“I just want a little rum, Bobby.”
“That stuff he’s drinking?”
“No. Bacardi.”
Mr. Bobby poured a glass and handed it to Thomas Hudson.
“Take it,” he said. “Though you know I shouldn’t serve you.”
Thomas Hudson drank the glass at a gulp and it was warming and inspiring.
“Give me another,” Thomas Hudson said.
“In twenty minutes, Hudson,” Bobby said. He looked at the clock behind the bar.
By now the people were paying a little attention, but politely.
“What are you drinking, Sport?” Mr. Bobby asked David.
“You know damn well I’m off the stuff,” David said to him severely.
“Since when?”
“Since last night you know damn well.”
“Excuse me,” Mr. Bobby said. He took a quick one himself. “How the hell am I to keep track of you goddam delinquents? All I ask is you get that Hudson out of here when I’ve got decent trade.”
“I’m drinking quietly,” Thomas Hudson said.
“You better.” Mr. Bobby corked the bottle in front of Roger and put it back on the shelf.
Young Tom nodded to him approvingly and whispered to Roger. Roger lowered his head on his hands. Then he raised his head and pointed to the bottle. Young Tom shook his head. Bobby picked up the bottle, uncorked it, and set it down in front of Roger.
“Drink yourself to death,” he said. “I won’t lose any sleep.”
By now the two groups were watching this pretty closely; but still politely. They were slumming all right but they were polite and they seemed nice people.
Then Roger spoke for the first time.
“Give the little rat a drink,” he said to Bobby.
“What will you have, son?” Mr. Bobby asked Andy.
“Gin,” Andy said.
Thomas Hudson was careful not to watch the people. But he could feel them.
Bobby put the bottle in front of Andy and set a glass by it. Andy poured the glass full and lifted it to Bobby.
“Here’s to you, Mr. Bobby,” he said. “The first one all day.”
“Drink up,” said Bobby. “You come in late.”
“Papa had his money,” David said. “His birthday money from mother.”
Young Tom looked up in his father’s face and started to cry. He kept himself from actually crying but it was sad to see and it was not overdone.
Nobody spoke until Andy said, “I’d like another gin, please, Mr. Bobby.”
“Pour your own,” said Bobby. “You poor unfortunate child.” Then he turned to Thomas Hudson. “Hudson,” he said. “Have another and get out.”
“I can stay as long as I’m quiet,” Thomas Hudson said.
“If I know you, you won’t be quiet for long,” Bobby said, vindictively.
Roger pointed toward the bottle and young Tom hung onto his sleeve. He’d controlled his tears and he was being brave and good.
“Mr. Davis,” he said. “You don’t have to.”
Roger did not say anything and Mr. Bobby put the bottle in front of him again.
“Mr. Davis, you have to write tonight,” young Tom said. “You know you promised to write tonight.”
“What do you think I’m drinking for?” Roger said to him.
“But, Mr. Davis, you didn’t have to drink this much when you wrote The Storm.”
“Why don’t you shut up?” Roger said to him.
Young Tom was patient and brave and long-suffering.
“I will, Mr. Davis. I only do it because you asked me to. Can’t we go back to the house?”
“You’re a good kid, Tom,” Roger said. “But we’re staying here.”
“For very long, Mr. Davis?”
“To the goddam end.”
“I don’t think we need to, Mr. Davis,” young Tom said. “Really I don’t. And you know if you get so you can’t see you won’t be able to write.”
“I’ll dictate,” Roger said. “Like Milton.”
“I know you dictate beautifully,” young Tom said. “But this morning when Miss Phelps tried to take it off the machine it was mostly music.”
“I’m writing an opera,” Roger said.
“I know you’ll write a wonderful opera, Mr. Davis. But don’t you think we ought to finish the novel first? You took a big advance on the novel.”
“Finish it yourself,” Roger said. “You ought to know the plot by now.”
“I know the plot, Mr. Davis, and it’s a lovely plot but it has that same girl in it that you had die in that other book and people may be confused.”
“Dumas did the same thing.”
“Don’t badger him,” Thomas Hudson said to young Tom. “How can he write if you badger him all the time?”
“Mr. Davis, couldn’t you just get a really good secretary to write it for you? I’ve heard that novelists did that.”
“No. Too expensive.”
“Do you want me to help you, Roger?” Thomas Hudson asked.
“Yes. You can paint it.”
“That’s wonderful,” young Tom said. “Will you truly, papa?”
“I’ll paint it in a day,” Thomas Hudson said.
“Paint it upside down like Michelangelo,” Roger said. “Paint it big enough so King George can read it without his spectacles.”
“Are you going to paint it, papa?” David asked.
“Yes.”
