“I just dropped in to get a drink,” he said. “I belong to the cop family and I got the habit.”
It was not until the boat had ground itself gratingly up against the rough stone ledge that served for a landing that Tough openly acknowledged Policeman Connelley’s right to an explanation of a sort. He jerked his head toward Molly, who stood, wild-eyed and trembling, on the narrow ledge above.
“My girl,” he said succinctly. “We was scrappin’, and she pitched my bundle of clothes that I was fetchin’ home overboard. There was money in the pants,” he added by way of gracious explanation. “That was why I jumped in after ’em.”
“Didn’t know you had a girl, Tough.” Big Jim Connelley may have had his suspicions, but his tone was of the most conventional.
“That so?” inquired Tough as he scrambled up the ledge. “Say, Jim, the things you don’t know would fill a city directory right up to the limit.”
Then he turned to Molly. “Guess you’re cooled off, now, old girl, what?” he said. “Come on, then. Let’s beat it home.”
Gathering her unconscious baby to her with trembling, passionate hands, the girl went with him trustingly.
THE BLACK PATCH
By Randolph Hartley
I wear a black patch over my left eye. It has aroused the curiosity of many; no one has suspected the horror that it hides.