“Well, now, after that,” Tumm resumed, presently, “I went deep sea for four year in the South American fish trade; an’ then, my ol’ berth on the _Quick as Wink_ bein’ free of incumbrance—’twas a saucy young clerk o’ the name o’ Bullyworth—I ’lowed t’ blow the fever out o’ my system with the gales o’ this here coast. ‘A whiff or two o’ real wind an’ a sight o’ Mother Burke,’ thinks I, ‘will fix _me_.’ ’Twas a fine Sunday mornin’ in June when I fetched Gingerbread Cove in the ol’ craft—warm an’ blue an’ still an’ sweet t’ smell. ‘They’ll be no Bill Hulk, thank God!’ thinks I, ‘t’ be crawlin’ up the hill t’ meetin’ _this_ day; _he’ve_ got through an’ gone t’ his berth for all time. I’d like t’ yarn with un on this fine civil Sunday,’ thinks I; ‘but I ’low he’s jus’ as glad as I is that he’ve been stowed away nice an’ comfortable at last.’ But from the deck, ecod! when I looked up from shavin’, an’ Skipper Jim was washin’ up in the forecastle, I cotched sight o’ ol’ Bill Hulk, bound up the hill through the sunshine, makin’ tolerable weather of it, with the wind astern, a staff in his hand, and the braw black coat on his back. “‘Skipper Jim,’ sings I, t’ the skipper below, ‘you hear a queer noise?’ “‘No,’ says he. “‘Nothin’ like a squeak or a rattle?’ “‘No,’ says he. ‘What’s awry?’ “‘Oh, nothin’ says I:’ on’y ol’ Bill Hulk’s on the road.’ “I watched un crawl through the little door on Meetin’-house Hill long after ol’ Sammy Street had knocked off pullin’ the bell; an’ if I didn’t hear neither squeak nor rattle as he crep’ along, why, I _felt_ un, anyhow, which is jus’ as hard to bear. ‘Well,’ thinks I, ‘he’ve kep’ them bones above ground, poor man! but he’s never _at_ it yet. He’ve knocked off for good,’ thinks I; ‘he’ll stumble t’ meetin’ of a fine Sunday mornin’, an’ sit in the sun for a spell; an’ then,’ thinks I, ‘they’ll stow un away where he belongs.’ So I went aboard of un that evenin’ for a last bit of a yarn afore his poor ol’ throat rattled an’ quit. “‘So,’ says I, ‘you is at it yet?’ “‘Ay, Tumm,’ says he; ‘isn’t quite through—yet. But,’ says he, ‘I’m ’lowin’ t’ _be_.’ “‘Hard at it, Uncle Bill?’ says I. “‘Well, no, Tumm,’ says he; ‘not hard. Back give warnin’ a couple o’ year ago,’ says he, ‘an’ I been sort o’ easin’ off for fear o’ accident. I’ve quit the Far Away grounds,’ says he, ‘but I been doin’ very fair on Widows’ Shoal. They’s on’y one o’ them fishin’ there nowadays, ah’ she ’lowed she didn’t care.’ “‘An’ when,’ says I, ‘is you ’lowin’ t’ knock off?’ “‘Jus’ as soon as I gets through, Tumm,’ says he. ‘I won’t be a minute longer.’