“Good,” David said. “That’s the first sensible thing I’ve heard.”
“It won’t be too difficult, papa?”
“Hell no. It’s probably too simple. Who’s the girl?”
“That girl Mr. Davis always has.”
“Paint her in half a day,” Thomas Hudson said.
“Paint her upside down,” Roger said.
“Keep it clean,” Thomas Hudson told him.
“Mister Bobby, may I have another slug?” Andy asked.
“How many have you had, son?” Bobby asked him.
“Only two.”
“Go ahead,” Bobby told him and handed him the bottle. “Listen, Hudson, when are you going to get that picture out of here?”
“Haven’t you had any offers on it?”
“No,” Bobby said. “And it clutters the place up. Besides it makes me goddam nervous. I want it out of here.”
“Pardon me,” one of the men from the yacht spoke to Roger. “Is that canvas for sale?”
“Who spoke to you?” Roger looked at him.
“No one,” the man said. “You’re Roger Davis, aren’t you?”
“You’re damn right I am.”
“If your friend painted that canvas and it is for sale I’d like to discuss the price with him,” the man said turning. “You’re Thomas Hudson, aren’t you?”
“Hudson is the name.”
“Is the canvas for sale?”
“No,” Thomas Hudson told him. “I’m sorry.”
“But the bartender said—”
“He’s crazy,” Thomas Hudson told him. “He’s an awfully good fellow. But he’s crazy.”
“Mr. Bobby, may I please have another gin?” Andrew asked very politely.
“Certainly, my little man,” Bobby said and served it. “Do you know what they ought to do? They ought to put your healthy charming face on the label of those gin bottles instead of that idiotic collection of berries. Hudson, why don’t you design a suitable label for a gin bottle that would reproduce the childish charm of young Andy’s face?”
“We could launch a brand,” Roger said. “They’ve got Old Tom gin. Why shouldn’t we put out Merry Andrew?”
“I’ll put up the money,” said Bobby. “We can make the gin here on the island. The little lads can bottle it and affix the labels. We can sell it wholesale and in detail.”
“It would be a return to craftsmanship,” Roger said. “Like William Morris.”
“What would we make the gin from, Mr. Bobby?” Andrew asked.
“From bonefish,” Bobby said. “And from conches.”
The yacht people did not look at Roger or Thomas Hudson nor at the boys now. They were watching Bobby and they looked worried.
“About that canvas,” the one man said.
“What canvas are you referring to, my good man?” Bobby asked him, downing another quick one.
“The very big canvas with the three waterspouts and the man in a dinghy.”
“Where?” asked Bobby.
“There,” said the man.
“Begging your pardon, sir, I think you’ve had enough. This is a respectable place. We don’t run to waterspouts and men in dinghys here.”
“I mean the picture there.”
“Don’t provoke me, sir. There’s no picture there. If there was a painting in here it would be above the bar where paintings belong and it would be a nude reclining full length in a proper shipshape manner.”
“I mean that picture there.”
“What picture where?”
“There.”
“I’d be happy to fix you a Bromo Seltzer, sir. Or call you a rickshaw,” Bobby said.
“A rickshaw?”
“Yes. A goddam rickshaw if you want it straight to your face. You’re a rickshaw. And you’ve had enough.”
“Mr. Bobby?” Andy asked very politely. “Do you think I’ve had enough?”
“No, my dear boy. Of course not. Serve yourself.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bobby,” Andy said. “This is four.”
“I wish it was a hundred,” Bobby said. “You’re the pride of my heart.”
“What do you say we get out of here, Hal,” one of the men said to the man who wanted to buy the picture.
“I’d like to pick up that canvas,” the other told him. “If I can get it for a decent price.”
“I’d like to get out of here,” the first man insisted. “Fun’s fun and all that. But watching children drink is a little too much.”
“Are you really serving that little boy gin?” the nice-looking blonde girl at the end of the bar toward the door asked Bobby. She was a tall girl with very fair hair and pleasant freckles. They were not redhead freckles but were the sort blondes get when they have skins that tan instead of burn.
“Yes ma’am.”
“I think it’s shameful,” the girl said. “It’s disgusting and it’s shameful and it’s criminal.”
Roger avoided looking at the girl and Thomas Hudson kept his eyes down.
“What would you like him to drink, ma’am?” Bobby asked.
“Nothing. He shouldn’t have anything to drink.”
“Hardly seems fair,” Bobby said.
“What do you mean fair? Do you think it’s fair to poison a child with alcohol?”
“See, papa?” young Tom said. “I thought it was wrong for Andy to drink.”
“He’s the only one of the three who drinks, ma’am. Since Sport here stopped it,” Bobby tried to reason with her. “Do you think it’s fair to deprive the only one in a family of three boys
