I wondered whether after
all wicked people were just stupid people--and then I thought of
Aunt Jane--who was certainly not wicked--
As the heat increased a voice of lamentation broke from Chris. He
was dry--dry enough to drink up the condemned ocean. No, he didn't
want spring water, which Cookie obsequiously tendered him; he
wanted a _drink_--wouldn't anybody but a fool nigger know that?
There was plenty of the real stuff aboard the schooner, on the
other side of the--adjective--island. Why had they, with
incredible lack of forethought, brought along nothing but their
pocket flasks? Why hadn't they sent the adjective nigger back for
more? Where was the bottle or two that had been rooted out last
night from the medical stores? Empty? Every last drop gone down
somebody's greedy gullet? The adjectives came thick and fast as
Chris hurled the bottle into the bay, where it swam bobbingly upon
the ripples. Captain Magnus agreed with the gist of Chris's
remarks, but deprecated, in a truly philosophical spirit, their
unprofitable heat. There wasn't any liquor, so what was the good
of making an adjective row? Hadn't he endured the equivalent of
Chris's present sufferings for weeks? He was biding his time, he
was. Plenty of drink by and by, plenty of all that makes life soft
and easy. He bet there wouldn't many hit any higher spots than
him.
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