kitchen. She agreed that something had to be done about where Zackie was sleeping. About his going hungry she was not so concerned. "Him have money," she said. "Him can buy things to eat and drink in any shop."
"He's saving his money to go to Kingston and find his mother."
"Me know that. But him can spare a little to keep alive." She put a hand to her face in that way she had when she was thinking. "Have you thought of asking you dad if Zackie can sleep here in the house?"
Peter nodded. "Yes, I have."
"Well?"
"I think he might say yes, but be unhappy about it. What I mean ... He lives all alone with his memories, Miss Lorrie. Like a hermit. And ... and ..."
"Me understand. Yes."
"Anyway, I don't know if this would be a good time to ask him, Miss Lorrie. He stopped at the cemetery today, I think."
"And did walk in and stand there talking to those two stones with the name Devon on them." The housekeeper sighed and shook her head. "No man should have to suffer like that, Peter. It not right. But taking in Zackie would be good for him, me do believe. So why you don't ask him, anyway?"
When Peter's father came from his room, it was nearly time for the evening meal. Peter was in the living room, reading. By the long, deep lines in Walter Devon's face, Peter knew that his father had not been sleeping. Probably he had not even been lying down, but only sitting in the silence of his room, tormented by his thoughts. When Mr. Devon sat down, Peter told him about Zackie Leonard's sleeping in the mule pen.
"Mr. Campbell says if any of us tried to share that mule's bed, we'd get our ribs kicked in, Dad."
"I'm sure we would."
"Dad. . .”
Mr. Devon looked up slowly, as though his head weighed a lot, and said, "Yes?"
"We've got an awful lot of rooms in this house that we don't use for anything. You suppose Zackie could have one of them to sleep in?"
Mr. Devon took his time about answering, then said with a frown, "You like this boy, don't you, Peter?"
"Yes, Dad."
Mr. Devon obviously was reluctant to have Zackie move in with them. His frown told Peter that much. After a silence he said, "What does Miss Lorrie say about it? I'm sure you've talked this over with her."
"It was her idea. I'd been thinking about it before she mentioned it, though."
"All right, then. I still don't think it will work out, mind you, but it looks as though I'm overruled." Mr. Devon, too, stood up. "You say he slept with Campbell's mule in the pen last night? It's almost dark out. Let's see if he's there now."
But Zackie was not in the mule pen, either then or half an hour later when they went out to look again just before Miss Lorrie put dinner on the table. The pen's only occupant was Winston Campbell's ill-tempered mule, who on their last visit was actually lying on Zackie's bed of grass under the zinc roof. Peter wondered whether Nasty was promising the Jamaican boy a rough time if he dared to come back or was protecting the bed for him.
A fter dinner Mr. Devon suggested they go out to the mule pen again. It was really dark now, and the diesel generator was softly chugging away in the garage to provide electricity for the house and for the headman's cot tage. There would be no light in the mule pen, though, so Mr. Devon handed Peter a flashlight and carried one himself.
As they approached the pen this time, Peter heard something—not in the wire enclosure itself but in some guava bushes nearby. Swiftly turning on one foot, he drilled the bushes with his flashlight beam.
It was not Zackie who crouched there, but the boy's father. Blinking in the sudden glare, Merrick Leonard lurched to his feet with a drunken snarl, then lost his balance and almost fell before one hand grabbed a bush branch. His other hand clutched a length of thick bamboo, and when his eyes adjusted to the flashlight glare they seemed to Peter to be unnaturally small. Their whites were red.
With his heart thumping in his chest, Peter stopped short. But his father was not
"He's saving his money to go to Kingston and find his mother."
"Me know that. But him can spare a little to keep alive." She put a hand to her face in that way she had when she was thinking. "Have you thought of asking you dad if Zackie can sleep here in the house?"
Peter nodded. "Yes, I have."
"Well?"
"I think he might say yes, but be unhappy about it. What I mean ... He lives all alone with his memories, Miss Lorrie. Like a hermit. And ... and ..."
"Me understand. Yes."
"Anyway, I don't know if this would be a good time to ask him, Miss Lorrie. He stopped at the cemetery today, I think."
"And did walk in and stand there talking to those two stones with the name Devon on them." The housekeeper sighed and shook her head. "No man should have to suffer like that, Peter. It not right. But taking in Zackie would be good for him, me do believe. So why you don't ask him, anyway?"
When Peter's father came from his room, it was nearly time for the evening meal. Peter was in the living room, reading. By the long, deep lines in Walter Devon's face, Peter knew that his father had not been sleeping. Probably he had not even been lying down, but only sitting in the silence of his room, tormented by his thoughts. When Mr. Devon sat down, Peter told him about Zackie Leonard's sleeping in the mule pen.
"Mr. Campbell says if any of us tried to share that mule's bed, we'd get our ribs kicked in, Dad."
"I'm sure we would."
"Dad. . .”
Mr. Devon looked up slowly, as though his head weighed a lot, and said, "Yes?"
"We've got an awful lot of rooms in this house that we don't use for anything. You suppose Zackie could have one of them to sleep in?"
Mr. Devon took his time about answering, then said with a frown, "You like this boy, don't you, Peter?"
"Yes, Dad."
Mr. Devon obviously was reluctant to have Zackie move in with them. His frown told Peter that much. After a silence he said, "What does Miss Lorrie say about it? I'm sure you've talked this over with her."
"It was her idea. I'd been thinking about it before she mentioned it, though."
"All right, then. I still don't think it will work out, mind you, but it looks as though I'm overruled." Mr. Devon, too, stood up. "You say he slept with Campbell's mule in the pen last night? It's almost dark out. Let's see if he's there now."
But Zackie was not in the mule pen, either then or half an hour later when they went out to look again just before Miss Lorrie put dinner on the table. The pen's only occupant was Winston Campbell's ill-tempered mule, who on their last visit was actually lying on Zackie's bed of grass under the zinc roof. Peter wondered whether Nasty was promising the Jamaican boy a rough time if he dared to come back or was protecting the bed for him.
A fter dinner Mr. Devon suggested they go out to the mule pen again. It was really dark now, and the diesel generator was softly chugging away in the garage to provide electricity for the house and for the headman's cot tage. There would be no light in the mule pen, though, so Mr. Devon handed Peter a flashlight and carried one himself.
As they approached the pen this time, Peter heard something—not in the wire enclosure itself but in some guava bushes nearby. Swiftly turning on one foot, he drilled the bushes with his flashlight beam.
It was not Zackie who crouched there, but the boy's father. Blinking in the sudden glare, Merrick Leonard lurched to his feet with a drunken snarl, then lost his balance and almost fell before one hand grabbed a bush branch. His other hand clutched a length of thick bamboo, and when his eyes adjusted to the flashlight glare they seemed to Peter to be unnaturally small. Their whites were red.
With his heart thumping in his chest, Peter stopped short. But his father was not
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