Page:The New Negro.pdf/150

122 “Let the bleddy bastard go to..."

"Now, Tommy, that isn't nice...."

“Hell it ain't! Blarst 'im! Gawd blimmah, I'll blow ta holy car load o' yo'. ..."

Again the swift, swift rustle of silks. Olive one of silk; sweating, arranging, eliminating....

“Anesta, dear, take Baldy inside...."

“But, mother!”

“Do, darling. . . !”

“No, Gawd blarst yo'. . . lemme go! Lemme go, I say!”

“Be a gentleman, Baldy, and behave!”

“What a hell of a ruction it are, eh?”

“Help me wit' 'im, daughter.

“Do, Anesta, dear. ..."

Yielding ungently, he staggered along on the girl's arm. He stept in the crown of Mr. Thingamerry's hat. A day before he had put on a spotless white suit. Laundered by the Occupation, the starch on the edges of it made it dagger-sharp. Now, it was a sight. Ugly wine stains darkened it. Drink, perspiration, tobacco weed moistened his sprigless shirt front. Awry—his tie, collar, trousers. His reddish brown hair was wet, bushy, ruffled. Grimy curses fell from his red, grime-bound lips. Six months on the Isthmus, its nights and the lure of The Palm Porch had caught him in its enervating grip. It held him tight. Sent from Liverpool to the British Postal Agency at Colon, he had fallen for the languor of the sea coast. . . had been seized by the magic glow of The Palm Porch.

“John three, sixteen, and the Lord said there was light. And the light shineth in darkness, and the darkness comprehendeth it not.'...”