dropping the small anchor but he got it over and
paid out quite a lot of rope and the boat swung in
against the mangroves so they came right into the
cockpit. Then he went back and down into the
cockpit. He thought the cockpit was a hell of a
sight, all right.
All night after he had dressed the nigger's wound
and the nigger had bandaged his arm he had been
watching the compass, steering, and when it came
daylight he had seen the nigger laying there in the
sacks in the middle of the cockpit, but then he was
watching the seas and the compass and looking for
the Sand Key light and he had never observed
carefully how things were. Things were bad.
The nigger was lying in the middle of the load of
sacked liquor with his leg up. There were eight
bullet holes through the cockpit splintered wide.
The glass was broken in the windshield. He did not
know how much stuff was smashed and wherever
the nigger had not bled, he, himself, had bled.
But the worst thing, the way he felt at the moment,
was the smell of booze. Everything was soaked in it,
Now the boat was lying quietly against the man-
groves but he could not stop feeling the motion of the
big sea they had been in all night in the Gulf.
*Fm going to make some coffee/ he told the
nigger. 'Then Fll fix you up again/
CI don't want no coffee/
*I do,' the man told him. But down below he
began to feel dizzy so he came out on deck again,