“Do!” he cried, brightening. “’Tis a grand thought! An’ do you tell them two dear lads that I’ll never give in—no, lad, their father’ll never give in t’ that woman—till he’s just got to.”
“But, Skipper Tommy,” said I, now much alarmed, so hopeless was his tone, stout as his words were, “tell my father you’re not wantin’ t’ go. Sure, he can send Elisha Turr in your stead.”
“Ay,” said he, “but I is wantin’ t’ go. That’s it. I’m thinkin’ all the time o’ the book, lad. I’m wantin’ t’ make that book a good book. I’m wantin’ t’ learn more about cures.”
“I’m thinkin’ her cures isn’t worth much,” said I.
He patted me on the head. “You is but a lad,” said he, indulgent with my youth, “an’ your judgment isn’t well growed yet. Some o’ they cures is bad, no doubt,” he added, “an’ some is good. I wants no bad cures in my book. I’ll not have them there. But does you think I can’t try un all on meself afore I has un put in the book?”
When the punt was well through North Tickle, on a free, freshening wind, I sped to the Rat Hole to apprise the twins of their father’s unhappy situation, and to beg of them to be constant and importunate in prayer that he might be saved from the perils of that voyage. Then, still running as fast as my legs would go, I returned to our house, where, again, I found the shadow and the mystery, and the hush in all the rooms.
“Davy!”
“Ay, Bessie,” I answered. “’Tis I.”
“Our mother’s wantin’ you, dear.”