managed her mischief. 'Twas a time well-chosen, too. Trust the little
minx for that! She was swift t' bite--an' clever t' fix her white
little fangs. There was a flock o' women, Mary Mull among un, in
gossip by the baskets. An' Polly Twitter was there, too,--an' the
baby. Sun under a black sea; then the cold breath o' dusk, with fog
in the wind, comin' over the hills.
"'Tim Mull,' says Polly, 'hold the baby.'
"'Me?' says he. I'm a butterfingers, Polly.'
"'Come!' says she.
"'No, no, Polly! I'm timid.'
"She laughed at that. 'I'd like t' see you _once_,' says she, 'with a
wee baby in your arms, as if 'twas your _own_. You'd look well. I'm
thinkin'. Come, take un, Tim!'
"'Pass un over,' says he.
"She gave un the child. 'Well!' says she, throwin' up her little
hands. 'You looks _perfectly_ natural. Do he not, Mary? It might be
his _own_ for all one could tell. Why, Tim, you was _made_ for the
like o' that. Do it feel nice?'
"'Ay,' says poor Tim, from his heart. 'It do.'
"'Well, well!' says Polly. 'I 'low you're wishin', Tim, for one o'
your own.'
"'I is.'
"Polly kissed the baby, then, an' rubbed it cheek t' cheek, so that
her fluffy little head was close t' Tim. She looked up in his eyes.
''Tis a pity!' says she. An' she sighed.
"'Pity?' says he. 'Why, no!'
"'Poor lad!' says she. 'Poor lad!'
"'What's this!' says Tim. 'I've no cause for grief.'
"There was tears in little Polly's blue eyes as she took back the
child. ''Tis a shame,' says she, 'that you've no child o' your own!
An' you so wonderful fond o' children! I grieves for you, lad. It fair
breaks my heart.'
"Some of the women laughed. An' this--somehow--moved Mary Mull t'
vanish from that place.
* * * * *
"Well, now, Polly Twitter had worked her mischief. Mary Mull was never
the same after that. She took t' the house. No church no more--no
walkin' the roads. She was never seed abroad. An' she took t' tears
an' broodin'. No ripple o' smiles no more--no song in the kitchen. She
went downcast about the work o' the house, an' she sot overmuch alone
in the twilight--an' she sighed too often--an' she looked too much at
t' sea--an' she kep' silent too long--an' she cried too much in the
night. She'd have nothin' t' do with children no more; nor would she
let Tim Mull so much as lay a hand on the head of a youngster. Afore
this, she'd never fretted for a child at all; she'd gone her way
content in the world. But now--with Polly Twitter's vaunt forever in
her ears--an' haunted by Tim Mull's wish for a child of his own--an'
with the laughter o' the old women t' blister her pride--she was like
t' lose her reason. An' the more it went on, the worse it got: for the
folk o' the Tickle knowed very well that she'd give way t' envy an'
anger, grievin' for what she couldn't have; an' she knowed that they
knowed an' that they gossiped--an' this was like oil on a fire.
"'Tim,' says she, one night, that winter, 'will you listen t' me?
Thinkin' things over, dear, I've chanced on a clever thing t' do. 'Tis
queer, though.'
"'I'll not mind how queer, Mary.'
"She snuggled close to un, then, an' smiled. 'I wants t' go 'way from
Tinkle Tickle,' says she.
"'Away from Tinkle Tickle?'
"'Don't say you'll not!'
"'Why, Mary, I was _born_ here!'
"'I got t' go 'way.'
"'Wherefore?' says he. ''Tis good fishin' an' a friendly harbor.'
"'Oh, oh!' says she. 'I can't _stand_ it no more.'
"'Mary, dear,' says he, 'there's no value in grievin' so sore over
what can't be helped. Give it over, dear, an' be happy again, like you
used t' be, won't you? Ah, now, Mary, won't you jus' try?'
"'I'm ashamed!'
"'Ashamed?' says he. 'You, Mary? Why, what's all this? There never was
a woman so dear an' true as you.'
"'A childless woman! They mock me.'
"''Tis not true,' says he. 'They----'
"'Ay, 'tis true. They laugh. They whispers when I pass. I've heard
un.'
"''Tis not true, at all,' says he. 'They loves you here at Tinkle
Tickle.'
"'Oh, no, Tim! No, no! The women scoff. An' I'm ashamed. Oh, I'm
ashamed t' be seen! I can't stand it no more. I got t' go 'way. Won't
you take me, Tim?'
