Having been granted a small space and significant interruption to its release, Abraham finds that the hot core of his anger is rapidly melting away. He lets it go, knowing that he has, after all, gotten his licks in, and been set upon in turn, and it's easier for him to consider the matter settled given that the tall goyishe man is, for all his fancy clothing, clearly a formidable opponent. Better to avoid sticking one's head in the wolf's mouth, after all. As they walk he pauses a couple of times to spit again over the edge of the boat and explores the inside of his cheek and teeth with his tongue, cataloguing the new pains with a fighter's philosophical calm.

He fishes in his jacket pocket and brings out a small and slightly dented flask, unscrews the cap, toasts briefly the sky, and swallows a mouthful of honeyed vodka that stings and burns, making him wince. The man at his side is, by then, talking, and he watches his mouth and hands with absent curiosity and a little appreciation. The question he asks has the sound of something familiar, Abraham having been asked it with increasing frequency as he broached England's shores.

After a moment's thought he decides not to lie, and gives the sort of eloquent shrug that his people have been busy perfecting for decades, a see-saw motion of his hand expanding on his answer.

« A little, a little, » he suggests, trying out some Russian on the rich man. He pauses, chews thoughtfully at his lower lip, and adds, with a faint smile almost childishly amused by his mischief: "You fucking cheat."

Then he shrugs again as if to ask what more can I do, and offers the flask out to the taller man, pointing at his belly. « It will help with the pain. »