“Eh?” Tumm resumed. “_You_ knows what it is, lads. ’Tis bad enough t’ think in company, when a man can peep into a human eye an’ steady his old hulk; but t’ think alone—an’ at the fishin’! I ’low Botch ought to have knowed better; for they’s too many men gone t’ the mad-house t’ St. John’s already from this here coast along o’ thinkin’. But Botch thinked at will. ‘Tumm,’ says he, ‘I done a power o’ thinkin’ in my life—out there on the grounds, between Breakheart Head an’ the Tombstone, that breakin’ rock t’ the east’ard. I’ve thunk o’ wind an’ sea, o’ sky an’ soil, o’ tears an’ laughter an’ crooked backs, o’ love an’ death, rags an’ robbery, of all the things of earth an’ in the hearts o’ men; an’ I don’t know nothin’! My God! after all, I don’t know nothin’! The more I’ve thunk, the less I’ve knowed. ’Tis all come down t’ this, now, Tumm: that I _is_. An’ if I _is_, I _was_ an’ _will be_. But sometimes I misdoubt the _was_; an’ if I loses my grip on the _was_, Tumm, my God! what’ll become o’ the _will be_? Can you tell me that, Tumm? Is I got t’ come down t’ the _is_? Can’t I build nothin’ on that? Can’t I go no further than the _is_? An’ will I lose even that? Is I got t’ come down t’ knowin’ nothin’ at all?’ “‘Look you! Botch,’ says I, ‘don’t you know the price o’ fish?’ “‘No,’ says he. ‘But it ain’t nothin’ t’ know. It ain’t worth knowin’. It—it—it don’t matter!’ “‘I ’low,’ says I, ‘your wife don’t think likewise. You got a wife, isn’t you?’ “‘Ay,’ says he. “‘An’ a kid?’ “‘I don’t know,’ says he. “‘You _what_!’ says I. “‘I don’t know,’ says he. ‘She was engaged at it when I come up on the Head. They was a lot o’ women in the house, an’ a wonderful lot o’ fuss an’ muss. You’d be _s’prised_, Tumm,’ says he, ’t’ know how much fuss a thing like this can _make_. So,’ says he, ‘I ’lowed I’d come up on the Pillar o’ Cloud an’ think a spell in peace.’ “‘An’ what?’ says I. “‘Have a little spurt at thinkin’.’ “‘O’ she?’ “‘Oh no, Tumm,’ says he; ‘_that_ ain’t nothin’ t’ _think_ about. But,’ says he, ‘I s’pose I might as well go down now, an’ see what’s happened. I hopes ’tis a boy,’ says he, ‘for somehow girls don’t seem t’ have much show.’ “An’ with that,” drawled Tumm, “down the Pillar o’ Cloud goes Abraham Botch.” He paused to laugh; and ’twas a soft, sad little laugh—dwelling upon things long past.