The twins groaned in concert.
“But the good Lard, Davy,” the skipper went on, “had sent a switch o’ wind from the sou’west. So they was a bit o’ lop on the sea, an’ ’twas t’ that I turned, when the case got desperate. An’ desperate it soon got, lad. Ah, indeed! ’long about Herring Head it got fair desperate. ‘Skipper Thomas,’ says she, ‘we’re gettin’ old, you an’ me,’ says she. ‘Sure, mum,’ says I, ‘not you, mum! I’ll never give in t’ that,’ says I.”
Our faces fell.
“’Twas what I done,” the skipper persisted, with an air of guilt and remorse. “I just, felt like doin’ it, an’ so I done it. ‘I’ll never give in to it, mum,’ says I, ‘that you’re gettin’ old.’”
I groaned with the twins—and Skipper Tommy made a dismal quartette of it—and the wind, rising sharply at that moment, contributed a chorus of heartrending noises.
“Ay,” the skipper continued, “’twas a sad mistake. ’Twas floutin’ Providence t’ say a word like that to a woman like she. But I just felt like it. Then, ‘Oh, dear,’ says she, ‘’tis barb’rous lonely t’ Wolf Cove,’ says she. ‘’Tis too bad, mum,’ says I. An’ I throwed the bow o’ the punt plump into a wave, Davy, lad, an’ shipped a bucket o’ water. ‘An’,’ says she, ‘it must be lonely for you, Skipper Thomas,’ says she, ‘livin’ there at the Rat Hole.’”
Skipper Tommy paused to sigh and tweak his nose; and he tweaked so often and sighed so long that I lost patience.
“An’ what did you do then?” I demanded.
“Took in more water, Davy,” he groaned, “for they wasn’t nothin’ else I could think of. ‘An’,’ says she, ‘is it not lonely, Skipper Thomas,’ says she, ‘at the Rat Hole?’ ‘No, mum,’ says I, takin’ aboard another bucket or two, ‘for I’ve the twins,’ says I. With that she put her kerchief to her eyes, Davy, an’ begun t’ sniffle. An’ t’ relieve me feelin’s, lad, for I was drove desperate, I just had t’ let the top of a wave fall over the bow: which I done, Davy, an’ may the Lard forgive me! An’ I’m not denyin’ that ’twas a sizable wave she took.”
He stared despondently at the floor.