“‘Well, Tumm,’ says he, ‘the fac’ is, Tumm, I’m—sort o’—jus’—farin’ along.’ “We crossed the Straits of a moonlight night. The wind was fair an’ light. Mad Bill was t’ the wheel: for he ’lowed he wasn’t goin’ t’ have no chances took with a Lally Line steamer, havin’ been sunk oncet by the same. ’Twas a kind an’ peaceful night. I’ve never knowed the world t’ be more t’ rest an’ kinder t’ the sons o’ men. The wind was from the s’uth’ard, a point or two east: a soft wind an’ sort o’ dawdlin’ careless an’ happy toward the Labrador. The sea was sound asleep; an’ the schooner cuddled up, an’ dreamed, an’ snored, an’ sighed, an’ rolled along, as easy as a ship could be. Moonlight was over all the world—so soft an’ sweet an’ playful an’ white; it said, ‘Hush!’ an’, ‘Go t’ sleep!’ All the stars that ever shone was wide awake an’ winkin’. A playful crew—them little stars! Wink! wink! ‘Go t’sleep!’ says they. ‘’Tis our watch,’ says they. ‘_We’ll_ take care o’ _you_.’ An’ t’ win’ward—far off—black an’ low—was Cape Norman o’ Newf’un’land. Newf’un’land! Ah, we’re all mad with love o’ she! Good-night!’ says she. ‘Fair v’y’ge,’ says she; ‘an’ may you come home loaded!’ Sleep? Ay; men could sleep that night. They wasn’t no fear at sea. Sleep? Ay; they wasn’t no fear in all the moonlit world. “An’ then up from the forecastle comes Botch o’ Jug Cove. “‘Tumm,’ says he, ‘you isn’t turned in.’ “‘No, Botch,’ says I. ‘It isn’t my watch; but I ’lowed I’d lie here on this cod-trap an’ wink back at the stars.’ “‘I can’t sleep,’ says he. ‘Oh, Tumm, I _can’t_!’ “‘’Tis a wonderful fine night,’ says I. “‘Ay,’ says he; ‘but—’ “‘But what?’ says I. “‘You never can tell,’ says he “‘Never can tell what?’ “‘What’s goin’ t’ happen.’ “I took one look—just one look into them shiverin’ eyes—an’ shook my head. ‘Do you ’low,’ says I, ‘that we can hit that berg off the port bow?’ “‘You never can tell,’ says he. “‘Good Lord!’ says I. ‘With Mad Bill Likely o’ Yellow Tail Tickle at the wheel? Botch,’ says I, ‘you’re gone mad. What’s _come_ along o’ you? Where’s the _is_ an’ the _was_ an’ the _will be_? What’s come o’ that law o’ life?’ “‘Hist!’ says he. “‘Not me!’ says I. ‘I’ll hush for no man. What’s come o’ the law o’ life? What’s come o’ all the thinkin’?’ “‘Tumm,’ says he, ‘I don’t think no more. An’ the laws o’ life,’ says he, ‘is foolishness. The fac’ is, Tumm,’ says he, ‘things look wonderful different t’ me now. I isn’t the same as I used t’ be in them old days.’ “‘You isn’t had a fever, Botch?’ says I. “‘Well,’ says he, ‘I got religion.’ “‘Oh!’ says I. ‘What kind?’ “‘Vi’lent,’ says he. “‘I see,’ says I. “‘I isn’t converted just this minute,’ says he. ‘I ’low you might say, an’ be near the truth, that I’m a damned backslider. But I _been_ converted, an’ I may be again. Fac’ is, Tumm,’ says he, ‘when I gets up in the mornin’ I never knows which I’m in, a state o’ grace or a state o’ sin. It usual takes till after breakfast t’ find out.’