Free The Life of Hope by Paul Quarrington Page B

admitted sheepishly, had been fished out of Boston Harbor by the Quinton siblings. The Quintons (twins, the old men pointed out, although Joseph had deduced that) were fervently religious and, moreover, literalists. They accepted everything in the Good Book at face value, and so, being instructed to become “fishers of men” they’d bought a dinghy and a huge seining net and begun to search the water for unfortunates. These were always nocturnal searches (“That’s where they are now,” an old man pointed out, “looking for poor buggers who’s stumbled in.”) and catches were brought to the Mission with amazing frequency. “It’s strange,” commented one ancient, “t’ think that so many are clumsy and wrong-footed,” for none would admit to having jumped.
    George, they went on, was all right, a large-hearted though somewhat simple man. Miss Martha, on the other hand, was terrifying. The old men recounted beatings they’d suffered at her hands. Joseph listened to each tale patiently, without much real interest; without interest because he knew what the story would be as soon as an old, wrinkled mouth opened. The one instant he’d spent staring into Martha’s face had told him much. Joe Hope lay on his cot and waited patiently.
    It was around six o’clock in the morning. The men were in a huge room without windows, so that time was suspended like the firesmoke, but J. B. Hope, with his sensitive ears, could hear a bell, somewhere, tolling hourly. The door opened, and the Quinton twins entered. George came first, and Joseph saw that his impression of largeness had been well-founded, although not at all adequate; Quinton was some seven feet tall, massively built. The full-grown man George held cradled in his arms appeared almost baby-sized. George rocked the man slightly, occasionally cooing, “Theah, theah,” into his ear, because theman was blubbering incoherently, drowning in emotion. George looked at the room’s occupants. “Do you know what it is?” he asked gently. “It’s when it wains. Then the docks get all slippy, and no one can keep a toe to them. Now, Mr. Opdycke was just out foh his constitutional—isn’t that so, Mr. Opdycke?—and all of a sudden found himself in the wateh! But it’s all betteh now.”
    Joseph Hope found himself wondering why the waning of the sunlight should affect the surface texture of the docks when he realized that George Quinton had a speech impediment and could not enunciate an R. George went to a cot and gently set Mr. Opdycke down on it.
    Opdycke was a man in his early years, Hope guessed, although he looked to be the veteran of many deaths, wrinkled on the outside, wasted from within. He was a shocking scarlet color, all brandy-faced, his nose redder than blood and severely grog-blossomed. He wore ludicrously large mutton chops, which gave him the appearance of a baboon.
    Martha followed behind, a presence of furious energy. Hope tried not to be alarmed. George wore his grotesque size well, seeming at least natural if monstrous, like a whale or an elephant. Martha was distinctly freakish, every bit as big as her brother, even bigger for her breasts and derriere.
    “Don’t coddle him!” Martha barked. Her voice sat in a lower register than her twin’s. Martha cleared her throat. “Proverbs. Chapter ten. Verse eight. ‘He that walketh uprightly walketh surely: but he that perverteth his ways shall be known.’ ” Martha crossed to Mr. Opdycke, whereupon she roughly and methodically tore off all of his clothes. Despite his blubbering state, some vestige of modesty forced Opdycke to cover his parts frantically. Martha pulled away his hand and glared at the open sores. “And Mr. Opdycke has patently perverted his ways!”
    George covered Mr. Opdycke with a sheet; Opdycke pulled it up over his head and whimpered in a tiny way.
    Hope swung his legs over the side of the cot, sitting up. He fixed Martha Quinton with his eye and said, “Verse nine.”
    Putting