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Updated: May 23, 2025
Driving them, geeing and hawing, was Chepa, a sallow round-shouldered sickly fellow, with the expression of a crabbed witch, on his foetus-like face. He might have been fifty. He might have been fifteen. He was dressed in yellow oilskins, his bare red feet protruding from under the huge baggy trousers, the skin on them showing the outline of every tendon and every bone.
And Irish says: "An' there's two twin sojers with their guns," he says, "an' belts full of cartridges on the Harvest Moon, an' the gentlemen at the Transport says, Hide, dom ye! he says, till they can ship ye wid a cargo to Californy." Says Sadler: "The little islands fall asleep, The little wavelets wink. Aye, God's on high; the sea is deep; Go, Chepa, get some drink. Ah, Magdalena "Calm, Irish!
It angered them, this selfish impudence, as though the Rector were out to catch all the fish left in the sea. The boldest and most jealous took the lead. "Well, sir, where he can go, I can go! Does he think he's the only man that can sail a boat around here? Haul her out, Chepa, haul her out, and be quick about it!" The challenge was taken up all along the shore. "Boyero! Boyero!"
I bowed my head meekly enough while Chépa the smiling, good-natured negress gathered up the rustling folds of the green silk petticoat and slipped it over my shoulders.
His boat loaded to the scuppers with squid, and at thirty cents a pound you figure it up yourself! The penniless idlers on shore surveyed the wonder-worker as though a sea of dollars were pitching and tumbling out there beyond the surf. Chepa came down with his oxen, and the Mayflower began to climb the beach, grating along over the runners that had been laid under her bottom.
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