“You see? Ver’ well. One time he leeve there—this grea’ beeg fool. His house it have be burn down. How? Ver’ well. I tell you. All people want thee gold. All people—all—all! ‘Ha!’ theenk a boy. ‘I mus’ have thee seven lobster-tin of gold. I am want buy thee parasol for ’Liza Hull nex’ time thee trader come. I _mus’_ have thee gold of ol’ Skip’ Jim. If I not, then Sam Tom will have buy thee parasol from Tanous Shiva. ’Liza Hull will have love him an’ not me. I _mus’_ have ’Liza Hull love me. Oh,’ theenk he, ‘I _mus’_ have ’Liza Hull love me! I am not can leeve ’ithout that beeg ’Liza Hull with thee red cheek an’ blue eye!’ (Ver’ poor taste thee men have for thee girl in Newf’un’lan’.) ‘Ha!’ theenk he. ‘I mus’ have thee gold. I am burn thee house an’ get thee gold. Then I have buy thee peenk parasol from Tom Shiva.’ Fool! Ver’ beeg fool—that boy. Burn thee house? Ver’ poor business. Mos’ poor. Burn thee house of ol’ Skip’ Jim? Pooh!” It seemed to me, too—so did the sly fellow bristle and puff with contempt—that the wretched lad’s directness of method was most reprehensible; but I came to my senses later, and I have ever since known that the highwayman was in some sort a worthy fellow. “Ver’ well. For two year I know ’bout thee seven lobster-tin of gold, an’ for two year I make thee great frien’ along o’ Skip’ Jim—thee greates’ frien’; thee ver’ greates’ frien’—for I am want thee gold. Aie! I am all thee time stop with Skip’ Jim. I am go thee church with Skip’ Jim. I am kneel thee prayer with Skip’ Jim. (I am ver’ good man about thee prayer—ver’ good business man.) Skip’ Jim he theenk me thee Jew. Pooh! I am not care. I say, ‘Oh yess, Skip’ Jim; I am mos’ sad about what thee Jews done. Bad Jew done that.’ ‘You good Jew, Tom,’ he say; ‘I am not hol’ you to thee ’count. Oh no, Tom; you good Jew,’ he say. ‘You would not do what thee bad Jews done.’ ‘Oh no, Skip’ Jim,’ I say, ‘I am ver’ good man—ver’, ver’ good man.’” The peddler was gravely silent for a space. “I am hones’ man,” he continued. “I am thee mos’ hones’ business man in Newf’un’lan’. So I mus’ have wait for thee gold. Ah,” he sighed, “it have be _mos’_ hard to wait. I am almos’ break thee heart. But I am hones’ man—ver’, ver’ hones’ man—an’ I _mus’_ have wait. Now I tell you what have happen: I am come ashore one night, an’ it is thee nex’ night after thee boy have burn thee house of Skip’ Jim for the peenk parasol. “‘Where Skip’ Jim house?’ I say. “‘Burn down,’ they say. “‘Burn down!’ I say. ‘Oh, my! ’Tis sad. Have thee seven lobster-tin of gold be los’?’ “‘All spoil,’ they say. “I am not theenk what they mean. ‘Oh, dear!’ I say. ‘Where Skip’ Jim?’ “‘You fin’ Skip’ Jim at thee Skip’ Bill Tissol’s house.’ “‘Oh, my!’ I say. ‘I am mos’ sad. I am go geeve thee pit-ee to poor Skip’ Jim.’” The fog was fast thickening. We had come close to Skeleton Tickle; but the downcast cottages were more remote than they had been—infinitely more isolated.