"Sweet of you—dear little chap," twittered the little lady.
They passed a group of some dozen men sitting round a brown blanket hedged with a fence of tumblers. They were watching a game of cards. The pock-marked man looked up from the pile of cards in front of him and grinned at Jimmy.
"You find it easier to get off than I do, son," he shouted. Jimmy kicked out at him as they passed, and there was a roar of laughter.
"I hate him—he's like the Beast," said the child as they went down the companion-way.
"Poor man—he can't help that. The Beast turned into a prince, didn't he?"
"He's a nasty man. He sleeps in with us. And the man with no fingers. Ugh, they're dreadful. They stayed awake all night and so did daddy. And they wouldn't let me put the bottles through the porthole this morning. They put them themselves, and I did so want to see them go smash."
Marcella stopped dead. Things were trickling into her mind. She saw her father and her little thin arm dangling sickeningly when he broke it years ago; all her childish terrors of him came back, associated with the whisky, changed into a general terror of anything that was a father. She saw Jimmy's little arm broken—and there were three of them in that tiny cabin to break his little arm!
"Oh, poor wee mannie! Jimmy, ye're just going to sleep in my little house."
He started to dance with joy, holding on to her hand and hopping on one foot in the alley-way. Then his face clouded over.
"There'll be nobody to make daddy get in bed, then," he said.