Narrative Young Adult Fiction
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North American (General)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
I remember him as if it were yesterday as he came plotting to the indoor, his sea chest following behind him in a hand. Barrow, a tall, strong, heavy man as his tari pigtail falling over his shoulder, his soiled blue coat his hand ragged and scarred with black broken nails, and the sabre cut across one cheek, dirty, livid, white. I remember him looking around the cover, whistling to himself as he did so then breaking out in that old see song. He's saying so often afterwards, 15 men on the dead man's chest. Yo ho ho in the old bottle of Rahm in the high, old, tottering voice that seemed to have been tuned and broken at the cap stand bars. Then he rapped on the door with a bit of stick like a hand spike that he carried and when my father appeared, called roughly for a glass of rum, this when it was brought to him, he drinks slowly, like a connoisseur, lingering on the taste and still looking about him at the cliffs up. But our sign board This is a handy cove, he says. It linked and a pleasant situated drug shop, much company mate. My father told him no very little company. The more was the pity