St. John's in Pinch-a-Penny Peter's supply-schooner. Nobody knowed
why. And Tom made a mystery of it. But go he would. And when the
schooner got back 'twas said that Tom Lane had vanished in the city
for a day. Why? Nobody knowed. Where? Nobody could find out. Tom
wouldn't tell, nor could the gossips gain a word from his wife. And,
after that, Tom was a changed man; he mooned a deal, and he would talk
no more of the future, but dwelt upon the shortness of a man's days
and the quantity of his sin, and labored like mad, and read the
Scriptures by candlelight, and sot more store by going to church and
prayer-meeting than ever afore. Labor? Ecod, how that poor man labored
through the winter! While there was light! And until he fair dropped
in his tracks of sheer weariness! 'Twas back in the forest--hauling
fire-wood with the dogs and storing it away back of his little cottage
under Lend-a-Hand Hill.
"Dear man!" says Peter; "you've firewood for half a dozen winters."
"They'll need it," says Tom.
"Ay," says Peter; "but will you lie idle next winter?"
"Next winter?" says Tom. And he laughed. "Oh, next winter," says he,
"I'll have another occupation."
"Movin' away, Tom?"
"Well," says Tom, "I is an' I isn't."
There come a day in March weather of that year when seals was thick on
the floe off Gingerbread Cove. You could see un with the naked eye
from Lack-a-Day Head. A hundred thousand black specks swarming over
the ice three miles and more to sea! "Swiles! Swiles!" And Gingerbread
Cove went mad for slaughter. 'Twas a fair time for off-shore sealing,
too--a blue, still day, with the look and feel of settled weather. The
ice had come in from the current with a northeasterly gale, a
wonderful mixture of Arctic bergs and Labrador pans, all blinding
white in the spring sun; and 'twas a field so vast, and jammed so
tight against the coast, that there wasn't much more than a lane or
two and a Dutchman's breeches of open water within sight from the
heads. Nobody looked for a gale of off-shore wind to blow that ice
afore dawn of the next day.
"A fine, soft time, lads!" says Pinch-a-Penny. "I 'low I'll go out
with the Gingerbread crew."
"Skipper Peter," says Tom Lane, "you're too old a man t' be on the
ice."
"Ay," says Peter, "but I wants t' bludgeon another swile afore I
dies."
"But you creaks, man!"
"Ah, well," says Peter, "I'll show the lads I'm able t' haul a swile
ashore."
"Small hope for such as you on a movin' floe!"
"Last time, Tom," says Peter.
"Last time, true enough," says Tom, "if that ice starts t' sea with a
breeze o' wind behind."
"Oh, well, Tom," says Peter, "I'll take my chances. If the wind comes
up I'll be as spry as I'm able."
It come on to blow in the afternoon. But 'twas short warning of
off-shore weather. A puff of gray wind come down; a saucier gust went
by; and then a swirl of galish wind jumped over the pans. At the first
sign of wind, Pinch-a-Penny Peter took for home, loping over the ice
as fast as his lungs and old legs would take un when pushed, and
nobody worried about he any more. He was in such mad haste that the
lads laughed behind un as he passed. Most of the Gingerbread crew
followed, dragging their swiles; and them that started early come safe
to harbor with the fat. But there's nothing will master a man's
caution like the lust of slaughter: give a Newfoundlander a club, and
show un a swile-pack, and he'll venture far from safety. 'Twas not
until a flurry of snow come along of a sudden that the last of the
crew dropped what they was at and begun to jump for shore like a pack
of jack-rabbits.
With snow in the wind, 'twas every man for himself. And that means no
mercy and less help.
By this time the ice had begun to feel the wind. 'Twas restless. And a
bad promise: the pans crunched and creaked as they settled more at
ease. The ice was going abroad. As the farther fields drifted off to
sea, the floe fell loose inshore. Lanes and pools opened up. The
cake-ice tipped and went awash under the weight of a man. Rough going,
ecod! There was no telling when open water would cut a man off where
he stood. And the wind was whipping off-shore, and the snow was like
dust in a man's eyes and mouth, and the landmarks of Gingerbread Cove
was nothing but shadows in a mist of snow to windward. Nobody knowed
where Pinch-a-Penny Peter was. Nobody thought about him. And wherever
poor old Pinch-a-Penny was--whether safe ashore or creaking shoreward
against the wind on his last legs--he must do for himself. 'Twas no
time to succor rich or poor. Every man for himself and the devil take
the hindmost.