"Tim Mull looked, then, in her eyes. 'Ay,' says he, 'I'll take you,
dear.'
"'Not for long,' says she. 'Jus' for a year or two. T' some place
where there's nobody about. I'll not want t' stay--so very long.'
"'So long as you likes,' says he. 'I'm wantin' only t' see you well
an' happy again. 'Tis a small thing t' leave Tinkle Tickle if we're t'
bring about that. We'll move down the Labrador in the spring o' the
year.'"
* * * * *
"In the spring o' the year I helped Tim Mull load his goods aboard a
Labradorman an' close his cottage by Fo'c's'le Head.
"'Spring weather, Tumm,' says he, 'is the time for adventure. I'm glad
I'm goin'. Why,' says he, 'Mary is easin' off already.'
"Foreign for me, then. Spring weather; time for adventure. Genoa, this
cruise, on a Twillingate schooner, with the first shore-fish. A
Barbadoes cruise again. Then a v'y'ge out China way. Queer how the
flea-bite o' travel will itch! An' so long as it itched I kep' on
scratchin'. 'Twas over two years afore I got a good long breath o' the
fogs o' these parts again. An' by this time a miracle had happened on
the Labrador. The good Lord had surprised Mary Mull at Come-By-Guess
Harbor. Ay, lads! At last Mary Mull had what she wanted. An' I had a
godson. Tobias Tumm Mull had sot out on his cruise o' the seas o' this
life. News o' all this cotched me when I landed at St. John's. 'Twas
in a letter from Mary Mull herself.
"'Ecod!' thinks I, as I read; 'she'll never be content until she
flaunts that child on the roads o' Tinkle Tickle.'
"An' 'twas true. 'Twas said so in the letter. They was movin' back t'
Tinkle Tickle, says she, in the fall o' the year, t' live for good an'
all. An' as for Tim, says she, a man jus' wouldn't believe how tickled
he was.
"Me, too, ecod! I was tickled. Deep down in my heart I blessed the
fortune that had come t' Mary Mull. An' I was fair achin' t' knock the
breath out o' Tim with a clap on the back. 'Queer,' thinks I, 'how
good luck may be delayed. An' the longer luck waits,' thinks I, 'the
better it seems an' the more 'tis welcome.'
"'Twas an old letter, this, from Mary; 'twas near a year old. They was
already back at Tinkle Tickle. An' so I laid in a silver spoon an' a
silver mug, marked 'Toby' in fine fashion, against the time I might
land at the Tickle. But I went clerk on the _Call Again_ out o' Chain
Harbor, that spring; an' 'twas not until midsummer that I got the
chance t' drop in t' see how my godson was thrivin'. Lyin' here at
Soap-an'-Water Harbor, one night, in stress o' weather, as now we lies
here, I made up mind, come what might, that I'd run over t' Tinkle
Tickle an' give the mug an' the spoon t' wee Toby when the gale should
oblige us. 'July!' thinks I. 'Well, well! An' here it is the
seventeenth o' the month. I'll drop in on the nineteenth an' help
celebrate the first birthday o' that child. 'Twill be a joyous
occasion by Fo'c's'le Head. An' I'll have the schooner decked out in
her best, an' guns poppin'; an' I'll have Tim Mull aboard, when 'tis
over, for a small nip o' rum.'
"But when Tim Mull come aboard at Tinkle Tickle t' greet me, I was
fair aghast an' dismayed. Never afore had he looked so woebegone an'
wan. Red eyes peerin' out from two black caves; face all screwed with
anxious thought. He made me think of a fish-thief, somehow, with a
constable comin' down with the wind; an' it seemed, too, that maybe
'twas my fish he'd stole. For he'd lost his ease; he was full o' sighs
an' starts an' shifty glances. An' there was no health in his voice;
'twas but a disconsolate whisper--slinkin' out into the light o' day.
'Sin on his soul,' thinks I. 'He dwells in black weather.'
"'We spied you from the head,' says he--an' sighed. 'It gives me a
turn, lad, t' see you so sudden. But I'm wonderful glad you've come.'
"'Glad?' says I. 'Then look glad, ye crab!' An' I fetched un a clap on
the back.
"'Ouch!' says he. 'Don't, Tumm!'
"'I congratu_late_ you,' says I.
