“Skipper Tommy,” Tom interrupted, quickly, “I isn’t sayin’ I can’t.”
“Isn’t you?” innocently. “Why, Tom Tot, I was thinkin’——”
“No, zur!” Tom answered with heat. “I isn’t!”
“Well, you wouldn’t——”
“I will!”
“So be,” said the skipper, with a sigh of infinite satisfaction. “I’m thinkin’, somehow,” he added, his sweet faith now beautifully radiant (I am sure), as was his way, “that the Lard is mixed up in this letter. He’s mixed up in ’most all that goes on, an’ I’d not be s’prised if He had a finger in this. ‘Now,’ says the Lard, ‘Skipper Tommy,’ says He, ‘the mail-boat went t’ the trouble o’ leavin’ you a letter,’ says He, ‘an’——’”
“Leave the Lard out o’ this,” Tom Tot broke in.
“Sure, an’ why?” Skipper Tom mildly asked.
“You’ve no call t’ drag Un in here,” was the sour reply. “You leave Un alone. You’re gettin’ too wonderful free an’ easy with the Lard God A’mighty, Thomas Lovejoy. He’ll be strikin’ you dead in your tracks an you don’t look out.”
“Tom Tot,” the skipper began, “the Lard an’ me is wonderful——”