacos who kept the alley under sleepless surveillance. It was risky to loiter, play marbles, spin gigs—and there wasn't enough to keep Gerald occupied upstairs. So he hit upon the notion of going at dusk to his father's shop. There he'd gather rum bottles and cotton reels, open up the backyard and inveigle the Judge's son to come down and play shells—and shut his ears to the men's vile banter....
One day, after the men had gone, he saw his father take a glass bowl from a shelf far back in the shop and put it on his machine. He was drawn to it, for, squirming about in the weed and moss, was a congeries of little black reptiles.
"Papa, wha' is dese, ni?"
"Leave them, sir!" his father shouted, "an' get away from there!"
He drew back, afraid. The place was silent. He watched his father furtively. His face was clouded, agitated, aflame. He tore off his coat, peeled back his shirt sleeve, and revealed a red, sore arm. He squeezed it, the while gritting his teeth. He moved over to the bowl, wincing in pain. Gerald was stricken dumb. Up to the bowl his father crept, taking one of the shiny, slimy reptiles and planting it on the red sore, to feast there. Uncomprehending Gerald patiently waited.
Later he was in bed, half-asleep, listening to the storm. A hurricane of words passed by—hot, carnal words. The fury subsided, and there ensued a sober sympathetic calm.
"Lucian, darling," he heard his mother say, "wha' yo' doin' fuh de arm, ni?"
"Oh, Oi is orright."
"Yo' bin to de doctor, man?"
"No."