“‘You don’t know about hell,’ says he.
“‘I does know about hell,’ says I. ‘My mother told me.’
“‘Ay,’ says he; ‘she told you. But you doesn’t know.’
“‘Botch,’ says I, ‘twould s’prise me if she left anything out.’
“He wasn’t happy—Botch wasn’t. He begun t’ kick his heels, an’ scratch his whisps o’ beard, an’ chaw his finger-nails. It made me feel bad. I didn’t like t’ see Botch took that way. I’d rather see un crawl into nuthin’ an’ think, ecod! than chaw his nails an’ look like a scared idjit from the mad-house t’ St. John’s.
“‘You got a soul, Tumm,’ says he.
“‘I knows that,’ says I.
“‘How?’ says he.
“‘My mother told me.’
“Botch took a look at the stars. An’ so I, too, took a look at the funny little things. An’ the stars is so many, an’ so wonderful far off, an’ so wee an’ queer an’ perfeckly solemn an’ knowin’, that I ’lowed I didn’t know much about heaven an’ hell, after all, an’ begun t’ feel shaky.