“‘No,’ says he; ‘for I couldn’t help thinkin’. An’ when I thunk, Tumm—whenever I fell from grace an’ thunk real hard—I couldn’t believe some o’ the things the red-headed parson said I _had_ t’ believe if I wanted t’ save my soul from hell.’ “‘Botch,’ says I, ‘leave your soul be.’ “‘I can’t,’ says he. ‘I can’t! I got a immortal soul, Tumm. What’s t’ become o’ that there soul?’ “‘Don’t you trouble it,’ says I. ‘Leave it be. ’Tis too tender t’ trifle with. An’, anyhow,’ says I, ‘a man’s belly is all he can handle without strainin’.’ “‘But ’tis _mine_—_my_ soul!’ “‘Leave it be,’ says I. ‘It’ll get t’ heaven.’ “Then Botch gritted his teeth, an’ clinched his hands, an’ lifted his fists t’ heaven. There he stood, Botch o’ Jug Cove, on the for’ard deck o’ the _Three Sisters_, which was built by the hands o’ men, slippin’ across the Straits t’ the Labrador, in the light o’ the old, old moon—there stood Botch like a man in tarture! “‘I isn’t sure, Tumm,’ says he, ‘that I wants t’ go t’ heaven. For I’d be all the time foolin’ about the gates o’ hell, peepin’ in,’ says he; ‘an’ if the devils suffered in the fire—if they moaned an’ begged for the mercy o’ God—I’d be wantin’ t’ go in, Tumm, with a jug o’ water an’ a pa’m-leaf fan!’ “‘You’d get pretty well singed, Botch,’ says I. “‘I’d _want_ t’ be singed!’ says he. “‘Well, Botch,’ says I, ‘I don’t know where you’d best lay your course for, heaven or hell. But I knows, my b’y,’ says I, ‘that you better give your soul a rest, or you’ll be sorry.’ “‘I can’t,’ says he. “‘It’ll get t’ one place or t’other,’ says I, ‘if you on’y bides your time.’ “‘How do you know?’ says he. “‘Why,’ says I, ‘any parson’ll _tell_ you so!’ “‘But how do _you_ know?’ says he. “‘Damme, Botch!’ says I, ‘my mother told me so.’ “‘That’s it!’ says he. “‘What’s it?’ “‘Your mother,’ says he. ‘’Tis all hearsay with you an’ me. But I wants t’ know for myself. Heaven or hell, damnation or salvation, God or nothin’!’ says he. ‘I wouldn’t care if I on’y _knowed_. But I don’t know, an’ can’t find out. I’m tired o’ hearsay an’ guessin’, Tumm. I wants t’ know. Dear God of all men,’ says he, with his fists in the air, ‘I _wants t’ know_!’ “‘Easy,’ says I. ‘Easy there! Don’t you say no more. ’Tis mixin’ t’ the mind. So,’ says I, ‘I ’low I’ll turn in for the night.’