Bound out, in the morning, Long Tom Lane had fetched his rodney
through the lanes. By luck and good conduct he had managed to get the
wee boat a fairish way out. He had beached her, there on the floe--a
big pan, close by a hummock which he marked with care. And 'twas for
Tom Lane's little rodney that the seven last men of Gingerbread Cove
was jumping. With her afloat--and the pack loosening in-shore under
the wind--they could make harbor well enough afore the gale worked up
the water in the lee of the Gingerbread hills. But she was a mean,
small boat. There was room for six, with safety--but room for no more;
no room for seven. 'Twas a nasty mess, to be sure. You couldn't expect
nothing else. But there wasn't no panic. Gingerbread men was
accustomed to tight places. And they took this one easy. Them that got
there first launched the boat and stepped in. No fight; no fuss.
It just happened to be Eleazer Butt that was left. 'Twas Eleazer's
ill-luck. And Eleazer was up in years, and had fell behind coming over
the ice.
"No room for me?" says he.
'Twas sure death to be left on the ice. The wind begun to taste of
frost. And 'twas jumping up. 'Twould carry the floe far and scatter it
broadcast.
"See for yourself, lad," says Tom.
"Pshaw!" says Eleazer. "That's too bad!"
"You isn't no sorrier than me, b'y."
Eleazer tweaked his beard. "Dang it!" says he. "I wisht there _was_
room. I'm hungry for my supper."
"Let un in," says one of the lads. "'Tis even chances she'll float it
out."
"Well," says Eleazer, "I doesn't want t' make no trouble----"
"Come aboard," says Tom. "An' make haste."
"If she makes bad weather," says Eleazer, "I'll get out."
They pushed off from the pan. 'Twas falling dusk, by this time. The
wind blowed black. The frost begun to bite. Snow came thick--just as
if, ecod, somebody up aloft was shaking the clouds, like bags, in the
gale! And the rodney was deep and ticklish; had the ice not kept the
water flat in the lanes and pools, either Eleazer would have had to
get out, as he promised, or she would have swamped like a cup. As it
was, handled like dynamite, she done well enough; and she might have
made harbor within the hour had she not been hailed by Pinch-a-Penny
Peter from a small pan of ice midway between.
And there the old codger was squatting, his old face pinched and
woebegone, his bag o' bones wrapped up in his coonskin coat, his pan
near flush with the sea, with little black waves already beginning to
wash over it.
A sad sight, believe me! Poor old Pinch-a-Penny, bound out to sea
without hope on a wee pan of ice!
"Got any room for me?" says he.
They ranged alongside. "Mercy o' God!" says Tom; "she's too deep as it
is."
"Ay," says Peter; "you isn't got room for no more. She'd sink if I put
foot in her."
"Us'll come back," says Tom.
"No use, Tom," says Peter. "You knows that well enough. 'Tis no place
out here for a Gingerbread punt. Afore you could get t' shore an' back
night will be down an' this here gale will be a blizzard. You'd never
be able t' find me."
"I 'low not," says Tom.
"Oh, no," says Peter. "No use, b'y."
"Damme, Skipper Peter," says Tom, "I'm sorry!"
"Ay," says Peter; "'tis a sad death for an ol' man--squattin' out here
all alone on the ice an' shiverin' with the cold until he shakes his
poor damned soul out."
"Not damned!" cries Tom. "Oh, don't say it!"
"Ah, well!" says Peter; "sittin' here all alone, I been thinkin'."
"'Tisn't by any man's wish that you're here, poor man!" says Tom.
"Oh, no," says Peter. "No blame t' nobody. My time's come. That's all.
But I wisht I had a seat in your rodney, Tom."
And then Tom chuckled.
"What you laughin' at?" says Peter.
"I got a comical idea," says Tom.
"Laughin' at me, Tom?"
"Oh, I'm jus' laughin'."
"'Tis neither time nor place, Tom," says Peter, "t' laugh at an old
man."
Tom roared. Ay, he slapped his knee, and he throwed back his head, and
he roared. 'Twas enough almost to swamp the boat.
"For shame!" says Peter. And more than Pinch-a-Penny thought so.
"Skipper Peter," says Tom, "you're rich, isn't you?"
"I got money," says Peter.
"Sittin' out here, all alone," says Tom, "you been thinkin' a deal,
you says?"
"Well," says Peter, "I'll not deny that I been havin' a little spurt
o' sober thought."
"You been thinkin' that money wasn't much, after all?"