"'Mm-m?' says he. 'Oh, ay! Sure, lad.' No smile, mark you. An' he
looked off t' sea, as he spoke, an' then down at his boots, like a man
in shame. 'Ay,' says he, brows down, voice gone low an' timid.
'Congratu_late_ me, does you? Sure. That's proper--maybe.'
"'Nineteenth o' the month,' says I.
"'That's God's truth, Tumm.'
"'An' I'm come, ecod,' says I, 't' celebrate the first birthday o'
Tobias Tumm Mull!'
"'First birthday,' says he. 'That's God's truth.'
"'Isn't there goin' t' _be_ no celebration?'
"'Oh, sure!' says he. 'Oh, my, yes! Been gettin' ready for days. An'
I've orders t' fetch you straightway t' the house. Supper's laid,
Tumm. Four places at the board the night.'
"'I'll get my gifts,' says I; 'an' then----'
"He put a hand on my arm. 'What gifts?' says he.
"'Is you gone mad, Tim Mull?'
"'For--the child?' says he. 'Oh, sure! Mm-m!' He looked down at the
deck. 'I hopes, Tumm,' says he, 'that they wasn't so very--expensive.'
"'I'll spend what I likes,' says I, 'on my own godson.'
"'Sure, you will!' says he. 'But I wish that----'
"Then no more. He stuttered--an' gulped--an' give a sigh--an' went
for'ard. An' so I fetched the spoon an' the mug from below, in a sweat
o' wonder an' fear, an' we went ashore in Tim's punt, with Tim as
glum as a rainy day in the fall o' the year."
* * * * *
"An' now you may think that Mary Mull was woebegone, too. But she was
not. Brown, plump, an' rosy! How she bloomed! She shone with health;
she twinkled with good spirits. There was no sign o' shame upon her no
more. Her big brown eyes was clean o' tears. Her voice was soft with
content. A sweet woman, she was, ever, an' tender with happiness, now,
when she met us at the threshold. I marveled that a gift like Toby
Mull could work such a change in a woman. 'Tis queer how we thrives
when we haves what we wants. She thanked me for the mug an' the spoon
in a way that made me fair pity the joy that the little things give
her.
"'For Toby!' says she. 'For wee Toby! Ah, Tumm, Tumm,--how wonderful
thoughtful Toby's godfather is!'
"She wiped her eyes, then; an' I wondered that she should shed tears
upon such an occasion--ay, wondered, an' could make nothin' of it at
all.
"''Tis a great thing,' says she, 't' be the mother of a son. I lost my
pride, Tumm, as you knows, afore we moved down the Labrador. But now,
Tumm,--now, lad,--I'm jus' like other women. I'm jus' as much a woman,
Tumm,' says she, 'as any woman o' Tinkle Tickle!'
"With that she patted my shoulder an' smiled an' rippled with sweet
laughter an' fled t' the kitchen t' spread Toby Mull's first birthday
party.
"'Tim,' says I, 'she've done well since Toby come.'
"'Mm-m?' says he. 'Ay!'--an' smoked on.
"'Ecod!' says I; 'she's blithe as a maid o' sixteen.'
"'She's able t' hold her head up,' says he. 'Isn't afeared she'll be
laughed at by the women no more. That's why. 'Tis simple.'
"'You've lost heart yourself, Tim.'
"'Me? Oh, no!' says he. 'I'm a bit off my feed. Nothin' more. An' I'm
steadily improvin'. Steadily, Tumm,--improvin' steadily.'
"'You've trouble, Tim?'
"He gripped his pipe with his teeth an' puffed hard. 'Ay,' says he,
after a bit. 'I've trouble, Tumm. You got it right, lad.'
"Jus' then Mary Mull called t' supper. There was no time t' learn more
o' this trouble. But I was bound an' determined, believe me, t' have
Tim Mull aboard my craft, that night, an' fathom his woe. 'Twas a
thousand pities that trouble should have un downcast when joy had come
over the rim of his world like a new day."
