frightened. Walter Devon strode toward the intruder without hesitation, and the anger in his voice surprised Peter.
"I dislike prowlers, Mr. Leonard!"
"Me nuh prowlin'." The man's words were heavy and slurred. "Me come for me son."
"And hide yourself here with a club? What kind of man are you? Get out of here!"
"If me want to punish me own son for—"
"Out!"
The bamboo stick whistled at Mr. Devon's head as Leonard lurched forward. It struck home, too, and Peter realized that Dad must have felt something like an ex plosion behind his eyes. His eyes almost popped from their sockets, and Mr. Devon took in a quick, gasping breath.
But then a strange thing happened. Dad did not stagger backward from the blow, as Peter had expected. Instead, he seemed steady as a rock and filled with strength. Dropping his flashlight, he seized the bamboo stick and wrenched it from Leonard's grasp as if Leonard were a mere child.
Never before had Peter seen his father lift a hand to anyone in anger, but he did now. Mr. Devon swung the bamboo high and took a single step forward, ready to bring the stick crashing down on Leonard's head.
"Get out, Mr. Leonard. Now."
It was said so quietly that Peter almost didn't hear it. Leonard did, and recognized the honest fury behind it. The man staggered back with both hands flapping in front of his face, then turned and fled.
Mr. Devon did not pursue him. He simply stood there, shaking. Long after the crashing sound of footfalls had died away to silence, he continued to stand there motionless except for the shaking. At last the shaking stopped.
Seemingly unaware that Peter was still with him, he dropped the bamboo stick, picked up his flashlight, and walked slowly back to the house. Peter followed in silence, feeling proud. Not until they reached the veranda steps did Mr. Devon seem to remember he was not alone. Turning, he looked at Peter.
"Oh, there you are. Peter, that man won't return to-night. I don't believe Zackie will be coming at this late hour, either."
"I'm afraid you're right, Dad. And, Dad, you were terrific."
"Thanks, son. Thanks a lot."
SEVEN
P eter awoke at daybreak the next morning to hear the sound of rain on the roof. The roof was shingled with Jamaican cedar, and the shingles were covered with moss after so many years. When rain fell, it sounded a little like someone gently beating on a drumhead covered with a thick towel. Other than that, the house was so silent it was almost creepy, and Peter guessed that his father was still asleep. That often happened when Dad visited the cemetery. He stayed awake most of the night, and then slept late in the morning.
It was a difficult morning for Peter. While waiting for Miss Lorrie to come and make breakfast, he sat on the veranda, alone with his thoughts. The veranda faced west, so the house blocked his view of the sun as it rose from behind the mountain range. He watched its golden glow creep slowly down the river valley, though, and while doing so thought about Zackie.
It was strange, he realized, that he and Zackie had become friends. At their first meeting, Zackie had been stealing something—or trying to—at the shop in the village. Stealing what? Peter wondered. On their next meeting, the Jamaican boy had been hunting a pig on property not his own, where hunting was prohibited. Did they really have anything in common? Yes, they both needed a friend, but it was more than that: They trusted each other.
Peter suddenly realized he had been sitting on the veranda for quite a while and was hungry. Was Miss Lorrie sick?
Leaving the veranda, Peter went to the door of his father's room and listened. There was no sound from inside. He opened the door a few inches, not letting it make any noise, and looked in. Mr. Devon lay there in his pajamas, asleep, and the bedding was half on the floor, as though he had tossed and turned a lot during the night. At least he was getting some good sleep now, Peter thought sadly, and drew the
"I dislike prowlers, Mr. Leonard!"
"Me nuh prowlin'." The man's words were heavy and slurred. "Me come for me son."
"And hide yourself here with a club? What kind of man are you? Get out of here!"
"If me want to punish me own son for—"
"Out!"
The bamboo stick whistled at Mr. Devon's head as Leonard lurched forward. It struck home, too, and Peter realized that Dad must have felt something like an ex plosion behind his eyes. His eyes almost popped from their sockets, and Mr. Devon took in a quick, gasping breath.
But then a strange thing happened. Dad did not stagger backward from the blow, as Peter had expected. Instead, he seemed steady as a rock and filled with strength. Dropping his flashlight, he seized the bamboo stick and wrenched it from Leonard's grasp as if Leonard were a mere child.
Never before had Peter seen his father lift a hand to anyone in anger, but he did now. Mr. Devon swung the bamboo high and took a single step forward, ready to bring the stick crashing down on Leonard's head.
"Get out, Mr. Leonard. Now."
It was said so quietly that Peter almost didn't hear it. Leonard did, and recognized the honest fury behind it. The man staggered back with both hands flapping in front of his face, then turned and fled.
Mr. Devon did not pursue him. He simply stood there, shaking. Long after the crashing sound of footfalls had died away to silence, he continued to stand there motionless except for the shaking. At last the shaking stopped.
Seemingly unaware that Peter was still with him, he dropped the bamboo stick, picked up his flashlight, and walked slowly back to the house. Peter followed in silence, feeling proud. Not until they reached the veranda steps did Mr. Devon seem to remember he was not alone. Turning, he looked at Peter.
"Oh, there you are. Peter, that man won't return to-night. I don't believe Zackie will be coming at this late hour, either."
"I'm afraid you're right, Dad. And, Dad, you were terrific."
"Thanks, son. Thanks a lot."
SEVEN
P eter awoke at daybreak the next morning to hear the sound of rain on the roof. The roof was shingled with Jamaican cedar, and the shingles were covered with moss after so many years. When rain fell, it sounded a little like someone gently beating on a drumhead covered with a thick towel. Other than that, the house was so silent it was almost creepy, and Peter guessed that his father was still asleep. That often happened when Dad visited the cemetery. He stayed awake most of the night, and then slept late in the morning.
It was a difficult morning for Peter. While waiting for Miss Lorrie to come and make breakfast, he sat on the veranda, alone with his thoughts. The veranda faced west, so the house blocked his view of the sun as it rose from behind the mountain range. He watched its golden glow creep slowly down the river valley, though, and while doing so thought about Zackie.
It was strange, he realized, that he and Zackie had become friends. At their first meeting, Zackie had been stealing something—or trying to—at the shop in the village. Stealing what? Peter wondered. On their next meeting, the Jamaican boy had been hunting a pig on property not his own, where hunting was prohibited. Did they really have anything in common? Yes, they both needed a friend, but it was more than that: They trusted each other.
Peter suddenly realized he had been sitting on the veranda for quite a while and was hungry. Was Miss Lorrie sick?
Leaving the veranda, Peter went to the door of his father's room and listened. There was no sound from inside. He opened the door a few inches, not letting it make any noise, and looked in. Mr. Devon lay there in his pajamas, asleep, and the bedding was half on the floor, as though he had tossed and turned a lot during the night. At least he was getting some good sleep now, Peter thought sadly, and drew the
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