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"Where'd you get this, little pretty?" The big bullish fellow scooped up the map and brought it close to his squinting eyes. As he tilted his head his blond queue bobbed about on his otherwise shaven, tattooed skull, which would soon prove itself to be empty. "My father was the buccaneer, Captain Roberts -- that died last week at sea? He left me naught but a stack of old papers. Sir, I'm powerfully hungry, and no longer have a home. Can you not get me a bite to eat?" He kept turning the map around before his nose. "What be this 'ere, lass?" "I know not, sir," said I, with a tiny voice, huge golden cat's eyes aflutter, "I can read not a word. I'll give it you, if ye gets me something to eat." "Where's the rest of them papers he left you?" He seized my arm with the grip of an oyster; but I wailed fit to split ears -- so he let go. "See here, my little swan, no need to make a fuss. I'll treat ye to a meal. What say ye?" He looked down at me with the very face of a hard-favored fox, yellow teeth jumbled together behind his wicked grin. A dragon's breath and a little brown trail from the corner of his mouth betokened a quid of tobacco lurking behind ruined teeth. His breath mingled with the fumes of the dung smeared on my tunic made us a singularly malodorous couple as he led me into the tavern, greatbellied with drunken tars, and called for a bowl of soup. "No, I'll have the roast beef, 'f it please you." I saw a wave of rage wash across my companion, but he held his tongue and nodded to the waiter. |
Copyright © Michael B.Stevens, 1999, 2000, 2001, 2005. All rights reserved. Format modified Aug. 2005