Chapter V: "Well, Sarah, who's this?"

"The last one, Gerald."

"He grow big, yes."

"Skipper don't even know he own son."

"Suck fingah buay."

"Shut up, Saboogles!"

"Fairf!"

"Come heah, son, don't cry--come 'n say howdee to yo' pappy."

"Tek yo' fingah outa yo' mout', sah."

"Say, something, no, Gerald--"

"Howdee!"

"Say howdee pappy."

"Howdee pappy."

"Oi don't know wha' mattah wit' dis' boy, ni. Comin' on de boat he was--"

"Come an' kiss me, sah."

He flinched at the suggestion. But there was no escape and he had to put up his face to receive the wet, disgusting kiss.

"Like yo' ent glad to see yo' pappy," he heard his mother say, and was ferocious at her, "an' bin talkin' an' exquirin' 'bout what yo' look like, Lucian, evah sense we lef' B'bados."

He slunk back, shuddering at the touch of the man, and took a good look at him. He was crouched before a machine. He was fairer than Sarah--she was black, he a yellowish brown. He was soft, yet not fat, but he gave one the appearance of being weak and flabby. He was biting thread. Gold-rimmed brown glasses barely shaded eyes circulating in two seamy bloodshot pools. His hairy arms rested soft and heavy on the machine. He was bald, and his mouth was large and sensuous. It was a roaming mouth. His hands were of putty. Every time he swallowed, or raised his head, a rum goggle as modest as a turkey gobbler's would slide up and down.

The place was noisy and vulgar. It smelt of brandy and Jamaica rum, but tuxedos and crash tunics were sewed there for the dandy _bomberos_ of the Republic. Far into the night it kept twenty men on the job, but it was an idler's and a lazy man's joint. Customers like the judge, a proud, blue-eyed Spaniard, would stop by on their way home at night--but it was a hang-out and an assignation spot for _cabrons_ and bare-footed black mares.

"Go an' pick up dah cotton reel fuh mah," Bright said to him, "an' put dis empty bottle behind the counter--"

It was here that Gerald was to take on the color of life.