Belles on their Toes

that he was an Irishman of strong prejudices—particularly against the British.
    Tom's mood had been black for several days because a nearby family had brought an English cook to Nantucket, and she had been welcomed into his group.
    From previous years, Tom knew most of the help in the houses near our cottage, and they'd meet in the afternoons on the beach. Partly because of his seniority and partly because he was always good company, Tom was one of the acknowledged leaders of the group. He was now tom between giving up the group altogether, or accepting the English woman. He was reluctant to do either.
    She was immensely stout, stately, quiet, and dignified. She spoke with a decided British accent, and wore a light green, one-piece bathing suit, neither of which Tom approved.
    Tom would join the group on the beach in the afternoons, but sit as far from the English woman as possible.
    "This island is being ruint by too many Limeys," he'd tell his friends loudly. "We're thinking of going someplace else, after this summer."
    If a good-looking young girl walked past in a one-piece suit, Tom would announce:
    "Now there's the kind that ought to wear a suit like that. The big fat ones ought to cover up all they can, or else stay home altogether."
    The British cook, who could take a hint, ignored him. Tom didn't want to be friends, but he hated to be ignored, and her snubs and accent had an accumulated effect of irritation.
    One day Tom got up off the sand and started for the water, just as the cook, who was standing, leaned over to unlace a sneaker. Her tremendously plump rear, hugged protestingly in the nether portion of the suit, emerged like a conch from the shell of her half skirt. Tom almost butted into it.
    She seemed to be having trouble with the sneaker, and Tom contemplated the vast expanse with loathing.
    On impulse, he picked up a sizable piece of driftwood and walloped her as hard as he could.
    The stick was wide and flat, and it met flesh with a sharp, resounding crack. The cook toppled over, ostrich fashion. Everyone—including Tom, who was as surprised as anybody—was too shocked to say a word. He stood there sheepishly, with the board dangling from his hand, and for one of the few times in his life he actually blushed. Both Frank and Bill, who were witnesses, swore to it.
    Finally, Tom dropped the board and helped her up.
    "I'm sorry," he told her. "Even for a Limey, there ain't no excuse for it. I seen it there, and I don't know why I done it."
    The cook was expressionless, as she got slowly to her feet, brushing sand out of her mouth and hair. She looked right through Tom, as if he didn't exist.
    "Ain't no excuse for it," Tom repeated. "First time I ever done anything like that. Ast any of these people."
    She still didn't notice him.
    "Here," said Tom, getting the stick, "I'll lean over and you hit me. Hit me as hard as you can."
    He put the stick in her hand and leaned over, closing his eyes and hunching his shoulders to absorb the impact of the blow. When it didn't come, he straightened up again.
    The cook might not have gone to the police if he had let the matter drop right there, gone on into the water, and left her alone. But Tom, who was not in the habit of walloping ladies, was sincerely mortified, and wanted to make sure he had apologized sufficiently.
    "Ain't no excuse for it," he said. "I seen you stooping over and I seen the stick, and the first thing I knew..." The mental picture of the stick making contact with the quivering flesh came back to him, and he exploded.
    "Henc, henc, henc," he cackled. "I'm sorry. I can't help it. Henc, henc, henc."
    That carved it. Finally he got control of himself, and started to apologize again, but the cook stalked away, looking for the law.
    Tom was summoned into court the next day, and Frank went along to bail him out, if necessary. The English cook was there, and so was most of Tom's group.
    "I'm guilty," Tom told the judge. "I got no excuse for what I done."
    "Why did you do it, then?"
    "I don't know. She leaned over, and she was big and fat across there, and I almost walked into it by mistake. Then I seen a stick and henc, henc, henc."
    "Go on," said the judge, who thought it was no time for levity. "And stop making that noise."
    "Henc, henc, henc," said Tom.
    Tom's laugh, although much too nasal to be pleasant, was infectious, and some of his friends joined in.
    "Go on," the judge demanded sternly.
    "Start from the beginning," Frank whispered. "You're