“An’ this was Jimmie Tool! Why, sir, I knowed Jimmie Tool when he was a lad o’ twelve. A hearty lad, sir, towheaded an’ stout an’ strong an’ lively, with freckles on his nose, an’ a warm, kind, white-toothed little grin for such as put a hand on his shoulder. Wasn’t nobody ever, man, woman, or child, that touched Jimmie Tool in kindness ’ithout bein’ loved. He jus’ couldn’t help it. You jus’ be good t’ Jimmie Tool, you jus’ put a hand on his head an’ smile, an’ Jimmie ’lowed they was no man like you. ‘You got a awful kind heart, lad,’ says I, when he was twelve; ‘an’ when you grows up,’ says I, ‘I ’low the folk o’ this coast will be glad you was born.’ An’ here was Jimmie Tool, swarmin’ up the Black Bight cliffs, bent on the splittin’ o’ Archibald Shott, which same Archibald I had took t’ Sunday-school, by the wee, soft hand of un, many a time, when he was a flabby-fleshed, chatterin’ rollypolly o’ four! Bein’ jus’ a ol’ fool, sir—bein’ jus’ a soft ol’ fool hangin’ over the Black Bight cliffs—I wisht, somehow, that little Jimmie Tool had never needed t’ grow up. “‘Jimmie,” says I, ‘what you _really_ goin’ t’ do?’ “‘Well,’ says he, ‘jus’ a minute.’ “‘Very well,’ says I; ‘but you better leave poor Arch alone.’ “‘How’s his grip?’ says he. “‘None too good,’ says I; ‘a touch would dislodge un.’ “‘If I cotched un by the ankle, then,’ says he, ‘I ’low I could jerk un loose.’ “‘You hadn’t better _try_,’ says Arch. “‘Jim,’ says I, ‘does you know how high up you really is?’ “Jim jus’ reached as quick as a snake for Archibald Shott’s foot, but come somewhat short of a grip. ‘Shoot it!’ says he, ‘I can on’y touch un with my finger. I’ll have t’ climb higher.’ “Up he come a inch or so. “‘You try that again, Jim,’ says Arch, ‘an’ I’ll kick you in the head.’ “‘You can’t,’ says Jim; ‘you dassn’t move a foot from that ledge.’ “‘Try an’ see,’ says Arch. “‘I can see very well, Arch, b’y,’ says Jim. ‘If you wriggles a toe, you’ll fall.’