"Pokker!" says Tobias, "fa'n ta mig. Hold tight and
here we go!"
The boys in the Elite poolroom stand grinning in the doorway. Old Norske
Tobias is on a tear again, his red face shining with the memory of
Stavanger storms, his beard bristling like a north cat's back. An Odin in
caricature.
They watch him pass. Drunker than a fiddler's wench. Drunker than a
bootlegger's pal. Drunk as the devil himself and roaring at the top of his
voice: "Belay, there! Hold tight and here we go!" Poor Tobias Wooden-Leg,
the years keep plucking out his hairs and twisting his fingers into
talons. Seventy years have squeezed him. And they have brought him piety
and wisdom. They have taught him virtue and holiness.
But the wind suddenly rises and comes blowing out of Stavanger again. The
great sea suddenly lifts under his one good leg. And Tobias with his
Bibles and his prayer books struggles in the dark of his Grand Avenue
bedroom. The devil comes and sits on his window sill, a devil with long
locks and bronze wings beside his ears and a three-pronged pitchfork in
his hand.
"Ho, ho!" cries this one on the window sill. "What are you doing here,
Tobias? With the north wind blowing and the gray seas standing on their
heads? Grown old, Tobias, eh? Sitting in a corner and mumbling over
litanies.
Pages:
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119