“TOIL”
“’Tis many year, zur,” said Uncle Zeb, smiling indulgence with my youth. “They was fish a-plenty when—when—when I were young. ’Tis not what it used t’ be—no, no, zur; not at all. Sure, zur, I been goin’ t’ the grounds off the Mull since I were seven years old. Since I were seven! I be eighty-three now, zur. Seventy-six year, zur, I has fished out o’ this here harbour.”
Uncle Zeb stopped to wheeze a bit. He was out of breath with this long speech. And when he had wheezed a bit, a spasm of hard coughing took him. He was on the verge of the last stage of consumption, was Uncle Zeb.
“’Tis a fine harbour t’ fish from, zur,” he gasped. “They be none better. Least-ways, so they tells me—them that’s cruised about a deal. Sure, I’ve never seen another. ’Tis t’ Conch[[5]] I’ve wanted t’ go since I were a young feller. I’ll see un yet, zur—sure, an’ I will.”
“You are eighty-three?” said I.
“I be the oldest man t’ the harbour, zur. I marries the maids an’ the young fellers when they’s no parson about.”
“You have fished out of this harbour for seventy-six years?” said I, in vain trying to comprehend the deprivation and dull toil of that long life—trying to account for the childlike smile which had continued to the end of it.
“Ay, zur,” said Uncle Zeb. “But, sure, they be plenty o’ time t’ see Conch yet. Me father were ninety when he died. I be only eighty-three.”
Uncle Zeb tottered up the hill. Soon the dusk swallowed his old hulk. I never saw him again.