Free The African Queen by C S Forester Page A

and body were too much occupied in getting over the effects of drinking a bottle and a half of overproof spirit in a tropical climate. But as the hours passed, and draught after draught of river water had done much towards restoring their proper rhythm to his physiological processes, he grew restless. He felt that by now he had earned forgiveness for his late carouse; and it irked him unbearably not to be able to talk as much as he was accustomed. He thought Rose was angry with him for his drunkenness; he attached little importance, in his present state, to the matter of his refusal to go on past Shona and down the rapids.
    “Coo, ain’t it ’ot?” he said. Rose paid him no attention.
    “We could do wiv anuvver storm,” said Allnutt. “Does get yer cool fer a minute, even if these little b-beggars bite ’arder than ever after it.”
    Rose remembered a couple of buttons that had to be sewn on. She got out the garment and her housewife, and calmly set about the business. At her first movement Allnutt had thought some notice of his existence was about to be taken, and he felt disappointed when the purpose of the movement became apparent.
    “Puttin’ yer things to rights prop’ly, ain’t yer, Miss?” he said.
    A woman sewing has a powerful weapon at her disposition when engaged in a duel with a man. Her bent head enables her to conceal her expression without apparently trying; it is the easiest matter in the world for her to simulate complete absorption in the work in hand when actually she is listening attentively; and if even then she feels disconcerted or needs a moment to think, she can always play for time by reaching for her scissors. And some men—Allnutt was an example—are irritated effectively by the attention paid to trifles of sewing instead of to their fascinating selves.
    It took only a few minutes for Allnutt to acknowledge the loss of the first round of the contest.
    “Ain’t yer goin to answer me, Miss?” he said, and then, still eliciting no notice, he went on—“I’m sorry for what I done last night. There! I don’t mind sayin’ it, Miss. What wiv the gin bein’ there to my ’and, like, an’ the ’eat, an’ what not. I couldn’t ’elp ’avin’ a drop more than I should ’ave. You’ve pyed me back proper already, pourin’ all the rest of it awye, now ’aven’t you, Miss? Fair’s fair.”
    Rose made no sign of having heard, although a better psychologist than Allnutt might have made deductions from her manner of twirling the thread round the shank and the decisive way in which she oversewed to end off. Allnutt lost his temper.
    “ ’Ave it yer own wye, then, yer psalm-singing ole bitch,” he said, and pitched his cigarette end overside with disgust, and lurched up into the bows. Rose’s heart came up into her mouth at his first movement, for she thought he was about to proceed to physical violence. His true purpose fortunately became apparent before she had time to obey her first impulse and put down her sewing to defend herself. She converted her slight start into a test of the ability of the button to pass through the hole.
    From his earliest days, from his slum-bred father and mother, Allnutt had heard, and believed, that the ideal life was one with nothing to do, nothing whatever, and plenty to eat. Yet, up to to-day, he had never experienced that ideal combination. He had never been put to the necessity of amusing himself; he had always had companions in his leisure periods. Solitude was as distressing to him as responsibility, which was why, when his Negro crew had deserted him at the mine, he had involved himself in considerable personal exertion to come down to the mission station and find Rose and Samuel. And to be cooped, compulsorily, in a thirty-foot boat was harassing to the nerves, especially nerves as jangled as Allnutt’s. Allnutt fidgeted about in the bows until he got on Rose’s nerves as well; but Rose kept herself under control.
    It was not long