“An’ by-and-by,” he continued, “I took the goat-path t’ the water-side; an’ I went aboard the _Quick as Wink_ in a fog o’ dreams an’ questions. The crew was weighin’ anchor, then; an’ ’twas good for the soul t’ feel the deck-planks underfoot, an’ t’ hear the clank o’ solid iron, an’ t’ join the work-song o’ men that had muscles an’ bowels. ‘Skipper Zeb,’ says I, when we had the old craft coaxed out o’ the Tickle, ‘leave me have a spell at the wheel. For the love o’ man,’ says I, ‘let me get a grip of it! I wants t’ get hold o’ something with my hands—something real an’ solid; something I knows about; something that _means_ something!’ For all this talk o’ the _is_ an’ _was_, an’ all these thoughts o’ the _why_, an’ all the crybaby ‘My Gods!’ o’ Abraham Botch, an’ the mystery o’ the wee new soul, had made me dizzy in the head an’ a bit sick at the stomach. So I took the wheel, an’ felt the leap an’ quiver o’ the ship, an’ got my eye screwed on the old Giant’s Thumb, loomin’ out o’ the east’ard fog, an’ kep’ her wilful head up, an’ wheedled her along in the white tumble, with the spray o’ the sea cool an’ wet on my face; an’ I was better t’ oncet. The Boilin’-Pot Shallows was dead ahead; below the fog I could see the manes o’ the big white horses flung t’ the gale. An’ I ’lowed that oncet I got the _Quick as Wink_ in them waters, deep with fish as she was, I’d have enough of a real man’s troubles t’ sink the woes o’ the soul out o’ all remembrance. “‘I won’t care a squid,’ thinks I, ‘for the _why_ nor the _wherefore_ o’ nothin’!’ “‘N neither I did.” The skipper of the _Good Samaritan_ yawned. “Isn’t they nothin’ about fish in this here yarn?” he asked. “Nor tradin’,” snapped Tumm. “Nothin’ about love?” “Botch never _knowed_ about love.” “If you’ll ’scuse me,” said the skipper, “I’ll turn in. I got enough.” But the clammy, red-eyed lad from the Cove o’ First Cousins hitched closer to the table, and put his chin in his hands. He was now in a shower of yellow light from the forecastle lamp. His nostrils were working; his eyes were wide and restless and hot. He had bitten at a chapped underlip until the blood came. “About that _will be_” he whispered, timidly. “Did Botch never say—_where_?” “You better turn in,” Tumm answered. “But I wants t’ know!” Tumm averted his face. “Ill,” he commanded, quietly, “you better turn in.” The boy was obedient.