The girl's right arm was thrown
carelessly abroad over the quilt, the shoulder gleaming white in the
deeper shadow thrown by the old woman who sat with her back to us,
looking down intently at this waiting morsel of humanity. If we had not
seen her before, we could have imagined her to be praying.
Mick, for the first time since their entry into the room, suddenly
looked over at me. The same thoughts must have flashed through both our
brains. What was wrong? Was anything wrong? Surely the affair was quite
simple; and the canvas screen, violated by Mick's knife, had expressed
the needed attempt at decency.
The muttering died down and the room was hushed to strained silence--to
be broken soon by a furtive pad on the stairs. Mick and I were again
alert, staring through the canvas slits. The Boss now appeared,
followed by one of the dock rats. They glanced at the bed and then
looked enquiringly at the old woman.
"Ol' Soloman sh'd fork out a termer for this," she said in low but
clear tones. "But it's got to be a proper job." Then, to the Boss, and
pointing to the screen, indicating the position of our beds: "You
lamming idiot! Didn't I tell yo'? Yo' sh'd a took their bits an' outed
'm.
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