“’Twould do no harm, Davy,” said she, “just t’ show un the letter.”
“’Tis a fearful responsibility t’ take.”
“’Twould please un so!” she wheedled.
“Ah, well!” I sighed. “You’re a wonderful hand at gettin’ your own way, Bessie.”
When the punts of our folk came sweeping through the tickles and the Gate, in the twilight of that day, I went with the letter to the Rat Hole: knowing that Skipper Tommy would by that time be in from the Hook-an’-Line grounds; for the wind was blowing fair from that quarter. I found the twins pitching the catch into the stage, with great hilarity—a joyous, frolicsome pair: in happy ignorance of what impended. They gave me jolly greeting: whereupon, feeling woefully guilty, I sought the skipper in the house, where he had gone (they said) to get out of his sea-boots.
I was not disposed to dodge the issue. “Skipper Tommy,” said I, bluntly, “I got a letter for you.”
He stared.
“’Tis no joke,” said I, with a wag, “as you’ll find, when you gets t’ know where ’tis from; but ’tis nothin’ t’ be scared of.”
“Was you sayin’, Davy,” he began, at last, trailing off into the silence of utter amazement, “that you—been—gettin’—a——”