“Ol’ Bill Hulk always ’lowed that if by God’s chance they’d on’y come a fair fishin’ season afore his shoulders give out he’d make a self-respectin’ haul an’ be through. ‘Back give out about thirteen year ago,’ says he, ‘the time I got cotched by a dirty nor’easter on the Bull’s Horn grounds. One o’ them strings back there sort o’ went an’ snapped,’ says he, ‘jus’ as I was pullin’ in the Tickle, an’ she isn’t been o’ much use t’ me since. Been rowin’ with my shoulders for a little bit past,’ says he, ‘an’ doin’ very fair in southerly weather; but I got a saucy warnin’,’ says he, ‘that they won’t stand nothin’ from the nor’east. “No, sir,” says they; “nothin’ from the nor’east for we, Bill Hulk, an’ don’t you put us to it!” I’m jus’ a bit afeared,’ says he, ‘that they might get out o’ temper in a southerly tumble; an’ if they done that, why, I’d jus’ have t’ stop, dear Lord!’ says he, ‘’ithout bein’ through! Isn’t got no legs t’ speak of,’ says he, ‘but I don’t need none. I got my arms runnin’ free,’ says he,’ an’ I got one thumb an’ all my fishin’ fingers ’ceptin’ two. Lungs,’ says he, ‘is so-so; they wheezes, Tumm, as you knows, an’ they labors in a fog, an’ aches all the time, but chances is they’ll _last_, an’ a fair man can’t ask no more. As for liver, Tumm,’ says he, ‘they isn’t a liver on these here coasts t’ touch the liver I got. Why,’ says he, ‘I never knowed I had one till I was told!’ “‘Liver,’ says I, ‘is a ticklish business.’ “‘’Lowin’ a man didn’t overeat,’ says he, ‘think he could spurt along for a spell on his liver?’ “‘I does,’ says I. “‘That’s good,’ says he; ‘for I’m countin’ a deal on she.’ “‘Never you fear,’ says I. ‘_She’ll_ stand you.’ “‘Think she will?’ says he, jus’ like a child. ‘Maybe, then,’ says he, ‘with my own labor, Tumm, I’ll buy my own grave at last!’ “But the season bore hard on the ol’ man, an’ when I balanced un up in the fall o’ the year, the twelve thirty he’d been t’ leeward o’ the twenty-three twenty-five Tom Neverbudge wanted for the plot where the two little graves lay side by side had growed t’ fifteen ninety-three. “‘Jus’ where I was nine year ago,’ says he, ‘lackin’ thirty-four cents.’ “‘Never you fear,’ says I “‘My God! Tumm,’ says he, ‘I got t’ do better nex’ season.’” Tumm paused to gaze at the stars. “Still there,” I ventured. “Winkin’ away,” he answered, “the wise little beggars!” The _Good Samaritan_ dawdled onward.