"Ay."
"An' that all your money in a lump wouldn't buy you passage ashore?"
"Oh, some few small thoughts on that order," says Peter. "'Tis
perfectly natural."
"Money talks," says Tom.
"Tauntin' me again, Tom?"
"No, I isn't," says Tom. "I means it. Money talks. What'll you give
for my seat in the boat?"
"'Tis not for sale, Tom."
The lads begun to grumble. It seemed just as if Long Tom Lane was
making game of an old man in trouble. 'Twas either that or lunacy. And
there was no time for nonsense off the Gingerbread coast in a spring
gale of wind.
"Hist!" Tom whispered to the lads. "I knows what I'm doin'."
"A mad thing, Tom!"
"Oh, no!" says Tom. "'Tis the cleverest thing ever I thought of.
Well," says he to Peter, "how much?"
"No man sells his life."
"Life or no life, my place in this boat is for sale," says Tom. "Money
talks. Come, now. Speak up. Us can't linger here with night comin'
down."
"What's the price, Tom?"
"How much you got, Peter?"
"Ah, well, I can afford a stiffish price, Tom. Anything you say in
reason will suit me. You name the price, Tom. I'll pay."
"Ay, ye crab!" says Tom. "I'm namin' prices now. Look out, Peter!
You're seventy-three. I'm fifty-three. Will you grant that I'd live
t' be as old as you?"
"I'll grant it, Tom."
"I'm not sayin' I would," says Tom. "You mark that."
"Ah, well, I'll grant it, anyhow."
"I been an industrious man all my life, Skipper Peter. None knows it
better than you. Will you grant that I'd earn a hundred and fifty
dollars a year if I lived?"
"Ay, Tom."
Down come a gust of wind. "Have done!" says one of the lads. "Here's
the gale come down with the dark. Us'll all be cast away."
"Rodney's mine, isn't she?" says Tom.
Well, she was. Nobody could say nothing to that. And nobody did.
"That's three thousand dollars, Peter," says Tom.
"Three--thousand--dollars!"
"Ay," says Peter, "she calculates that way. But you've forgot t'
deduct your livin' from the total. Not that I minds," says he. "'Tis
just a business detail."
"Damme," says Tom. "I'll not be harsh!"
"Another thing, Tom," says Peter. "You're askin' me t' pay for twenty
years o' life when I can use but a few. God knows how many!"
"I got you where I wants you," says Tom, "but I isn't got the heart t'
grind you. Will you pay two thousand dollars for my seat in the
boat?"
"If you is fool enough t' take it, Tom."
"There's something t' boot," says Tom. "I wants t' die out o' debt."
"You does, Tom."
"An' my father's bill is squared?"
"Ay."
"'Tis a bargain!" says Tom. "God witness!"
"Lads," says Pinch-a-Penny to the others in the rodney, "I calls you
t' witness that I didn't ask Tom Lane for his seat in the boat. I
isn't no coward. I've asked no man t' give up his life for me. This
here bargain is a straight business deal. Business is business. 'Tis
not my proposition. An' I calls you t' witness that I'm willin' t' pay
what he asks. He've something for sale. I wants it. I've the money t'
buy it. The price is his. I'll pay it." Then he turned to Tom. "You
wants this money paid t' your wife, Tom?"
"Ay," says Tom, "t' Mary. She'll know why."
"Very good," says Pinch-a-Penny. "You've my word that I'll do it....
Wind's jumpin' up, Tom."
"I wants your oath. The wind will bide for that. Hold up your right
hand."
Pinch-a-Penny shivered in a blast of the gale. "I swears," says he.
"Lads," says Tom, "you'll shame this man to his grave if he fails t'
pay!"
"Gettin' dark, Tom," says Peter.
"Ay," says Tom; "'tis growin' wonderful cold an' dark out here. I
knows it well. Put me ashore on the ice, lads."
They landed Tom, then, on a near-by pan. He would have it so.
"Leave me have my way!" says he. "I've done a good stroke o'
business."
Presently they took old Pinch-a-Penny aboard in Tom's stead; and just
for a minute they hung off Tom's pan to say good-by.
"I sends my love t' Mary an' the children," says he. "You'll not fail
t' remember. She'll know why I done this thing. Tell her 'twas a grand
chance an' I took it."
"Ay, Tom."
