It was not until Old John was getting on in years that he had married and set up a cabin of his own. He had given up sailorin’ then and turned fisherman, because he wouldn’t leave his bonny little maid so much alone.
Only to himself, never to any other, did Old John confess that the bonny little maid had proved a misfit. God, how he had loved her! Nigh on eighty was Old John now, and still he dreamed of her at night. Too much given to newsin’ she had been and that was all the trouble.
“’Ousin’ and tea-drinkin’ don’t hold in our line o’ life,” Old John had told her, but she had only laughed and followed her own bent. Under her care, or lack of care, the trim cottage by the Barbican had become a dirty hovel.
ON THE DAY OF GRANNY’S FUNERAL, OLD JOHN TOOK CARE OF TOMMY.
Before his love could wane she died. Thirty-five years had gone by since the night that Old John held her for the last time in his arms. In her place she left a son, and the son was more of a misfit than the mother who bore him.
“One o’ they creeperses!” was the judgement of Draeth, and Old John knew that the judgement was just. But not only was his John sly, he was idle and lazy as well.
“If I could only have had a son like Tommy, an’ a wife like ...,” then Old John checked himself sharply; there was disloyalty in the thought and he gave undivided attention to his guest.
“What be we a-goin’ to have for dinner?” Tommy was asking.
“Fish,” replied Old John.