barren sea and then looked back at me, his old eyes growing remote. “D'large kag 'ave a way o’ losin’ its veree size.”
“You said we would be picked up soon,” I reminded him.
“Ah, yes,” he said instantly, “but we mus’ be wise 'bout what we 'ave.”
I drank the tiny amount of water he'd poured out and asked for more. He regarded me silently a moment, then said, his eyes squinting, “A veree lil’ more, young bahss.”
My lips were parched and my throat was dry. I wanted a whole cup. “Please fill it up,” I said.
Timothy poured only a few drops into the bottom.
“That isn't enough,” I complained. I felt I could drink three cups of it. But he pressed the wooden stopper firmly back into the keg, ignoring me.
I said, “I must have water, Timothy. I'm very hot.”
Without answering, he opened the trap in the raft and secured the keg again. It was then that I began to learn what a stubborn old man he could be. I began to dislike Timothy.
“Young bahss,” he said, coming back under the shelter, “mebbe before d'night, a schooner will pass dis way, an’ if dat 'appens, you may drink d'whole kag. Mebbe d'schooner will not pass dis way, so we mus’ make our wattah last.”
I said defiantly, “A schooner will find us. And my father has ships out looking for us.”
Without even glancing at me, he answered, “True, young bahss.” Then he closed his eyes and would not speak to me any more. He just sprawled out, a mound of silent black flesh.
I couldn't hold the tears back. I'm sure he heard me, but he didn't move a muscle of his face. Neither did he look up when I crawled out from under the shelter to get as far away from him as I could. I stayed on the edge of the raft for a long time, thinking about home and rubbing Stew Cat's back.
Although I hadn't thought so before, I was now begin-ning to believe that my mother was right. She didn't like them. She didn't like it when Henrik and I would go down to St. Anna Bay and play near the schooners. But it was always fun. The black people would laugh at us and toss us bananas or papayas.
She'd say, when she knew where we'd been, “They are not the same as you, Phillip. They are different and they live differently. That's the way it must be.” Henrik, who'd grown up in Curaçao with them, couldn't understand why my mother felt this way.
I yelled over at him, “You're saving all the water for yourself.”
I don't think he was asleep, but he didn't answer.
Copyright © 1981 by Theodore Taylor
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. For information address Delacorte Press, 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.
The trademarks Yearling® and Dell® are registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries.
Visit us on the Web! www.randomhouse.com/kids
Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at
www.randomhouse.com/teachers
eISBN: 978-0-307-54834-4
v3.0
“You said we would be picked up soon,” I reminded him.
“Ah, yes,” he said instantly, “but we mus’ be wise 'bout what we 'ave.”
I drank the tiny amount of water he'd poured out and asked for more. He regarded me silently a moment, then said, his eyes squinting, “A veree lil’ more, young bahss.”
My lips were parched and my throat was dry. I wanted a whole cup. “Please fill it up,” I said.
Timothy poured only a few drops into the bottom.
“That isn't enough,” I complained. I felt I could drink three cups of it. But he pressed the wooden stopper firmly back into the keg, ignoring me.
I said, “I must have water, Timothy. I'm very hot.”
Without answering, he opened the trap in the raft and secured the keg again. It was then that I began to learn what a stubborn old man he could be. I began to dislike Timothy.
“Young bahss,” he said, coming back under the shelter, “mebbe before d'night, a schooner will pass dis way, an’ if dat 'appens, you may drink d'whole kag. Mebbe d'schooner will not pass dis way, so we mus’ make our wattah last.”
I said defiantly, “A schooner will find us. And my father has ships out looking for us.”
Without even glancing at me, he answered, “True, young bahss.” Then he closed his eyes and would not speak to me any more. He just sprawled out, a mound of silent black flesh.
I couldn't hold the tears back. I'm sure he heard me, but he didn't move a muscle of his face. Neither did he look up when I crawled out from under the shelter to get as far away from him as I could. I stayed on the edge of the raft for a long time, thinking about home and rubbing Stew Cat's back.
Although I hadn't thought so before, I was now begin-ning to believe that my mother was right. She didn't like them. She didn't like it when Henrik and I would go down to St. Anna Bay and play near the schooners. But it was always fun. The black people would laugh at us and toss us bananas or papayas.
She'd say, when she knew where we'd been, “They are not the same as you, Phillip. They are different and they live differently. That's the way it must be.” Henrik, who'd grown up in Curaçao with them, couldn't understand why my mother felt this way.
I yelled over at him, “You're saving all the water for yourself.”
I don't think he was asleep, but he didn't answer.
Copyright © 1981 by Theodore Taylor
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. For information address Delacorte Press, 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.
The trademarks Yearling® and Dell® are registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries.
Visit us on the Web! www.randomhouse.com/kids
Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at
www.randomhouse.com/teachers
eISBN: 978-0-307-54834-4
v3.0
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