“What would I be doing in the cellar?”
“You were—papa, where’s Jud Lasher?”
“He’s gone to sea, hasn’t he?”
“Will he come back? Ever?”
“Not unless you talk about him. He might if you do.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts.”
“There are ghosts and ghosts. Foolish people talk about the imaginary ones. The real ones—big men don’t talk about them at all, and you’re getting to be a big man, aren’t you?”
“Yes, papa; yes, sir.”
He was dizzy. He swung like a blown rag on a clothesline—or like a sailor on a—a whaler. A sailor on a whaler.
The old rooster snored. His father’s hands came out across the ocean and drew the covers over the sailor’s hands. He—he was—was——