"W'y don't you pipe up an' say somethin'?" he went on, as the other
struggled for breath. "Wot's gone wrong o' your gaff? Anythink the
matter?"
"W--w--where'd you get it?" Kent at last managed to articulate, raising a
shaking forefinger to the ghastly scar which seamed the other's cheek.
"Shipmate stove me down with a marlin-spike from the main-royal. An' now
as you 'ave your figger'ead in trim, wot I want to know is, wot's it to
you? That's wot I want to know--wot's it to you? Gawd blime me! do it
'urt you? Ain't it smug enough for the likes o' you? That's wot I want
to know!"
"No, no," Kent answered, sinking upon a stool with a sickly grin. "I was
just wondering."
"Did you ever see the like?" the other went on truculently.
"No."
"Ain't it a beute?"
"Yes." Kent nodded his head approvingly, intent on humoring this strange
visitor, but wholly unprepared for the outburst which was to follow his
effort to be agreeable.
"You blasted, bloomin', burgoo-eatin' son-of-a-sea-swab! Wot do you
mean, a sayin' the most onsightly thing Gawd Almighty ever put on the
face o' man is a beute? Wot do you mean, you--"
And thereat this fiery son of the sea broke off into a string of Oriental
profanity, mingling gods and devils, lineages and men, metaphors and
monsters, with so savage a virility that Jacob Kent was paralyzed.
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