It was a street occupied by negroes,
and Sadler wasn't popular there.
He came up to the _Helen Mar_ the afternoon of the day that
Pete went out of the harbour, and lay in a hammock on deck, where one
could look down past the fruit trees toward the town and the mouth of
the Jiron. He was making a requiem for Pete Hillary, such as he
thought he ought to do under those circumstances, though the requiem
was no good and the tune vicious. "Pete Hillary," it began,
"Pete Hillary, I make for you
This lonesome, sad complaint.
Alive you wa'nt no use, 'tis true,
And dead you prob'ly ain't.
"Pete Hillary, Pete Hillary,
I don't know where you are.
Here's luck to you, Pete Hillary,
Beyond the harbour bar."
Just then Irish came running up the path, and climbed the ladder on
deck, and he cried:
"It's a warrant for ye, Kid I Run! Oh, wirra! What did ye do it
for?" He was distracted.
Sadler paid no attention. He only twanged his banjo, and sang casual
poetry, and Little Irish ran on:
"'Tis Pete Hillary himself was pulled out forninst the sand-bar," he
says, "an' he's back in Ferdinand Street, swearin' for the bucket o'
wather he swallyed.
Pages:
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48