* * * * *
"Places for four, ecod! Tim Mull was right. 'Twas a celebration. A
place for Tim--an' a place for Mary--an' a place for me. An' there,
too, was a place for Tobias Tumm Mull, a high chair, drawed close to
his mother's side, with arms waitin' t' clutch an' hold the little
nipper so soon as they fetched un in. I wished they'd not delay. 'Twas
a strain on the patience. I'd long wanted--an' I'd come far--t' see my
godson. But bein' a bachelor-man I held my tongue for a bit: for,
thinks I, they're washin' an' curlin' the child, an' they'll fetch un
in when they're ready t' do so, all spick-an'-span an' polished like a
door-knob, an' crowin', too, the little rooster! 'Twas a fair sight to
see Mary Mull smilin' beyond the tea-pot. 'Twas good t' see what she
had provided. Cod's-tongues an' bacon--with new greens an'
potatoes--an' capillaire-berry pie an' bake-apple jelly. 'Twas pretty,
too, t' see the way she had arrayed the table. There was flowers from
the hills flung about on the cloth. An' in the midst of all--fair in
the middle o' the blossoms an' leaves an' toothsome plenty--was a
white cake with one wee white taper burnin' as bright an' bold as ever
a candle twice the size could manage.
"'Mary Mull,' says I, 'I've lost patience!'
"She laughed a little. 'Poor Tumm!' says she. 'I'm sorry your hunger
had t' wait.'
"''Tis not my hunger.'
"She looked at me with her brow wrinkled. 'No?' says she.
"'I wants t' see what I've come t' see.'
"'That's queer!' says she. 'What you've come t' see?'
"'Woman,' cries I, 'fetch in that baby!'
"Never a word. Never a sound. Mary Mull drawed back a step--an' stared
at me with her eyes growin' wider an' wider. An' Tim Mull was lookin'
out o' the window. An' I was much amazed by all this. An' then Mary
Mull turned t' Tim. 'Tim,' says she, her voice slow an' low, 'did you
not write Tumm a letter?'
"Tim faced about. 'No, Mary,' says he. 'I--I hadn't no time--t' waste
with writin'.'
"'That's queer, Tim.'
"'I--I--I forgot.'
"'I'm sorry--Tim.'
"'Oh, Mary, I didn't _want_ to!' says Tim. 'That's the truth of it,
dear. I--I _hated_--t' do it.'
"'An' you said never a word comin' up the hill?'
"'God's sake!' cries Tim, like a man beggin' mercy, 'I _couldn't_ say
a word like that!'
"Mary turned then t' me. 'Tumm,' says she, 'little Toby--is dead.'
"'Dead, Mary!'
"'We didn't get much more than--jus' one good look at the little
fellow--afore he left us.'
* * * * *
"When I took Tim Mull aboard the _Call Again_ that night," the tale
ran on, "'twas all clear above. What fog had been hangin' about had
gone off with a little wind from the warm inland places. The lights o'
Harbor--warm lights--gleamed all round about Black hills: still water
in the lee o' the rocks. The tinkle of a bell fell down from the
slope o' Lookout; an' a maid's laugh--sweet as the bell itself--come
ripplin' from the shadows o' the road. Stars out; the little beggars
kep' winkin' an' winkin' away at all the mystery here below jus' as if
they knowed all about it an' was sure we'd be surprised when we come
t' find out.
"'Tumm, ol' shipmate,' says Tim Mull, 'I got a lie on my soul.'
"''Tis a poor place for a burden like that.'
"'I'm fair wore out with the weight of it.'
"'Will you never be rid of it, man?'
"'Not an I keeps on bein' a man.'
"'So, Tim?'
"He put his hand on my shoulder. 'Is you a friend o' Mary's?' says he.
"''Tis a thing you must know without tellin'.'
"'She's a woman, Tumm.'
"'An' a wife.'
"'Woman an' wife,' says he, 'an' I loves her well, God knows!' The
tinkle o' the bell on the black slope o' Lookout caught his ear. He
listened--until the tender little sound ceased an' sleep fell again on
the hill. 'Tumm,' says he, then, all at once, 'there never _was_ no
baby! She's deceivin' Tinkle Tickle t' save her pride!'"
Tumm closed the book he had read page by page.
