“I am hones’ man,” he continued. “I am thee mos’ hones’ business man in Newf’un’lan’. So I mus’ have wait for thee gold. Ah,” he sighed, “it have be mos’ hard to wait. I am almos’ break thee heart. But I am hones’ man—ver’, ver’ hones’ man—an’ I mus’ have wait. Now I tell you what have happen: I am come ashore one night, an’ it is thee nex’ night after thee boy have burn thee house of Skip’ Jim for the peenk parasol.
“‘Where Skip’ Jim house?’ I say.
“‘Burn down,’ they say.
“‘Burn down!’ I say. ‘Oh, my! ’Tis sad. Have thee seven lobster-tin of gold be los’?’
“I am not theenk what they mean. ‘Oh, dear!’ I say. ‘Where Skip’ Jim?’
“‘You fin’ Skip’ Jim at thee Skip’ Bill Tissol’s house.’
“‘Oh, my!’ I say. ‘I am mos’ sad. I am go geeve thee pit-ee to poor Skip’ Jim.’”
The fog was fast thickening. We had come close to Skeleton Tickle; but the downcast cottages were more remote than they had been—infinitely more isolated.
“Ver’ well. I am fin’ Skip’ Jim. He sit in thee bes’ room of thee Skip’ Bill Tissol’s house. All thee ’lone. God is good! Nobody there. What have I see? Gold! Gold! The heap of gold! The beeg, beeg heap of gold! I am not can tell you!”