"Fetch in here close," says Tom. "I want's t' talk t' the ol'
skinflint you got aboard there. I'll have my say, ecod, at last! Ye
crab!" says he, shaking his fist in Pinch-a-Penny's face, when the
rodney got alongside. "Ye robber! Ye pinch-a-penny! Ye liar! Ye thief!
I done ye! Hear me? I done ye! I vowed I'd even scores with ye afore I
died. An' I've done it--I've done it! What did ye buy? Twenty years o'
my life! What will ye pay for? Twenty years o' my life!" And he
laughed. And then he cut a caper, and come close to the edge of the
pan, and shook his fist in Pinch-a-Penny's face again. "Know what I
done in St. John's last fall?" says he. "I seen a doctor, ye crab!
Know what he told me? No, ye don't! Twenty years o' my life this here
ol' skinflint will pay for!" he crowed. "Two thousand dollars he'll
put in the hands o' my poor wife!"
Well, well! The rodney was moving away. And a swirl of snow shrouded
poor Tom Lane. But they heard un laugh once more.
"My heart is givin' 'way, anyhow!" he yelled. "I didn't have three
months t' live!"
* * * * *
Old Pinch-a-Penny Peter done what he said he would do. He laid the
money in poor Mary Lane's hands. But a queer thing happened next day.
Up went the price of pork at Pinch-a-Penny's shop! And up went the
price of tea and molasses! And up went the price of flour!
* * * * *
VI
A MADONNA OF TINKLE TICKLE
* * * * *
VI
A MADONNA OF TINKLE TICKLE
It was at Soap-an'-Water Harbor, with the trader _Quick as Wink_ in
from the sudsy seas of those parts, that Tumm, the old clerk, told the
singular tale of the Madonna of Tinkle Tickle.
"I'm no hand for sixpenny novels," says he, with a wry glance at the
skipper's dog-eared romance. "Nursemaids an' noblemen? I'm chary. I've
no love, anyhow, for the things o' mere fancy. But I'm a great
reader," he protested, with quick warmth, "o' the tales that are lived
under the two eyes in my head. I'm forever in my lib'ry, too. Jus'
now," he added, his eye on a dismayed little man from Chain Harbor,
"I'm readin' the book o' the cook. An' I'm lookin' for a sad endin',
ecod, if he keeps on scorchin' the water!"
The squat little Newfoundland schooner was snug in the lee of False
Frenchman and down for the night. A wet time abroad: a black wind in
the rigging, and the swish and patter of rain on the deck. But the
forecastle bogey was roaring, and the forecastle lamp was bright; and
the crew--at ease and dry--sprawled content in the forecastle glow.
"Lyin' here at Soap-an'-Water Harbor, with Tinkle Tickle hard-by," the
clerk drawled on, "I been thumbin' over the queer yarn o' Mary Mull.
An' I been enjoyin' it, too. An old tale--lived long ago. 'Tis a tale
t' my taste. It touches the heart of a woman. An' so, lads--'tis a
mystery."
Then the tale that was lived page by page under the two eyes in Tumm's
head:
"Tim Mull was fair dogged by the children o' Tinkle Tickle in his
bachelor days," the tale ran on. "There was that about un, somehow, in
eyes or voice, t' win the love o' kids, dogs, an' grandmothers. 'Leave
the kids have their way,' says he. 'I likes t' have un t' come t' me.
They're no bother at all. Why, damme,' says he, 'they uplift the soul
of a bachelor man like me! I loves un.'
"'You'll be havin' a crew o' your own, some day,' says Tom Blot, 'an'
you'll not be so fond o' the company.'
"'I'll ship all the Lord sends.'
"'Ah-ha, b'y!' chuckles Tom, 'He've a wonderful store o' little souls
up aloft.'
"'Then,' says Tim, 'I'll thank Un t' be lavish.'
"Tom Blot was an old, old man, long past his labor, creakin' over the
roads o' Harbor with a staff t' help his dry legs, an' much give t'
broodin' on the things he'd found out in this life. ''Tis rare that
He's mean with such gifts,' says he. 'But 'tis queer the way He
bestows un. Ecod!' says he, in a temper, 'I've never been able t'
fathom his ways, old as I is!'
"'I wants a big crew o' lads an' little maids, Tom,' says Tim Mull.
'Can't be too many for _me_ if I'm to enjoy my cruise in this world.'
"'They've wide mouths, lad.'
"'Hut!' says Tim. 'What's a man for? _I'll_ stuff their little crops.
You mark _me_, b'y!'
