“Now,” said he, forefinger lifted, “accordin’ t’ my lights, it ain’t nice t’ see _any_ man thinkin’: for a real man ain’t got no call t’ think, an’ can’t afford the time on the coast o’ Newf’un’land, where they’s too much fog an’ wind an’ rock t’ ’low it. For me, I’d rather see a man in a ’leptic fit: for fits is more or less natural an’ can’t be helped. But Botch! When Botch _thunk_—when he got hard at it—’twould give you the shivers. He sort o’drawed away—got into nothin’. They wasn’t no sea nor shore for Botch no more; they wasn’t no earth, no heavens. He got rid o’all that, as though it hindered the work he was at, an’ didn’t matter anyhow. They wasn’t nothin’ left o’things but botch—an’ the nothin’ about un. Botch _in_ nothin’. Accordin’ t’ my lights, ’tis a sinful thing t’do; an’ when I first seed Botch at it, I ’lowed he was lackin’ in religious opinions. ’Twas just as if his soul had pulled down the blinds, an’ locked the front door, an’ gone out for a walk, without leavin’ word when ’twould be home. An’, accordin’ t’ my lights, it ain’t right, nor wise, for a man’s soul t’ do no such thing. A man’s soul ’ain’t got no common-sense; it ’ain’t got no caution, no manners, no nothin’ that it needs in a wicked world like this. When it gets loose, ’t is liable t’ wander far, an’ get lost, an’ miss its supper. Accordin’ t’ my lights, it ought t’ be kep’ in, an’ fed an’ washed regular, an’ put t’ bed at nine o’clock. But Botch! well, there lied his body in the wet, like an unloved child, while his soul went cavortin’ over the Milky Way. “He come to all of a sudden. ‘Tumm,’ says he, ‘you is.’ “‘Ay,’ says I, ‘Tumm I is. ’Tis the name I was born with.’ “‘You don’t find me,’ says he. ‘I says you _is_.’ “‘Is what?’ “‘Just—_is_!’ “With that, I took un. ’Twas all t’ oncet. He was tellin’ me that I _was_. Well, I _is_. Damme! ’twasn’t anything I didn’t _know_ if I’d stopped t’ think. But they wasn’t nobody ever called my notice to it afore, an’ I’d been too busy about the fish t’ mind it. So I was sort o’—s’prised. It don’t matter, look you! t’ _be_; but ’tis mixin’ t’ the mind an’ fearsome t’ stop t’ _think_ about it. An’ it come t’ me all t’ oncet; an’ I was s’prised, an’ I was scared. “‘Now, Tumm,’ says he, with his finger p’intin’, ‘where was you?’ “‘Fishin’ off the Shark’s Fin,’ says I. ‘We just come up loaded, an’—’ “‘You don’t find me,’ says he. ‘I says, where was you afore you was is?’ “‘Is you gone mad?’ says I. “‘Not at all, Tumm,’ says he. ‘Not at all! ’Tis a plain question. You _is_, isn’t you? Well, then, you must have been _was_. Now, then, Tumm, where _was_ you?’ “‘Afore I was born?’ “‘Ay—afore you was is.’ “‘God knows!’ says I. ‘I ’low _I_ don’t. An’ look you, Botch,’ says I, ‘this talk ain’t right. You isn’t a infidel, is you?’ “‘Oh no!’ says he. “‘Then,’ says I, for I was mad, ‘where in hell did you think up all this ghostly tomfoolery?’ “‘On the grounds,’ says he.