Afraid, unable to fathom the gleam penetrating the depths of the man's eyes, Ballet started running.
"Stand up and take yer medicine, yer goddam skunk," cried the marine; "hey, stop that man—"
Nothing for a black boy, probably a laborer, or a water boy, to do a hide and seek with a tipsy marine....
"Stop that man—"
Ballet flew. He scaled hurdles. He bumped into men. Ugly French colonial words, epithets deserving of a dog, were hurled at him. Impatient, contemptuous Jamaican, colored by a highly British accent, caught at him like shreds.
About to penetrate the dense interior of the jungle, the men sang, soothed the blades of their cutlasses, sang pioneer sea songs, pioneer gold songs....
Comin' Ah tell yo'!
One mo' mawin', buoy,
There was a toolshed set a little ways in. Into it Ballet burst. But a hut, it yet had an "upstairs," and up these the boy scrambled wildly.
Behind a wagon wheel sent up there to the wheelwright to be mended, Ballet, breathing hard, heard the marine enter.