“Oh, well, pshaw!” said Jim Turley, “I’ll ’blige ye!”
The which he did, but with misgiving: arriving at Blunder Cove after dark of Saturday, unobserved by the maid, whose white little nose was stuck to the frosty window-pane, whose eyes searched the gloom gathered over the Tickle rocks, whose ears were engaged with the tick-tock of the impassive clock. No; he was not observed, however keen the lookout: for he came sneaking in by Tumble Gully, ’cordin’ t’ sailin’ orders, to join “By-an’-by” Brown in the lee of the meeting-house under Anxiety Hill, where the conspiracy was to be perfected, in the light of recent developments, and whence the sally was to be made. He was in a shiver of nervousness; so, too, “By-an’-by” Brown. It was the moment of inaction when conspirators must forever be the prey of doubt and dread. They were determined, grim; they were most grave—but they were still afraid. And Jim Turley’s conscience would not leave him be. A religious man, Jim Turley! On the way from Candlestick Cove he had whipped the perverse thing into subjection, like a sinner; but here, in the lee of the meeting-house by Anxiety Hill, with a winter’s night fallen like a cold cloud from perdition, conscience was risen again to prod him.
An obligin’ man, Jim Turley: but still a religious man—knowing his master.
“I got qualms,” said he.
“Stummick?” Brown demanded, in alarm.
“This here thing,” Jim Turley protested, “isn’t a religious thing to do.”
“Maybe not,” replied “By-an’-by” Brown, doggedly; “but I promised the maid a father by Satu’day night, an’ I got t’ have un.”
“’Twould ease my mind a lot,” Jim Turley pleaded, “t’ ask the parson. Come, now!”
“By-an’-by,” said “By-an’-by” Brown.
“No,” Jim Turley insisted; “now.”