"I'm glad o' that," he continued, but with no relief of the anxious
gloom upon his face. "I'm glad you is comfortable an' happy. I 'low,"
said he, "that poor Tom Callaway would like t' get word of it. Poor
Tom! Poor ol' Tom! Lord love you, lad! he was your father: an' he
loved you well--all too well. I 'low he'd be wonderful _glad_ just t'
know that you was comfortable an' happy--an' good. You is good, isn't
you? Oh, I knows you is! An' I wisht Tom Callaway could know. I wisht
he could: for I 'low 'twould perk un up a bit, in the place he's to,
t' get wind of it that his little Dannie was happy with ol' Nick Top.
He've a good deal t' bear, I'm thinkin', where he's to; an' 'twould
give un something t' distract his mind if he knowed you was doin'
well. But, Dannie, lad," he pursued, with a lively little flash of
interest, "they's a queer thing about that. Now, lad, mark you! 'tis
easy enough t' send messages Aloft; but when it comes t' gettin' a
line or two o' comfort t' the poor damned folk Below, they's no mortal
way that I ever heared tell on. Prayer," says he, "wings aloft, far
beyond the stars, t' the ear o' God Hisself; an' I wisht--oh, I
wisht--they was the same sort o' telegraph wire t' hell! For," said
he, sadly, "I've got some news that I'd kind o' like t' send."