Scorn and disdain crossed Ballet's somber black face.
"Wha' is dah?" he said, refusing to hear his ears.
"Ah, say, don' go t' wuk teeday—stan' home—"
"Why, boy?"
"Dah marine is lookin' fo' yo'."
"Lookin' fo' me?" Ballet stuck a skeptical finger in the pit of his stomach. "Wha' he lookin' fo' me fo'?" A quizzical frown creased his brow.
"He say yo' had no business to jook yo' mout' in de ruction yestiddy. Dat yo' too gypsy an' if yo' know bes' fo' yo'self—"
"Oh, le' he come," cried Ballet, "de blind coward, le' he come—"
A ruffian Q.M. paced up and down the water front, brandishing a staff, firing skyrockets of tobacco spit to right and left, strode up. "Don't stand there, boys, getta move on! Jump in this boat—another one's coming—no time to waste—jump in there!"