“Take off your boots, Mr. Paine,” he urged. “The old lady'll fetch you a pair of my slippers and some socks in a minute. She'll make your wife comf'table, too. She's a great hand at makin' folks comf'table. I tell her she'd make a cake of ice feel to home on a hot stove. She beats—”
The “old lady” herself interrupted him, entering with a bottle in one hand and a lamp in the other.
“Joshua!” she said, warningly.
“Well, what is it, Betsy?”
“Be careful how you talk.”
“Talk!” with a wink at me. “I wan't goin' to say nothin'.”
“Yes, you was. Mrs. Paine, you mustn't mind him. He used to go mate on a fishin' schooner and, from all I can learn, they use pretty strong language aboard these boats.”
“Pick it up same as a poll parrot,” cut in her husband. “Comes natural when you're handlin' wet trawl line in February. Can't seem to get no comfort out of anything milder.”
“He's a real good-hearted man, Joshua is, and a profession' church member, but he does swear more'n he ought to. But, as I tell the minister, he don't mean nothin' by it.”
“Not a damn thing!” said Mr. Atwood, reassuringly. The bottle, it appeared, contained Jamaica ginger, a liberal dose of which Mrs. Atwood insisted upon our taking as a precaution against catching cold.