"That's the way we done aboard the Royal Bloodhound," the Little Fiddler's grandfather put in. He began to pace the floor. The tap-tap of his wooden leg was furious and his voice was as gusty as the gale outside. "Now, you mark me!" he ran on. "We chopped Cap'n Sam Small's foot off with a axe an' plugged it with b'ilin' tar. 'Twas mortification. I knows mortification when I sees it. An' Sam Small got well."
He was bawling, by this time, like a skipper in a gale—being deaf, the old man was accustomed to raise his voice, a gradual crescendo, until he had come as near hearing himself as possible.
"Yes, sir—you mark me! That's what we done aboard the Royal Bloodhound the year I shipped for the seals along o' Small Sam Small. We chopped it clean off with a meat axe an' plugged it with b'ilin' tar. If Small Sam Small had clung t' that member for another day he would have died. Mark me! Small Sam Small would have been dropped over the side o' the Royal Bloodhound an' left t' shift for hisself in a sack an' a Union Jack!"
He paused before Terry Lute and shook a lean finger under the little boy's nose.
"Now," he roared, "you mark me!"
"I isn't aboard the Royal Bloodhound!" Terry sobbed.
"Ah, Terry!" This was Terry's mother. She was crying bitterly. "You'll die an you don't have that finger off!"
"I'll die an I got to!"
"Oh, Terry, Terry!"