“She gathered up her skirts,” he went on. “An’, ‘Ah, Skipper Thomas,’ says she, ‘twins,’ says she, ‘is nothin’. ‘Sure,’ says she, ‘twins is no good on a cold winter’s night.’ I’m not denyin’, Davy,” said the skipper, solemnly, looking me straight in the eye, “that she scared me with that. I’m not denyin’ that me hand slipped. I’m not denyin’ that I put the tiller over a wee bit too far—maybe a foot—maybe a foot an’ a half, in the excitement o’ the moment—I isn’t quite sure. No, no! I’m far, lad, from denyin’ that I near swamped the boat. ‘’Tis gettin’ rough,’ says she. ‘Ay,’ says I, ‘an’ we’ll be gettin’ along a deal better, mum,’ says I, ‘if you bail.’ So I kep’ her bailin’, Davy,” the skipper concluded, with a long sigh and a sad wag of the head, “from Herring Head t’ Wolf Cove. An’, well, lad, she didn’t quite cotch me, for she hadn’t no time t’ waste, but, as I was sayin’, she cast a hook.”
“You’re well rid o’ she,” said I.
Timmie rose to look out of the window. “Hear the wind!” said he, turning in awe, while the cottage trembled under the rush of a gust. “My! but ’twill blow, the night!”
“Ah, Timmie,” sighed the skipper, “what’s a gale o’ wind t’ the snares o’ women!”
“Women!” cried I. “Sure, she’ll trouble you no more. You’re well rid o’ she.”
“But I isn’t rid o’ she, Davy,” he groaned, “an’ that’s what’s troublin’ the twins an’ me. I isn’t rid o’ she, for I’ve heared tell she’ve some l’arnin’ an’ can write a letter.”
“Write!” cried I. “She won’t write.”
“Ah, Davy,” sighed the skipper, his head falling over his breast, “you’ve no knowledge o’ women. They never gives in, lad, that they’re beat. They never knows they’re beat. An’ that one, lad, wouldn’t know it if she was told!”
“Leave her write so much as she wants,” said I. “’Twill do you no harm.”
“No harm?” said he, looking up. “No harm in writin’?”