“O, come, come, Solomon; we can’t wait. You’re making us all risk our lives,” said Bart, imploringly, coaxing him as he would coax an insane man. “Come along; don’t keep us here. The schooner’ll sink and drag the boat down, if we don’t keep farther away.”
“Darsn’t,” said Solomon. “Couldn’t, darsn’t—no how.”
“O, come.”
“Darsn’t—fraid ob dat ar ole woman, wid de broomstick, de tongs, de fence-pole, an de red-hot gridiron. Tell you what, it stings—it does, dreadful—it does so—”
“O, come. She shall never trouble you. Never.”
“Who’s to go skewrity for dat ar statement? Nobody can skewer her. No. Better be drown-ded, dan walloped to def with hay-forks. Nobody can skewer dat ar ole woman, dough; gracious sakes, she knows how to skewer me ebery time she lay hand on a pitchfork or a meat-skewer. Yah, yah, yah!”
At this ill-timed levity Bart and the others turned away in despair and disgust.
They hurried aft.
There stood the venerable Corbet. As they drew near he gave a start, and a smile came over his reverend countenance.
“Wal, boys,” said he, in a tone of kindly welcome, “how d’ye do? Pleased to see you.”