FlOoD--Part Sixteen

Here I'll Stay

SiXtEeN

 

   By way of audience response to the rousing production of Murphy and his three-man band, Jones slowly lifted his head, opened his eyes, raised his gun in the air and fired one shot that resounded through the watery firmament.

   Into the immediate silence that encompassed the boat, a voice softly insinuated itself.

   "By temperance, when a man's tryin' ta sleep, he don't wanna lissen ta no infernal caterwaulin'. Whoever's makin' that dam noise better hush theirselves or, by temperance, they'll have holes in places where they mightn't find 'em very useful."

   The orator of this quaint plea for peace and quiet, after he had issued it, rested his head once again onto his bosom, gently lowered the lids over his orbs of vision and, to all appeareances, floated away into sweet slumber.

   When the explosion from the gun had first ripped through the air, it had torn the three remaining sleepers away from whatever dreams they had been ravelling into the damp night air. Johnson raised his head without opening his eyes, sniffed at the air a few times and, perhaps finding that breakfast was as yet unprepared, simply rolled his spine back down until his head softly reconnercted with the anvil, producing a lovely "lurng" sound. Brown opened his eyes but never raised his head. He merely hugged the urn a little closer to his chest and began whispering to it in sounds undistinguishable to his fellows. Peterson lowered the sampler that had provided a barrier between himself and his heathenish companions in the small craft. In the moonlight, he watched Jones make his humble proclamation and then lapse into unconsciousness.