“’Tis t’ you, first of all, Davy,” she protested, quickly, “that I’m wishin’ t’ be helpful; an’ then t’ him, an’ then t’——”
“T’ who?” I demanded, frowning.
“All the world,” said she.
“Very well,” said I, much relieved to find that the interloper was no more to be dreaded. “I’ll not mind that. ’Tis as you like. You’ll help whomso you please—an’ as many. For I’m t’ be rich. Rich—look you! I’ll have seven schooners t’ sail the northern Labrador, as the doctor says. I’ll never be content with less. Seven I’ll have, my dear, t’ fish from the Straits t’ Chidley. I’ll have the twins t’ be masters o’ two; but I’ll sail the big one—the swift one—the hundred-tonner—ay, lass, I’ll sail she, with me own hands. An’, ecod! Bessie, I’ll crack it on!”
“You’ll not be rash, dear?” said she, anxiously.
“Rash!” laughed I. “I’ll cut off the reef points! Rash? There won’t be a skipper can carry sail with me! I’ll get the fish—an’ I’ll see to it that my masters does. Then I’ll push our trade north an’ south. Ay, I will! Oh, I knows what I’ll do, Bessie, for I been talkin’ with the doctor, an’ we got it split an’ dried. Hard work an’ fair dealing, mum; that’s what’s t’ do it. Our father’s way, mum: honest scales on the wharf an’ full weight at the counter. ’Twill be that or bust——”
“Why, Davy,” she exclaimed, her eyes flashing, “you’re talkin’ like a growed man!”
“Ay, ecod!” I boasted, flattered by the inference, “’twill not be many years afore we does more trade in our harbour than they does at the big stores o’ Wayfarer’s Tickle.”
A low growl, coming from the shadows in the hall, brought me to a full stop; and upon the heels of that a fantastic ejaculation:
“Scuttle me!”