"So it went with Tim Mull in his bachelor days: he'd forever a maid on
his shoulder or a lad by the hand. He loved un. 'Twas knowed that he
loved un. There wasn't a man or maid at Tinkle Tickle that didn't
know. 'Twas a thing that was called t' mind whenever the name o' Tim
Mull come up. 'Can't be too many kids about for Tim Mull!' An' they
loved _him_. They'd wait for un t' come in from the sea at dusk o'
fine days; an' on fine Sunday afternoons--sun out an' a blue wind
blowin'--they'd troop at his heels over the roads an' hills o' the
Tickle. They'd have no festival without un. On the eve o' Guy Fawkes,
in the fall o' the year, with the Gunpowder Plot t' celebrate, when 't
was
Remember, remember,
The Fifth o' November!
't was Tim Mull that must wind the fire-balls, an' sot the bonfires,
an' put saleratus on the blisters. An' at Christmastide, when the
kids o' Harbor come carolin' up the hill, all in mummers' dress,
pipin',--
God rest you, merry gentlemen;
Let nothin' you dismay!
't was Tim Mull, in his cottage by Fo'c's'le Head, that had a big
blaze, an' a cake, an' a tale, an' a tune on the concertina, for the
rowdy crew.
"'I love un!' says he. 'Can't be too many for _me_!'
"An' everybody knowed it; an' everybody wondered, too, how Tim Mull
would skipper his own little crew when he'd shipped un.
"Tim Mull fell in love, by-an'-by, with a dark maid o' the Tickle. By
this time his mother was dead, an' he lived all alone in the cottage
by Fo'c's'le Head. He had full measure o' the looks an' ways that win
women. 'Twas the fashion t' fish for un. An' 'twas a thing that was
shameless as fashion. Most o' the maids o' Harbor had cast hooks.
Polly Twitter, for one, an' in desperation: a pink an' blue wee parcel
o' fluff--an' a trim little craft, withal. But Tim Mull knowed nothin'
o' this, at all; he was too stupid, maybe,--an' too decent,--t' read
the glances an' blushes an' laughter they flung out for bait.
"'Twas Mary Low--who'd cast no eyes his way--that overcome un. She
loved Tim Mull. No doubt, in the way o' maids, she had cherished her
hope; an' it may be she had grieved t' see big Tim Mull, entangled in
ribbons an' curls an' the sparkle o' blue eyes, indulge the
flirtatious ways o' pretty little Polly Twitter. A tall maid, this
Mary--soft an' brown. She'd brown eyes, with black lashes to hide un,
an' brown hair, growin' low an' curly; an' her round cheeks was brown,
too, flushed with red. She was a maid with sweet ways an' a tender
pride; she was slow t' speak an' not much give t' laughter; an' she
had the sad habit o' broodin' overmuch in the dusk. But she'd eyes for
love, never fear, an' her lips was warm; an' there come a night in
spring weather--broad moonlight an' a still world--when Tim Mull give
way to his courage.
"'Tumm,' says he, when he come in from his courtin', that night,
'there'll be guns poppin' at Tinkle Tickle come Friday.'
"'A weddin'?' says I.
"'Me an' Mary Low, Tumm. I been overcome at last. 'Twas the moon.'
"'She's ever the friend o' maids,' says I.
"'An' the tinkle of a goat's bell on Lookout. It fell down from the
slope t' the shadows where the alders arch over the road by Needle
Rock. Jus' when me an' Mary was passin' through, Tumm! You'd never
believe such an accident. There's no resistin' brown eyes in spring
weather. She's a wonderful woman, lad.'
"'That's queer!' says I.
"'A wonderful woman,' says he. 'No shallow water there. She's deep. I
can't _tell_ you how wonderful she is. Sure, I'd have t' play it on
the concertina.'
"'I'll lead the chivari,' says I, 'an' you grant me a favor.'
"'Done!' says he.
"'Well, Tim,' says I, 'I'm a born godfather.'
"'Ecod!' says he. An' he slapped his knee an' chuckled. 'Does you mean
it? Tobias Tumm Mull! 'Twill be a very good name for the first o' my
little crew. Haw, haw! The thing's as good as managed.'
"So they was wed, hard an' fast; an' the women o' Tinkle Tickle
laughed on the sly at pretty Polly Twitter an' condemned her shameless
ways."
* * * * *
"In the fall o' that year I went down Barbadoes way in a fish-craft
from St. John's. An' from Barbadoes, with youth upon me t' urge
adventure, I shipped of a sudden for Spanish ports. 'Twas a matter o'
four years afore I clapped eyes on the hills o' Tinkle Tickle again.
