“Ah, well! he’d labored long enough, lived long enough, t’ leave other hands clean up the litter an’ sweep the room o’ his life. I didn’t know what that little spurt o’ labor was meant t’ win for his peace o’ mind—didn’t know what he’d left undone—didn’t know what his wish or his conscience urged un t’ labor for. I jus’ wanted un t’ quit an’ lie down in the sun. ‘For,’ thinks I, ‘the world looks wonderful greedy an’ harsh t’ me when I hears ol’ Bill Hulk’s bones rattle over the roads or come squeakin’ through the Tickle in his punt. ‘Leave un go in peace!’ thinks I. ‘I isn’t got no love for a world that sends them bones t’ sea in an easterly wind. Ecod!’ thinks I; ‘but he’ve earned quiet passage by jus’ livin’ t’ that ghastly age—jus’ by hangin’ on off a lee shore in the mean gales o’ life.’ Seemed t’ me, too, no matter how Bill felt about it, that he might be obligin’ an’ quit afore he _was_ through. Seemed t’ me he might jus’ stop where he was an’ leave the friends an’ neighbors finish up. ’Tisn’t fair t’ ask a man t’ have his labor done in a ship-shape way—t’ be through with the splittin’ an’ all cleaned up—when the Skipper sings out, ‘Knock off, ye dunderhead!’ Seems t’ me a man might leave the crew t’ wash the table an’ swab the deck an’ throw the livers in the cask. “‘You be obligin’, Bill,’ says I, ‘an’ quit.’ “‘Isn’t able,’ says he, ’till I’m through.’ “So the bones o’ ol’ Bill Hulk rattled an’ squeaked right on till it made me fair ache when I _thunk_ o’ Gingerbread Cove. * * * * * “About four year after that I made the Cove in the spring o’ the year with supplies. ‘Well,’ thinks I, ‘they won’t be no Bill Hulk this season. With that pain in his back an’ starboard leg, this winter have finished he; an’ I’ll lay a deal on that.’ ’Twas afore dawn when we dropped anchor, an’ a dirty dawn, too, with fog an’ rain, the wind sharp, an’ the harbor in a tumble for small craft; but the first man over the side was ol’ Bill Hulk. “‘It _can’t_ be you, Uncle Bill!’ says I. “‘Tumm,’ says he, ‘I isn’t quite through—yet.’ “‘You isn’t goin’ at it _this_ season, is you?’ “‘Ay,’ says he; ‘goin’ at it again, Tumm.’ “‘What for?’ says I. “‘Nothin’ much,’ says he. “‘But what _for_?’ “‘Well,’ says he, ‘I’m savin’ up.’ “‘Savin’ up?’ says I. ‘Shame _to_ you! What you savin’ up for?’ “‘Oh,’ says he, ‘jus’ savin’ up.’ “‘But what _for_?’ says I. ‘What’s the sense of it?’ “‘Bit o’ prope’ty,’ says he. ‘I’m thinkin’ o’ makin’ a small investment.’ “‘At your age, Uncle Bill!’ says I. ‘An’ a childless man!’ “‘Jus’ a small piece,’ says he. ‘Nothin’ much, Tumm.’ “‘But it won’t do you no _good_,’ says I. “‘Well, Tumm,’ says he, ‘I’m sort o’ wantin’ it, an’ I ’low she won’t go t’ waste. I been fishin’ from Gingerbread Cove for three hundred year,’ says he, ‘an’ when I knocks off I wants t’ have things ship-shape. Isn’t no comfort, Tumm,’ says he, ‘in knockin’ off no other way.’