“Ay,” was my sharp reply; “but I’ll not read it.”
“No, no!” said he, severely, lifting a protesting hand, which he had now encased in a reeking splitting-mit. “I’d not have you read it. Sure, I’d never ’low that! Was you thinkin’, David Roth,” now so reproachfully that my doubts seemed treasonable, “that I’d want you to? Me—that nibbled once? Not I, lad! But as you does happen t’ have that letter in your jacket, you wouldn’t mind me just takin’ a look at it, would you?”
I produced the crumpled missive—with a sigh: for the skipper’s drift was apparent.
“My letter!” said he, gazing raptly. “Davy, lad, I’d kind o’—like t’—just t’—feel it. They wouldn’t be no hurt in me holdin’ it, would they?”
I passed it over.
“Now, Davy,” he declared, his head on one side, the letter held gingerly before him, “I wouldn’t read that letter an I could. No, lad—not an I could! But I’ve heared tell she had a deal o’ l’arnin’; an’ I’d kind o’—like t’—take a peek inside. Just,” he added, hurriedly, “t’ see what power she had for writin’.”
This pretense to a purely artistic interest in the production was wondrously trying to the patience.
“Skipper Davy,” he went on, awkwardly, skippering me with a guile that was shameless, “it bein’ from a woman—bein’ from a woman, now, says I—’twould be no more ’n po-lite t’ open it. Come, now, Davy!” he challenged. “You wouldn’t say ’twould be more ’n po-lite, would you? It bein’ from a lone woman?”
I made no answer: for, at that moment, I caught sight of the twins, listening with open-mouthed interest from the threshold.
“I wonders, Davy,” the skipper confided, taking the leap, at last, “what she’ve gone an’ writ!”