“I got my mother’s Bible.
“‘Think we better cast off?’ says he.
“I did. The Wings o’ the Mornin’ was ridin’ too low an’ easy for me t’ rest; an’ the wind had fell to a soft breeze, an’ they wasn’t no more rain, an’ no more dusty spray, an’ no more breakin’ waves. They was a shade on the sea—the first shadow o’ the night—t’ hide what we’d leave behind.
“‘We better leave her,’ says I.
“‘Then all aboard!’ says he.
“An’ we got aboard, an’ cut the cable, an’ slipped away on a soft, black sea, far into the night.... An’ no man ever seed the Wings o’ the Mornin’ again.... An’ me an Jowl was picked up, half dead o’ thirst an’ starvation, twelve days later, by ol’ Cap’n Loop, o’ the Black Bay mail-boat, as she come around Toad Point, bound t’ Burnt Harbor....
“Jowl an’ me,” Tumm resumed, “fished the Holy Terror Tickles o’ the Labrador in the Got It nex’ season. He was a wonderful kind man, Jowl was—so pious, an’ soft t’ speak, an’ honest, an’ willin’ for his labor. At midsummer I got a bad hand, along of a cut with the splittin’-knife, an’ nothin’ would do Jowl but he’d lance it, an’ wash it, an’ bind it, like a woman, an’ do so much o’ my labor as he was able for, like a man. I fair got t’ like that lad o’ his—though ’twas but a young feller t’ home, at the time—for Jowl was forever talkin’ o’ Toby this an’ Toby that—not boastful gabble, but just tender an’ nice t’ hear. An’ a fine lad, by all accounts: a dutiful lad, brave an’ strong, if given overmuch t’ yieldin’ the road t’ save trouble, as Jowl said. I ’lowed, one night, when the Got It was bound home, with all the load the salt would give her, that I’d sort o’ like t’ know the lad that Jowl had.
“‘Why don’t you fetch un down the Labrador?’ says I.
“‘His schoolin’,’ says Jowl.