An' I mind well that when the schooner hauled down ol' Fo'c's'le Head,
that day, I was in a fret t' see the godson that Tim Mull had promised
me. But there wasn't no godson t' see. There wasn't no child at all.
"'Well, no, Tumm,' says Tim Mull, 'we hasn't been favored in that
particular line. But _I'm_ content. All the children o' Harbor is
mine,' says he, 'jus' as they used t' be, an' there's no sign o' the
supply givin' out. Sure, _I've_ no complaint o' my fortune in life.'
"Nor did Mary Mull complain. She thrived, as ever: she was soft an'
brown an' flushed with the color o' flowers, as when she was a maid;
an' she rippled with smiles, as then, in the best of her moods, like
the sea on a sunlit afternoon.
"'I've Tim,' says she, 'an' with Tim I'm content. Your godson, Tumm,
had he deigned to sail in, would have been no match for my Tim in
goodness.'
"An' still the children o' Tinkle Tickle trooped after Tim Mull; an'
still he'd forever a maid on his shoulder or a wee lad by the hand.
"'Fair winds, Tumm!' says Tim Mull. 'Me an' Mary is wonderful happy
t'gether.'
"'Isn't a thing we could ask for,' says she.
"'Well, well!' says I. 'Now, that's _good_, Mary!'
"There come that summer t' Tinkle Tickle she that was once Polly
Twitter. An' trouble clung to her skirts. Little vixen, she was! No
tellin' how deep a wee woman can bite when she've the mind t' put her
teeth in. Nobody at Tinkle Tickle but knowed that the maid had loved
Tim Mull too well for her peace o' mind. Mary Mull knowed it well
enough. Not Tim, maybe. But none better than Mary. 'Twas no secret, at
all: for Polly Twitter had carried on like the bereft when Tim Mull
was wed--had cried an' drooped an' gone white an' thin, boastin', all
the while, t' draw friendly notice, that her heart was broke for good
an' all. 'Twas a year an' more afore she flung up her pretty little
head an' married a good man o' Skeleton Bight. An' now here she was,
come back again, plump an' dimpled an' roguish as ever she'd been in
her life. On a bit of a cruise, says she; but 'twas not on a cruise
she'd come--'twas t' flaunt her new baby on the roads o' Tinkle
Tickle.
"A wonderful baby, ecod! You'd think it t' hear the women cackle o'
the quality o' that child. An' none more than Mary Mull. She kissed
Polly Twitter, an' she kissed the baby; an' she vowed--with the
sparkle o' joyous truth in her wet brown eyes--that the most
bewitchin' baby on the coast, the stoutest baby, the cleverest baby,
the sweetest baby, had come straight t' Polly Twitter, as though it
wanted the very prettiest mother in all the world, an' knowed jus'
what it was about.
"An' Polly kissed Mary. 'You is so _kind_, Mary!' says she. ''Tis jus'
_sweet_ o' you! How _can_ you!'
"'Sweet?' says Mary, puzzled. 'Why, no, Polly. I'm--glad.'
"'Is you, Mary? 'Tis so _odd_! Is you really--_glad_?'
"'Why not?'
"'I don't know, Mary,' says Polly. 'But I--I--I 'lowed, somehow--that
you wouldn't be--so _very_ glad. An' I'm not sure that I'm
grateful--enough.'
"An' the women o' Tinkle Tickle wondered, too, that Mary Mull could
kiss Polly Twitter's baby. Polly Twitter with a rosy baby,--a lusty
young nipper,--an' a lad, t' boot! An' poor Mary Mull with no child,
at all, t' bless Tim Mull's house with! An' Tim Mull a lover o'
children, as everybody knowed! The men chuckled a little, an' cast
winks about, when Polly Twitter appeared on the roads with the baby;
for 'twas a comical thing t' see her air an' her strut an' the flash
o' pride in her eyes. But the women kep' their eyes an' ears open--an'
waited for what might happen. They was all sure, ecod, that there was
a gale comin' down; an' they was women,--an' they knowed the hearts o'
women,--an' they was wise, if not kind, in their expectation.
"As for Mary Mull, she give never a sign o' trouble, but kep' right on
kissin' Polly Twitter's baby, whenever she met it, which Polly
contrived t' be often; an' I doubt that she knowed--until she couldn't
help knowin'--that there was pity abroad at Tinkle Tickle for Tim
Mull.