"I saw the blood drip from 'er bare shoulders, mates," the man
continued huskily, and with his big dirty hands he strove to
illustrate his words. "An' that old yellow devil lashed an'
lashed until the poor gal was past screamin'. She just sunk down
on the floor all of a 'cap, moanin' and moanin'--Gawd! I can
'ear 'er moanin' now!"
"Meanwhile, 'ere's me with murder in me 'eart lyin' there
watchin', an' I can't speak, no! I can't even curse the yellow
rat, an' I can't move--not a 'and, not a foot! Just as she fell
there right up against the joss an' 'er blood trickled down on
'is gilded feet, old Ma Lorenzo comes staggerin' in. I remember
all this as clear as print, mates, remember it plain, but wot
'appened next ain't so good an' clear. Somethink seemed to bust
in me 'ead. Only just before I went off, the winder--there's
only one in the room--was smashed to smithereens an' somebody
come in through it."
"Are you sure?" said Harley eagerly. "Are you sure?"
That he was intensely absorbed in the story he revealed by a
piece of bad artistry, very rare in him. He temporarily forgot
his dialect. Our marine friend, however, was too much taken up
with his own story to notice the slip, and:
"Dead sure!" he shouted.
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