* * * * *
VII
THE LITTLE NIPPER O' HIDE-AN'-SEEK HARBOR
* * * * *
VII
THE LITTLE NIPPER O' HIDE-AN'-SEEK HARBOR
We nosed into Hide-an'-Seek Harbor jus' by chance. What come o' the
venture has sauce enough t' tell about in any company that ever sot
down in a forecastle of a windy night t' listen to a sentimental ol'
codger like me spin his yarns. In the early dusk o' that night, a
spurt o' foul weather begun t' swell out o' the nor'east--a fog as
thick as soup an' a wind minded for too brisk a lark at sea. Hard
Harry Hull 'lowed that we might jus' as well run into Hide-an'-Seek
for a night's lodgin' in the lee o' the hills, an' pick up what fish
we could trade the while, there bein' nothin' t' gain by hangin' off
shore an' splittin' the big seas all night long in the rough. 'Twas a
mean harbor, as it turned out--twelve score folk, ill-spoken of
abroad, but with what justice none of us knowed; we had never dropped
anchor there before. I was clerk o' the _Robin Red Breast_ in them
days--a fore-an'-aft schooner, tradin' trinkets an' grub for salt fish
between Mother Burke o' Cape John an' the Newf'un'land ports o' the
Straits o' Belle Isle; an' Hard Harry Hull, o' Yesterday Cove, was
the skipper o' the craft. Ay, I means Hard Harry hisself--he that
gained fame thereafter as a sealin' captain an' takes the _Queen o'
the North_ out o' St. John's t' the ice every spring o' the year t'
this present.
Well, the folk come aboard in a twitter an' flutter o' curiosity,
flockin' to a new trader, o' course, like young folk to a spectacle;
an' they demanded my prices, an' eyed an' fingered my stock o'
gee-gaws an' staples, an' they whispered an' stared an' tittered, an'
they promised at last t' fetch off a quintal or two o' fish in the
mornin', it might be, an the fog had blowed away by that time. 'Twas
after dark afore they was all ashore again--all except a sorry ol'
codger o' the name o' Anthony Lot, who had anchored hisself in the
cabin with Skipper Harry an' me in expectation of a cup o' tea or the
like o' that. By that time I had my shelves all put t' rights an' was
stretched out on my counter, with my head on a roll o' factory-cotton,
dawdlin' along with my friendly ol' flute. I tooted a ballad or
two--Larboard Watch an' Dublin Bay; an' my fingers bein' limber an'
able, then, I played the weird, sad songs o' little Toby Farr, o'
Ha-ha Harbor, which is more t' my taste, mark you, than any o' the
fashionable music that drifts our way from St. John's. Afore long I
cotched ear of a foot-fall on deck--tip-toein' aft, soft as a cat; an'
I knowed that my music had lured somebody close t' the cabin hatch t'
listen, as often it did when I was meanderin' away t' ease my
melancholy in the evenin'.
"On deck!" says Skipper Harry. "Hello, you!"
Nobody answered the skipper's hail. I 'lowed then that 'twas a bashful
child I had lured with my sad melody.
"Come below," the skipper bawled, "whoever you is! I say--come below!"
"Isn't nobody there," says Anthony Lot.
"I heared a step," says I.
"Me, too," says Skipper Harry.
"Nothin' o' no consequence," says Anthony. "I wouldn't pay no
attention t' that."
"Somebody up there in the rain," says the skipper.
"Oh, I knows who 'tis," says Anthony. "'Tisn't nobody that amounts t'
nothin' very much."
"Ah, well," says I, "we'll have un down here out o' the dark jus' the
same."
"On deck there!" says the skipper again. "You is welcome below, sir!"
Down come a lad in response t' Hard Harry's hail--jus' a pallid,
freckled little bay-noddie, with a tow head an' blue eyes, risin' ten
years, or thereabouts, mostly skin, bones an' curiosity, such as you
may find in shoals in every harbor o' the coast. He was blinded by the
cabin lamp, an' brushed the light out of his eyes; an' he was
abashed--less shy than cautious, however, mark you; an' I mind that
he shuffled and grinned, none too sure of his welcome--halted,
doubtful an' beseechin', like a dog on a clean kitchen floor. I marked
in a sidelong glance, too, when I begun t' toot again, that his wee
face was all in a pucker o' bewilderment, as he listened t' the sad
strains o' Toby Farr's music, jus' as though he knowed he wasn't able
t' rede the riddles of his life, jus' yet awhile, but would be able t'
rede them, by an' by, when he growed up, an' expected t' find hisself
in a pother o' trouble when he mastered the answers. I didn't know his
name, then, t' be sure; had I knowed it, as know it I did, afore the
night was over, I might have put down my flute, in amazement, an'
stared an' said, "Well, well, well!" jus' as everybody did, no doubt,
when they clapped eyes on that lad for the first time an' was told
whose son he was.
"What's that wee thing you're blowin'?" says he.
"This here small contrivance, my son," says I, "is called a flute."
The lad scowled.
"Is she?" says he.
