Rosa's teeth were chattering, but she
smiled happily.
"God's hand directed us," she said. "One only needs to pray long
enough and strong enough and He will hear."
It was a month later. Quaint old Nassau lay dozing under an
afternoon sun. Its wide shell streets, its low houses, the beach
against which it crowded, were dazzling white, as if the town had
been washed clean, then spread out to bleach. Upon the horizon Jay
tumbled, foamy cloud masses, like froth blown thither from the
scene of the cleansing. A breeze caused the surface of the harbor
to dance and dimple merrily, the sound of laughter came from the
water-front where barefoot spongers and fishermen were busy with
their boats and gear. Robust negresses with deep bosoms and
rolling hips balanced baskets and trays upon their heads and stood
gossiping with one another or exchanging shouts with their men
across the water. There was noise here, but the town as a whole
was somnolent, peaceful. It sprawled beside the sea like a lazy
man lost in day dreams and lulled by the lapping surf and the hum
of insects.
Up from the beach came O'Reilly and his youthful alter ego,
Jacket. They were clad in clean white clothes; a month of rest had
done them good. Jacket was no longer wizened; he was plump and
sleek and as full of mischief as a colt, while O'Reilly's leanness
had disappeared and he filled his garments as a man should.
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