“I wonder,” the skipper went on, staring at the fire, a little smile playing upon his face, “if I couldn’t do that! ’Twould surely be a thing worth doin’. I wonder—I wonder—if I couldn’t manage—somehow—t’ do it!”
We said nothing; for he was not thinking of us, any more, as we knew—but only dreaming of the new and beneficent work which had of a sudden appeared to him.
“But I isn’t able t’ write,” he muttered, at last. “I—I—wisht I could!”
“’Twould be a wonderful fine work for a man t’ do,” said my father.
“’Tis a wonder, now,” said Skipper Tommy, looking up with a bright face, “that no one ever thought o’ doin’ that afore. T’ my mind,” he added, much puzzled, “’tis very queer, indeed, that they’s nar a man in all the world t’ think o’ that—but me!”
My mother smiled.
“I’m thinkin’ I’ll just have t’ try,” Skipper Tommy went on, frowning anxiously. “But, ecod!” he cried, “maybe the Lard wouldn’t like it. Now, maybe, He wants us men t’ mind our business. Maybe, He’d say, ‘You keep your finger out o’ My pie. Don’t you go makin’ no books about cures.’ But, oh, no!” with the overflow of fine feeling which so often came upon him. “Why, He wouldn’t mind a little thing like that. Sure, I wouldn’t mind it, meself! ‘You go right ahead, lad,’ He’d say, ‘an’ try t’ work your cures. Don’t you be afeared o’ Me. I’ll not mind. But, lad,’ He’d say, ‘when I wants my way I just got t’ have it. Don’t you forget that. Don’t you go thinkin’ you can have your way afore I has Mine. You just trust Me t’ do what’s right. I know My business. I’m used t’ running worlds. I’m wonderful sorry,’ He’d say, ‘t’ have t’ make you feel bad; but they’s times, b‘y,’ He’d say, ‘when I really got t’ have My way.’ Oh, no,” Skipper Tommy concluded, “the Lard wouldn’t mind a poor man’s tryin’ t’ make a book like that! An’ I thinks I’ll just have t’ try.”
“Sure, Skipper Tommy,” said I, “I’ll help you.”
Skipper Tommy stared at me in great amaze.
“Ay,” said my mother, “Davy has learned to write.”