“There he lied—on the blue, spongy caribou-moss, at the edge o’ the cliff, with the black-an’—white sea below, an’ the mist in the sky an’ on the hills t’ leeward. Ecod! but he was lean an’ ragged: this fellow sprawlin’ there, with his face t’ the sky an’ his legs an’ leaky boots scattered over the moss. Skinny legs he had, an’ a chest as thin as paper; but aloft he carried more sail ’n the law allows—sky-scraper, star-gazer, an’, ay! even the curse-o’-God-over-all. That was Botch—mostly head, an’ a sight more forehead than face, God help un! He’d a long, girlish face, a bit thin at the cheeks an’ skimped at the chin; an’ they wasn’t beard enough anywheres t’ start a bird’s nest. Ah, but the eyes o’ that botch! Them round, deep eyes, with the still waters an’ clean shores! I ’low I can’t tell you no more—but only this: that they was somehow like the sea, blue an’ deep an’ full o’ change an’ sadness. Ay, there lied Botch in the fog-drip—poor Botch o’ Jug Cove: eyes in his head; his dirty, lean body clothed in patched moleskin an’ rotten leather. “An’— “‘Good-even, yourself,’ says I. “‘My name’s Botch,’ says he. ‘Isn’t you from the _Quick as Wink_?’ “‘I is,’ says I; ’an’ they calls me Tumm.’ “‘That’s a very queer name,’ says he. “‘Oh no!’ says I. ‘They isn’t nothin’ queer about the name o’ Tumm.’ “He laughed a bit—an’ rubbed his feet together: just like a tickled youngster. ‘Ay,’ says he; ‘that’s a wonderful queer name. Hark!’ says he. ‘You just listen, an’ I’ll _show_ you. Tumm,’ says he, ‘Tumm, Tumm, Tumm.... Tumm, Tumm, Tumm.... Tumm—’ “‘Don’t,’ says I, for it give me the fidgets. ‘Don’t say it so often.’ “‘Why not?’ says he. “‘I don’t like it,” says I. “‘Tumm,’ says he, with a little cackle, ‘Tumm, Tumm, Tumm—’ “‘Don’t you do that no more,’ says I. ‘I won’t have it. When you says it that way, I ’low I don’t know whether my name is Tumm or Tump. ’Tis a very queer name. I wisht,’ says I, ‘that I’d been called Smith.’ “‘’Twouldn’t make no difference,’ says he. ‘All names is queer if you stops t’ think. Every word you ever spoke is queer. Everything is queer. It’s _all_ queer—once you stops t’ think about it.’ “‘Then I don’t think I’ll stop,’ says I, ‘for I don’t _like_ things t’ be queer.’ “Then Botch had a little spell o’ thinkin’.” Tumm leaned over the forecastle table.