“An the glass don’t lie,” Sam Swuth promised, “they’s a sight dirtier comin’.”
Salim lifted the pack to his back. “Ver’ beeg sea,” said he. “Ver’ bad blow.”
“Ghost Rock breakin’?”
“Ver’ bad in thee Parlor of thee Devil,” Salim answered. “Ver’ long, black hands thee sea have. Ver’ white finger-nail,” he laughed. “Eh? Ver’ hong-ree hands. They reach for thee punt. But I am have escape,” he added, with a proud little grin. “I am have escape. I—Salim! Ver’ good sailor. Thee sea have not cotch me, you bet!”
“Ye’ll be lyin’ the night in Hapless?”
“Oh my, no! Ver’ poor business. I am mus’ go to thee Chain Teekle.”
Salim Awad went the round of mean white houses, exerting himself in trade, according to the cure prescribed for the mortal malady of which he suffered; but as he passed from door to door, light-hearted, dreaming of Haleema, she of the tresses of night, wherein the souls of men wandered astray, he still kept sharp lookout for Jamie Tuft, the young son of Skipper Jim, whom he had come through the wind to serve. Salim was shy—shy as a child; more shy than ever when bent upon some gentle deed; and Jamie was shy, shy as lads are shy; thus no meeting chanced until, when in the afternoon the wind had freshened, these two blundered together in the lee of Bishop’s Rock, where Jamie was hiding his humiliation, grief, and small body, but devoutly hoping, all the while, to be discovered and relieved. It was dry in that place, and sheltered from the wind; but between the Tickle heads, whence the harbor opened to the sea, the gale was to be observed at work upon the run.
Salim stopped dead. Jamie grinned painfully and kicked at the road.
“Hello!” cried Salim.
“’Lo, Joe!” growled Jamie.