The Stars Look Down Read Free Page A

will. Aw think none the worse ov ye for it. Yor a canny lad.” He belched wind loudly, scliffed over to his seat by the fire, yawned, stretched himself and began to fill his blackened clay.
    Joe and David went out.
    “He don’t have to go in the Paradise!” Joe remarked irreverently the moment the door had banged. “The old beggor, it would do him a power of good to stand in the wet places like I have to.”
    “It isn’t only the wet, Joe,” David persisted. “You know what my dad says.”
    “I know, I know! I’m sick of hearin’ it an’ so are the rest of the lads, Davey. Yor dad has got notions about Scupper Flats. He thinks he knows the whole shoot!”
    David said warmly:
    “He knows a lot, let me tell you. He didn’t start it for fun.”
    Joe said:
    “Naw! But some of the lads did. They was sick of workin’ in water and thought it was fun for to stop. Now they’ve had that much bloddy fun they’d give their navels for to start in again, ay, even if the Flats were roofed with water.”
    “Well! Let them start in again.”
    Joe said sourly:
    “They’re goin’ to start, bet your bloddy life, you wait till the meetin’ at three. But don’t get up on your hind legs. I’m as sick of it as you are. I’m sick of the whole bloddy pit anyhow. I’m goin’ to slip my hook first chance I get. I’m not goin’ to be stuck in this sheugh all my days. I want to get some brass and see a bit of life.”
    David remained silent, troubled and indignant, feeling that life was going all against him. He wanted to get out of the Neptune too—but not Joe’s way. He remembered that occasion when Joe had run away before and been brought back, blubbering, by Roddam, the police sergeant, to be soundly leathered by his father.
    They walked on without speaking, Joe swaggering a little, throwing his weight about, his hands in his pockets. He was a finely built lad, two years older than David, with square shoulders, a straight back, thick curly black hair and small alert brown eyes. Joe was extremely good-looking in a physical way. And Joe knew it. His glance was full of self-assurance, the very tilt of his cap dashing, conceited, aggressive. Presently he resumed:
    “Ye’ve got to have money if you want to have sport. And will you ever make money in the pit? Not on your bloddy soul. Not big money, you won’t. Well, I want to have sport. And I want big money. I’m goin’ places. You’re lucky, you are. You’re goin’ to Tynecassel, maybe. Your dad wants you to go to college, that’s another of his notions, like. But I’ve got to look out for myself. And I’m goin’ to look out for myself. See! That’s how to do it. Get there first or somebody’ll get there afore ye.” He suddenly shut off his bluster and slapped David heartily upon the back. He smiled at him, a genial, affable smile. When Joe chose, none could be more genial, more affable—a geniality which warmed the heart,an affability which radiated from Joe’s handsome brown eyes and revealed him as a prince of good fellows.
    “Come on, now, to the boat, Davey, we’ll set a shoreline, then we’ll row out and see what we can pick up.”
    By this time they had passed down Quay Street and reached the shore. They dropped over the sea wall on to the hard sand below. A high range of dunes matted with coarse grass and salt-stung rushes lay behind them. David liked the dunes. On barfe-Saturdays in the summer, when they had come outbye from the Neptune and his dad had gone with the marrows in his set to split up at the Salutation, David would be amongst the rushes, all alone, listening to the sound of the lark, dropping his book to search for the tiny roaring speck against the bright blue sky. He felt that he would like to lie down there now. His head was giddy again, the thick slice of new bread which he had eaten so ravenously lay like lead in his stomach. But Joe was already at the breakwater.
    They climbed the breakwater and reached the harbour. There, in