He bent close to my ear. “An’ she’ve her eye on me!” he whispered.
“Skipper Tommy,” I earnestly pleaded, “don’t you go an’ do it.”
“Well, lad,” he answered, pulling at his nose, “the good Lard made me what I is. I’m not complainin’ o’ the taste He showed. No, no! I would not think o’ doin’ that. But——”
“He made you kind,” I broke in, hotly, “an’ such as good folk love.”
“I’m not knowin’ much about that, Davy. The good Lard made me as He willed. But I’m an obligin’ man. I’ve turned out, Davy, most wonderful obligin’. I’m always doin’ what folks wants me to. Such men as me, lad,” he went on, precisely indicating the weakness of his tender character, “is made that way. An’ if she tells me she’s a lone woman, and if she begins t’ cry, what is I to do? An’ if I has t’ pass me word, Davy, t’ stop her tears! Eh, lad? Will you tell me, David Roth, what is I t’ do?”
“Turn the punt over,” said I, quickly. “They’s wind enough for that, man! An’ ’tis your only chance, Skipper Tommy—’tis the only chance you got—if she begins t’ cry.”
He was dispirited. “I wisht,” he said, sadly, “that the Lard hadn’t made me quite so obligin’!”
“’Tis too bad!”
“Ay,” he sighed, “’tis too bad I can’t trust meself in the company o’ folk that’s givin’ t’ weepin’.”
“I’ll have the twins pray for you,” I ventured.