"Ay," says I, wonderin' wherein I had offended the wee feller; "that's
the name she goes by in the parts she hails from."
"Hm-m," says he.
I seed that he wasn't thinkin' about the flute--that he was broodin'.
All at once, then, I learned what 'twas about.
"I isn't your son," says he.
"That's true," says I. "What about it?"
"Well, you called me your son, didn't you?"
"Oh, well," says I, "I didn't mean----"
"What you do it for?"
'Twas a demand. The wee lad was stirred an' earnest. An' why? I was
troubled. 'Twas a queer thing altogether. I seed that a man must walk
warily in answer lest he bruise a wound. 'Twas plain that there was a
deal o' delicate mystery beneath an' beyond.
"Answer me fair," says I, in banter; "wouldn't a man like me make a
fair-t'-middlin' pa for a lad like you?"
That startled un.
"I'd wager no fish on it, sir," says he, "afore I learned more o' your
quality."
"Well, then," says I, "you've but a dull outfit o' manners."
He flashed a saucy grin at me. 'Twas agreeable enough. I deserved it.
An' 'twas made mild with a twinkle o' humor.
"I've pricked your pride, sir," says he. "I'm sorry."
"Answer me, then, in a mannerly way," says I, "Come now! Would I pass
muster as a pa for a lad like you?"
He turned solemn an' earnest.
"You wish you was my pa?" says he.
"'Tis a sudden question," says I, "an' a poser."
"You doesn't, then?"
"I didn't say that," says I. "What you wishin' yourself?"
"I isn't wishin' nothin' at all about it," says he. "All I really
wants to know is why you called me your son when I isn't no such
thing."
"An' you wants an answer t' that?"
"I'd be grateful, sir."
Skipper Harry got the notion from all this talk, mixed with the eager,
wistful look o' the lad, as he searched me with questions, t' ease the
wonder that gripped an' hurt un, whatever it was--Skipper Harry got
the notion that the lad had no father at all that he knowed of, an'
that he sorrowed with shame on that account.
"I wish you was _my_ son," says he, t' hearten un. "Danged if I
don't!"
The lad flashed 'round on Skipper Harry an' stared at un with his eyes
poppin'.
"What you say jus' then?" says he.
"You heared what I said."
"Say it again, sir, for my pleasure."
"I will," says the skipper, "an' glad to. I says I wish you belonged
t' me."
"Is you sure about that?"
Skipper Harry couldn't very well turn back then. Nor was he the man t'
withdraw. An' he didn't reef a rag o' the canvas he had spread in his
kindly fervor.
"I is," says he. "Why?"
"It makes me wonder. What if you was my pa? Eh? What if you jus'
happened t' be?"
"I'd be glad. That's what."
"That's queer!"
"Nothin' queer about it."
"Ah-ha!" says the lad; "'tis wonderful queer!" He cocked his head an'
peered at the skipper like an inquisitive bird. "Nobody never said
nothin' like that t' me afore," says he. "What you wish I was your son
for? Eh?"
"You is clever an' good enough, isn't you?"
"Maybe I is clever. Maybe I'm good, too. I'll not deny that I'm both.
What I wants t' know, though, is what you wants me for?"
"I'd be proud o' you."
"What for?"
Skipper Harry lost patience.
"Don't pester me no more," says he. "I've no lad o' my own. That's
reason enough."
The wee feller looked the skipper over from his shock o' red hair to
his sea-boots, at leisure, an' turned doleful with pity.
"My duty, sir," says he. "I'm sore an' sorry for you."
"Don't you trouble about that."
"You sees, sir," says the lad, "I can't help you none. I got a pa o'
my own."
"That's good," says the skipper. "I'm glad o' that."
"Moreover, sir," says the lad, "I'm content with the pa I got. Yes,
sir--I'm wonderful proud o' my pa, an' I 'low my pa's wonderful proud
o' me, if the truth was knowed. I 'low not many lads on this coast is
got such a wonderful pa as I got."
"No?" says I. "That's grand!"
"No, sir-ee! Is they, Anthony Lot?"
Anthony Lot begun t' titter an' chuckle. I fancied he cast a wink.
'Twas a broad joke he was playin' with, whatever an' all; an' I wished
I knowed what amused the dolt.
"You got it right, Sammy," says he.
The lad slapped his knee. "Yes, sir-ee!" says he. "You jus' bet I got
it right!"
"You got a wonderful ma, too?" says I.