“Ah, Tommy! You isn’t alone. You got the Jew.”
“But I wants you!”
“You’ll take care o’ Tommy, won’t you, Joe?”
Salim Awad smiled. He softly patted Tommy Hand’s broad young shoulder. “I weel have,” said he, slowly, desperately struggling with the language, “look out for heem. I am not can,” he added, with a little laugh, “do ver’ well.”
“Oh,” said the cook, patronizingly, “you’re able for it, Joe.”
“I am can try eet,” Salim answered, courteously bowing, much delighted. “Much ’bliged.”
Meantime Tommy had, of quick impulse, stripped off his jacket and boots. He made a ball of the jacket and tossed it to his father.
“What you about, Tommy?” the cook demanded. “Is you goin’ t’ swim?”
Tommy answered with the boots; whereupon he ran up and down the edge of the pan, and, at last, slipped like a reluctant dog into the water, where he made a frothy, ineffectual commotion; after which he sank. When he came to the surface Salim Awad hauled him inboard.
“You isn’t goin’ t’ try again, is you, Tommy?” the cook asked.