“Well, you’ve heard of a spellin’ bee—you get a prize for spellin’ the best. Well, a cussin’ bee you start cussin’ each other, and the one that cusses hardest gets the prize. Pap never knew till one day he let into me with a strap for somethin’ or ’nother and I let fly at him. Then he found it was Mike’s children who’d been learnin’ me, and he had a dust-up with Mike on the wharf, and left him limpin’ for the rest of his natural. Did you cuss when you was young?”
“No,” said Ratcliffe. “I learned that later.”
“’R you any good at it?”
“Upon my word, I don’t know.”
“Have a try,” said Jude, losing her languor. “Clench your fists to it and have a go at me, and then I’ll have a go at you—there’s no one listenin’. Pretend you’re the skipper and I’m a hand that’s been haulin’ on the wrong rope.”
“No,” said Ratcliffe. “I’m no use at it, and it’s not a nice game, anyway. I’d sooner play at something else.”
Jude sniffed. She evidently felt snubbed. “I’m not a baby to be playing games,” said she. “You can go and play by yourself if you want to.”
She collapsed on her back with her knees up and her old hat covering her face; then from under the hat:
“You’ll hear all the swearin’ you want to in a minute from the old hooker.”
“You mean Satan?”