“‘Arch,’ says I, wind-bound in the _Curly Head_ at Jump Harbor, ‘don’t you _do_ it.’ “‘Love,’ says he, ‘is queer.’ “‘Maybe,’ says I; ‘but keep off. You go,’ says I, ‘an’ get a maid o’ your own.’ “‘_Wonderful_ queer,’ says he. ‘’Twouldn’t s’prise me, Tumm,’ says he, ‘if a man failed in love with a fish-hook.’ “‘Well,’ says I, ‘’Lizabeth All isn’t no fish-hook. She’ve red cheeks an’ blue eyes an’ as soft an’ round a body as a man ever clapped eyes on. Her hair,’ says I, ‘is a glory; an’, Arch,’ says I, ‘why, she _pities_!’ “‘True,’ says he; ‘but it falls far short.’ “‘How far?’ says I. “‘Well,’ says he, ‘you left out her muscles.’ “‘Look you, Arch!’ says I; ‘you isn’t nothin’ but a mean man. They isn’t nothin’ that’s low an’ cruel an’ irreligious that you can’t be comfortable shipmates with. Understand me? They isn’t nothin’ that can’t be spoke of in the presence o’ women an’ children that isn’t as good as a Sunday-school treat t’ you. It doesn’t scare you t’ know that the things o’ your delight would ruin God’s own world an they had their way. Understand me?’ says I, bein’ bound, now, to make it plain. ‘An’ now,’ says I, ‘what you got t’ give, anyhow, for the heart an’ sweet looks o’ this maid? Is you thinkin’,’ says I, ‘that she’ve a hankerin’ after your dried beef body an’ pill of a soul?’ “‘Never you mind,’ says he. “‘Speak up!’ says I. ‘What you got t’ _trade_?’ “‘Well,’ says he, ‘I’m clever.’ “‘’Tis small cleverness t’ think,’ says I, ‘that in these parts a ounce o’ brains is as good as a hundredweight o’ chest an’ shoulders.’ “‘You jus’ wait an’ see,’ says he. “Seems that Jim Tool was a big man with a curly head an’ a maid’s gray eyes. He was wonderful solemn an’ soft an’ slow—so slow, believe _me_, sir, that he wouldn’t quite know till to-morrow what he found out yesterday. If you spat in his face to-day, sir, he might drop in any time toward the end o’ next week an’ knock you down; but if he put it off for a fortnight, why, ’twouldn’t be so wonderful s’prisin’. I ’low he was troubled a deal by the world. ’Twas all a mystery to un. He went about, sir, with his brows drawed down an’ a look o’ wonder an’ s’prise an’ pity on his big, kind, pink-an’-white face. He was _always_ s’prised; never seemed t’ _expect_ nothin’—never seemed t’ be ready. I ’low it shocked un t’ pull a fish over the side. ‘Dear man!’ says he. ‘Well, well!’ What he done when ’Lizabeth All first kissed un ’tis past me t’ tell. I ’low that shootin’ wouldn’t o’ shocked un more. An’ how long it took un t’ wake up an’ really feel that kiss—how many days o’ wonder an’ s’prise an’ doubt—’twould take a parson t’ reckon. Anyhow, she loved un: I knows she did—she loved un, sir, because he was big an’ kind an’ curly-headed, which was enough for ’Lizabeth All, I ’low, an’ might be enough for any likely maid o’ Newf’un’land.” I dropped a birch billet in the stove. “Anyhow,” said Tumm, moodily, “it didn’t last long.”