“I ain’t exactly aisy in me mind, kid,” he explained with a low chuckle. “I be keepin’ a weather eye on thim coppers. They’re curious like ’bout some stuff and I ain’t in the spirit to answer thim. They got me barge and that’s enough, so ’tis.”
“You ain’t Big Joe Tully?” Skippy asked.
“That be callin’ the turn, kid. S’pose your Pop give ye an earful ’bout me. Well, I started out shootin’ straight like he did, but whilst Flint’s got the monop’ly on shippin’ and the like on this river, a guy’s a million to one, so he is.”
“Mr. Flint won’t have it no more,” Skippy gulped. “I guess you ain’t heard....”
“What?” asked Big Joe Tully reaching in his pocket for a cigarette.
“He’s dead—he was killed tonight.” Tears rushed to Skippy’s eyes again. “An’ my Pop’s been sorta accused, Mr. Tully,” he added, and blurted out the whole story.
Tully was puffing energetically on his cigarette when Skippy finished.
“Now don’t ye be worryin’ kid,” he said sympathetically. “If that ol’ rat was dead when Toby got there they can’t do nothin’ to him. Toby’ll be home tomorrow, so he will, I bet.”
Skippy felt instantly cheered. He was beginning to feel glad of Big Joe’s comforting presence when he bethought himself of the man’s dubious activities on the river. Wasn’t it this man and his ilk that his father had warned him against? Men who weren’t honest? The boy sat down on his bunk to think it over.
To his surprise, Tully had got up and was putting on his coat and hat. Immediately, Skippy forgot that he was considering the moral aspect of an invitation to the man to stay; he forgot all his father’s warnings against association with the river gentry, and thought only of the void that Tully’s sudden departure would make in the long night.