“‘I got converted,’ says Botch, ‘by means of a red-headed parson from the Cove o’ the Easterly Winds. He knowed everything. They wasn’t no why he wasn’t able t’ answer. “The glory o’ God,” says he; an’ there was an end to it. An’ bein’ converted of a suddent,’ says Botch, without givin’ much thought t’ what might come after, I ’lowed the parson had the rights of it. Anyhow, I wasn’t in no mood t’ set up my word against a real parson in a black coat, with a Book right under his arm. I ’lowed I wouldn’t stay very long in a state o’ grace if I done that. The fac’ is, he told me so. “Whatever,” thinks I, “the glory o’ God does well enough, if a man only will believe; an’ the tears an’ crooked backs an’ hunger o’ this here world,” thinks I, “which the parson lays t’ Him, fits in very well with the reefs an’ easterly gales He made.” So I ’lowed I’d better take my religion an’ ask no questions; an’ the parson said ’twas very wise, for I was only an ignorant man, an’ I’d reach a state o’ sanctification if I kep’ on in the straight an’ narrow way. So I went no more t’ the grounds. For what was the use o’ goin’ there? ’Peared t’ me that heaven was my home. What’s the use o’ botherin’ about the fish for the little time we’re here? I couldn’t get my mind on the fish. “Heaven is my home,” thinks I, “an’ I’m tired, an’ I wants t’ get there, an’ I don’t want t’ trouble about the world.” ’Twas an immortal soul I had t’ look out for. So I didn’t think no more about laws o’ life. ’Tis a sin t’ pry into the mysteries o’ God; an’ ’tis a sinful waste o’ time, anyhow, t’ moon about the heads, thinkin’ about laws o’ life when you got a immortal soul on your hands. I wanted t’ save that soul! An I wants t’ save it now!’
“‘Well,’ says I, ‘ain’t it sove?’
“‘No,’ says he; ‘for I couldn’t help thinkin’. An’ when I thunk, Tumm—whenever I fell from grace an’ thunk real hard—I couldn’t believe some o’ the things the red-headed parson said I had t’ believe if I wanted t’ save my soul from hell.’
“‘Botch,’ says I, ‘leave your soul be.’
“‘I can’t,’ says he. ‘I can’t! I got a immortal soul, Tumm. What’s t’ become o’ that there soul?’
“‘Don’t you trouble it,’ says I. ‘Leave it be. ’Tis too tender t’ trifle with. An’, anyhow,’ says I, ‘a man’s belly is all he can handle without strainin’.’
“‘But ’tis mine—my soul!’
“‘Leave it be,’ says I. ‘It’ll get t’ heaven.’
“Then Botch gritted his teeth, an’ clinched his hands, an’ lifted his fists t’ heaven. There he stood, Botch o’ Jug Cove, on the for’ard deck o’ the Three Sisters, which was built by the hands o’ men, slippin’ across the Straits t’ the Labrador, in the light o’ the old, old moon—there stood Botch like a man in tarture!
“‘I isn’t sure, Tumm,’ says he, ‘that I wants t’ go t’ heaven. For I’d be all the time foolin’ about the gates o’ hell, peepin’ in,’ says he; ‘an’ if the devils suffered in the fire—if they moaned an’ begged for the mercy o’ God—I’d be wantin’ t’ go in, Tumm, with a jug o’ water an’ a pa’m-leaf fan!’