“Somehow,” Tumm began, his voice fallen rather despondent, I fancied, but yet continuing most curiously genial, “it always made me think o’ dust an’ ashes t’ clap eyes on ol’ Bill Hulk o’ Gingerbread Cove. Ay, b’y; but I could jus’ fair hear the parson singsong that mean truth o’ life: ‘Dust t’ dust; ashes t’ ashes’—an’ make the best of it, ye sinners an’ young folk! When ol’ Bill hove alongside, poor man! I’d think no more o’ maids an’ trade, o’ which I’m fair sinful fond, but on’y o’ coffins an’ graves an’ ground. For, look you! the ol’ feller was so white an’ wheezy—so fishy-eyed an’ crooked an’ shaky along o’ age. ’Tis a queer thing, sir, but, truth o’ God, so old was Bill Hulk that when he’d board me I’d remember somehow the warm breast o’ my mother, an’ then think, an’ couldn’t help it, o’ the bosom o’ dust where my head must lie.” Tumm paused. “Seemed t’ me, somehow,” he continued, “when the _Quick as Wink_ was lyin’ of a Sunday t’ Gingerbread Cove—seemed t’ me somehow, when I’d hear the church bell ring an’ echo across the water an’ far into the hills—when I’d cotch sight o’ ol’ Bill Hulk, with his staff an’ braw black coat, crawlin’ down the hill t’ meetin’—ay, an’ when the sun was out, warm an’ yellow, an’ the maids an’ lads was flirtin’ over the roads t’ hear the parson thunder agin their hellish levity—seemed t’ me then, somehow, that ol’ Bill was all the time jus’ dodgin’ along among open graves; for, look you! the ol’ feller had such trouble with his legs. An’ I’d wish by times that he’d stumble an’ fall in, an’ be covered up in a comfortable an’ decent sort o’ fashion, an’ stowed away for good an’ all in the bed where he belonged. “‘Uncle Bill,’ says I, ‘you at it yet?’ “‘Hangin’ on, Tumm,’ says he. ‘I isn’t quite through.’ [Illustration: “OL’ BILL HULK CRAWLIN’ DOWN THE HILL T’ MEETIN’”] “‘Accordin’ t’ the signs,’ says I, ‘you isn’t got much of a grip left.’ “‘Yes, I is!’ says he. ‘I got all my fishin’ fingers exceptin’ two, an’ I ’low they’ll last me till I’m through.’ “Ecod! sir, but it made me think so mean o’ the world that I ’lowed I’d look away. “‘No, Tumm,’ says he, ‘I isn’t _quite_ through.’ “‘Well,’ says I, ‘you must be tired.’ “‘Tired,’ says he. ‘Oh no, b’y! Tired? Not me! I got a little spurt o’ labor t’ do afore _I_ goes.’ “‘An’ what’s that, Uncle Bill?’ says I. “‘Nothin’ much,’ says he. “‘But what _is_ it?’ “‘Nothin’ much,’ says he; ‘jus’ a little spurt o’ labor.’