“An experienced seaman might get out, but not that way. Experienced seamen don't put off on the windward side. But,” I says, “it seems to me experience and ingenuity could keep a hotel.”
With that I put up the window softly and climbed out and dropped to the ground. I went round the house looking for ingenious couples, and then across the yard, and there they sat on the same fence, with their feet hooked as previous, and they appeared to feel calm and candid.
“As to hotel keeping,” I says, climbing on the fence, “it's a good life,—” and there I stopped.
I looked over at the old churchyard on the Green. It was dark and still over there. The rows of flat tombstones were grey, like planted ghosts. “Hic Jacet” means “here lies,” as I'm told. Those folks that once got their “Hic jacets” over them wouldn't ever get up to argue the statement; but those that left good memories behind, I guessed they were glad of it. As for the living, if they were elderly, they'd best go to bed. With that I got down from the fence.
“Madge,” I says, “do you know why I'm backing you?”
“Yes,” she says, “I know.”
How the nation did she know?
“Happen Billy Corliss may want to run away still” I says, “and maybe you'll be asking, 'Where to?' and maybe he'll remark, 'Pemberton's.' Then if you and he should drop into Pemberton's most any time, with a notion of connubiality, I guess likely he'd have prospects to modify Andrew McCulloch with afterward, 'Pemberton's seaside Hotel. Peaceful Patronage Welcome. No Earthquakes nor Revolutions Allowed.'”
Then I left them on the fence and came back to Greenough.