“Oh, Lord, no!” said Satan.
“Well, then, out with it!”
Ratcliffe had never seen Satan “het up” till now, as, straightening himself and gripping the rail, he let out:
“Gotta say? Why, if I’m sayin’ from now to the end o’ next week, I couldn’t say the beginnin’ of my opinion of you, right from the truck of Cleary’s old cod boat to the keel o’ that old disgrace you ripped of her guts when she was a yacht—you an’ your crew of cockroaches an’ dagoes—right from the soles of Cleary’s flat feet to the end of your bottle nose—you and your ultermatum!
“That’s all. I haven’t time to be wastin’ on you. I’ll come if I have a mind to and when I want, without waitin’ for your orders—now scatter yourselves!”
“Right,” said Sellers.
He gave an order to the boat’s crew, and the boat turned, and, followed by Carquinez, made back to the Juan.
Satan, his hand on the rail, watched them, still chewing.
Not a word spoke he, the bulge in his cheek steadfast against the skyline and his eyes fixed on the boats.
Then he suddenly turned.