“You may beat me, Skipper Tommy,” said I, “when you gets me home, an’ I wish you joy of it. But home you goes!”
“But, Davy, lad,” he protested, “there’s that poor Tom Tot goin’ on alone——”
“Home you goes!”
“An’ there’s that kind-hearted doctor-woman. Sure, now, Davy,” he began, sweetly, “I’d like t’ tell she——”
“That’s just,” said I, “what I’m afeared of.”
Home the skipper came; and when the twins and I subsequently presented ourselves for chastisement, with solemn ceremony, gravely removing whatever was deemed in our harbour superfluous under the circumstances, he was so affected by the spectacle that (though I wish I might write it differently) he declared himself of opinion, fixed and unprejudiced, that of all the works of the Lord, which were many and infinitely blessed, none so favoured the gracious world as the three contrite urchins there present: and in this ecstasy of tenderness (to our shame) quite forgot the object of our appearance.
When Tom Tot brought Mary home from Wolf Cove, my sister and the doctor and I went that night by my sister’s wish to distinguish the welcome, so that, in all our harbour, there might be no quibble or continuing suspicion; and we found the maid cutting her father’s hair in the kitchen (for she was a clever hand with the scissors and comb), as though nothing had occurred—Skipper Tommy Lovejoy meanwhile with spirit engaging the old man in a discussion of the unfailing topic; this being the attitude of the Lord God Almighty towards the wretched sons of men, whether feeling or not.
In the confusion of our entrance Mary whispered in my ear. “Davy lad,” she said, with an air of mystery, “I got home.”
“I’m glad, Mary,” I answered, “that you got home.”