My father cursed the harder.
“Stop,” cried the skipper, “or I’ll be cursin’ him, too, zur. God made that man, I tells you. He must have gone an’ made that man.”
“I hopes He’ll damn him, then,” said I.
“God knowed what He was doin’ when he made that man,” the skipper persisted, continuing in faith against his will. “I tells you I’ll not doubt His wisdom. He made that man ... He made that man ... He made that man....”
To this refrain we rowed into harbour.
We found my mother’s room made very neat, and very grand, too, I thought, with the shaded lamp and the great armchair from the best-room below; and my mother, now composed, but yet flushed with expectation, was raised on many snow-white pillows, lovely in the fine gown, with one thin hand, wherein she held a red geranium, lying placid on the coverlet.
“I am ready, David,” she said to my father.
There was the sound of footsteps in the hall below. It was Skipper Tommy, as I knew.
“Is that he?” asked my mother. “Bring him up, David. I am quite ready.”