“‘Tumm,’ says he, ‘it all comes down t’ this: _The thing that lives is the kind o’ thing that’s best fit t’ live in the place it lives in_. That’s a law o’ life! An’ nobody but _me_, Tumm,’ says he, ‘ever knowed it afore!’ “‘It don’t amount t’ nothin’,’ says I. “‘Tis a law o’ life!’ “‘But it don’t _mean_ nothin’.’ “‘Tumm,’ says he, discouraged, ‘I can’t talk t’ you no more. I’m too busy. I ’lowed when I seed you there on the berg that you’d tell somebody what I thunk out last night if you got clear o’ this mess. An’ I _wanted_ everybody t’ know. I did so _want_ un t’ know—an’t’ know that Abraham Botch o’ Jug Cove did the thinkin’ all by hisself! But you don’t seem able. An’, anyhow,’ says he, ‘I’m too busy t’ talk no more. They’s a deal more hangin’ on that law ’n I told you. The beasts o’ the field is born under it, an’ the trees o’ the forest, an’ all that lives. They’s a bigger law behind; an’ I got t’ think that out afore the sea works up. I’m sorry, Tumm; but if you don’t mind, I’ll just go on thinkin’. You _won’t_ mind, will you, Tumm? I wouldn’t like you t’ feel bad.’ “‘Lord, no!’ says I. ‘_I_ won’t mind.’ “‘Thank you, Tumm,’ says he. ‘For I’m greatly took by thinkin’.’ “An’ so Botch sputtered an’ thunk an’ kep’ his neck limber ’til he drifted out o’ sight in the snow.” But that was not the last of the Jug Cove philosopher. “Next time I seed Botch,” Tumm resumed, “we was both shipped by chance for the Labrador from Twillingate. ’Twas aboard the dirty little _Three Sisters_—a thirty-ton, fore-an’-aft green-fish catcher, skippered by Mad Bill Likely o’ Yellow Tail Tickle. An’ poor Botch didn’t look healthful. He was blue an’ wan an’ wonderful thin. An’ he didn’t look at all _right_. Poor Botch—ah, poor old Botch! They wasn’t no more o’ them fuddlin’ questions; they wasn’t no more o’ that cock-sure, tickled little cackle. Them big, deep eyes o’ his, which used t’ be clean an’ fearless an’ sad an’ nice, was all misty an’ red, like a nasty sunset, an’ most unpleasant shifty. I ’lowed I’d take a look in, an’ sort o’ fathom what was up; but they was too quick for me—they got away every time; an’ I never seed more’n a shadow. An’ he kep’ lookin’ over his shoulder, an’ cockin’ his ears, an’ givin’ suddent starts, like a poor wee child on a dark road. They wasn’t no more o’ that sinful gettin’ into nothin’—no more o’ that puttin’ away o’ the rock an’ sea an’ the great big sky. I ’lowed, by the Lord! that he couldn’t _do_ it no more. All them big things had un scared t’ death. He didn’t dast forget they was there. He couldn’t get into nothin’ no more. An’ so I knowed he wouldn’t be happy aboard the _Three Sisters_ with that devil of a Mad Bill Likely o’ Yellow Tail Tickle for skipper. “‘Botch,’ says I, when we was off Mother Burke, ‘how is you, b’y?’ “‘Oh, farin’ along,’ says he. “‘Ay,’ says I; ‘but how _is_ you, b’y?’ “‘Farin’ along,’ says he. “‘It ain’t a answer,’ says I. ‘I’m askin’ a plain question, Botch.’