“No,” said I. “Sure, you can’t read!”
The twins leaped from the corner-seat and emitted a shrill and joyful whoop. Skipper Tommy threw back his head, opened his great mouth in silent laughter, and slapped his thigh with such violence that the noise was like a pistol shot.
“No more I can,” he roared, “an’ I’m too old t’ l’arn!”
Laughter—a fit of it—seized him. It exploded like a thunder-clap, and continued, uproariously, interrupted by gasps, when he lost his breath, and by groans, when a stitch made him wince. There was no resisting it. The twins doubled up in the corner-seat, miserably screaming, their heels waving in the air; and Davy Roth collapsed on the floor, gripping his sides, his eyes staring, his mouth wide open, venting his mirth, the while, in painful shrieks. Skipper Tommy was himself again—freed o’ the nets o’ women—restored to us and to his own good humour—once again boon comrade of the twins and me! He jumped from his chair; and with a “Tra-la-la!” and a merry “Hi-tum-ti-iddle-dee-um!” he fell into a fantastic dance, thumping the boards with his stockinged feet, advancing and retreating with a flourish, bowing and balancing to an imaginary partner, all in a fashion so excruciatingly exaggerated that the twins screamed, “Don’t, father!” and Davy Roth moaned, “Oh, stop, zur, please, zur!” while the crimson, perspiring, light-footed, ridiculously bow-legged old fellow still went cavorting over the kitchen floor.
But I was a child—only a child—living in the shadow of some great sorrow, which, though I did not know it, had pressed close upon us. There flashed before me a vision of my mother lying wan and white on the pillows. And I turned on my face and began to cry.
“Davy, lad!” said the skipper, tenderly, seeking to lift my head. “Hush, lad! Don’t cry!”
But I sobbed the harder.
“Ah, Davy,” the twins pleaded, “stop cryin’! Do, now!”
Skipper Tommy took me on his knee; and I hid my face on his breast, and lay sobbing hopelessly, while he sought to sooth me with many a pat and “Hush!” and “Never mind!”