“Enough!” Timothy fumed. “’Tis kind o’ the Satan’s Trap trader t’ give you that! I’ll tell un,” he exploded; “I’ll give un a piece o’ my mind afore I dies.”
Timothy snorted his indignation.
“I wouldn’t be rash,” said Jehoshaphat. “Maybe,” he warned, “he’d not take your fish no more. An’ maybe he’d close the shop an’ go away.”
“Jus’ you wait,” said Timothy.
“Don’t you do it, lad!” Jehoshaphat begged. “’Twould make such a wonderful fuss in the world!”
“An’ would you think o’ that?”
“I isn’t got time t’ think,” Jehoshaphat complained. “I’m busy. I ’low I got my fish t’ cotch an’ cure. I isn’t got time. I—I—I’m too busy.”
They were on the grounds. The day had broken, a blue, serene day, knowing no disquietude. They cast their grapnels overside, and they fished until the shadows had fled around the world and were hurrying out of the east. And they reeled their lines, and stowed the fish, and patiently pulled toward the harbor tickler, talking not at all of the Satan’s Trap trader, but only of certain agreeable expectations which the young Timothy had been informed he might entertain with reasonable certainty.
“I ’low,” said Jehoshaphat, when they were within the harbor, “I understand. I got the hang of it,” he repeated, with a little smile, “now.”