“He ought to have a doctor,” Thomas Hudson said.
“He didn’t hit hard on the dock,” Roger said. “I thought about the dock.”
“I don’t think that last crack alongside the ear did him a lot of good,” Johnny Goodner said.
“You ruined his face,” Frank said. “And the ear. I never saw an ear come up so fast. First it was like a bunch of grapes and then it was as full as an orange.”
“Bare hands are a bad thing,” Roger said. “People don’t have any idea what they’ll do. I wish I’d never seen him.”
“Well, you’ll never see him again without being able to recognize him.”
“I hope he’ll come around,” Roger said.
“It was a beautiful fight, Mr. Roger,” Fred said.
“Fight, hell,” Roger said. “Why the hell did that have to happen?”
“The gentleman certainly brought it on himself,” Fred said.
“Cut out worrying, will you?” Frank said to Roger. “I’ve seen hundreds of guys cooled and that guy is OK.”
Up on the dock the boys were drifting away commenting on the fight. There had been something about the way the white man had looked when he was carried aboard that they did not like and all the bravery about burning the Commissioner’s house was evaporating.
“Well, good night, Captain Frank,” Rupert said.
“Going, Rupert?” Frank asked him.
“Thought we might all go up see what’s going on at Mr. Bobby’s.”
“Good night, Rupert,” said Roger. “See you tomorrow.”
Roger was feeling very low and his left hand was swollen as big as a grapefruit. His right was puffed too but not as badly. There was nothing else to show he had been in a fight except that the neck of his sweatshirt was ripped open and flapped down on his chest. The man had hit him once high up on his head and there was a small bump there. John put some Mercurochrome on the places where his knuckles were skinned and cut. Roger didn’t even look at his hands.
“Let’s go up to Bobby’s place and see if there’s any fun,” Frank said.
“Don’t worry about anything, Roge,” Fred Wilson said and climbed up on the dock. “Only suckers worry.”
They went on along the dock carrying their guitar and banjo toward where the light and the singing were coming out of the open door of the Ponce de León.
“Freddy is a pretty good joe,” John said to Thomas Hudson.
“He always was,” Thomas Hudson said. “But he and Frank are bad together.”
Roger did not say anything and Thomas Hudson was worried about him; about him and about other things.
“Don’t you think we might turn in?” he said to him.
“I’m still spooked about that character,” Roger said.
He was sitting with his back toward the stern, looking glum and holding his left hand in his right.
“Well you don’t have to be anymore,” John spoke very quietly. “He’s walking around now.”
“Really?”
“He’s coming out now and he’s carrying a shotgun.”
“I’ll be a sad son of a bitch,” Roger said. But his voice was happy again. He sat with his back toward the stern and never turned around to look.
The man came out to the stern this time wearing both a pajama top and trousers, but what you saw was the shotgun. Thomas Hudson looked away from it and to his face and his face was very bad. Someone had worked on it and there was gauze and tape over the cheeks and a lot of Mercurochrome had been used. They hadn’t been able to do anything about his ear. Thomas Hudson imagined it must have hurt to have anything touch it, and it just stood out looking very taut and swollen and it had become the dominant feature of his face. No one said anything and the man just stood there with his spoiled face and his shotgun. He probably could not see anyone very clearly the way his eyes were puffed tight. He stood there and he did not say anything and neither did anyone else.
Roger turned his head very slowly, saw him, and spoke over his shoulder.
“Go put the gun away and go to bed.”