And when he went out he held in his hand two or three slender stems hung with the tiny pretty humble bells.
He had these very bits of simple blossoms in his hand when he went down to where the Mary Anne lay on the beach for repairs. So his fellow-workmen said when they told the story afterwards, remembering even this trivial incident.
He was in a strange frame of mind, too, they noticed, silent and heavy and absent. He did not work well, but lagged over his labor, stopping every now and then to pass the back of his hand over his brow as if to rouse himself.
“Yo' look as if yo' an' th' missus had had a fallin' out an' yo'n getten th' worst o' th' bargain,” one of his comrades said by way of rough jest.
They were fond of joking with him about his love for his handsome, taciturn wife. But he did not laugh this time as he usually did.
“Mind thy own tackle, lad,” he said dully, “an I'll mind mine.”
From that time he worked steadily among them until it was nearly time for the tide to rise. The boat they were repairing had been a difficult job to manage, as they could only work between tides, and now being hurried they lingered longer than usual. At the last minute they found it must be moved, and so were detained.
“Better leave her until th' tide ebbs,” said one, but the rest were not of the same mind.
“Nay,” they argued, “it'll be all to do o'er agen if we do that. Theer's plenty o' time if we look sharp enow. Heave again, lads.”
Then it was that with the help of straining and tugging there came a little lurch, and then it was that as the Mary Anne slipped over on her side one of the workers slipped with her, slipped half underneath her with a cry, and lay on the sand, held down by the weight that rested on him.