"'Ah-ha, b'y!' chuckles Tom, 'He've a wonderful store o' little souls up aloft.'
"'Then,' says Tim, 'I'll thank Un t' be lavish.'
"Tom Blot was an old, old man, long past his labor, creakin' over the roads o' Harbor with a staff t' help his dry legs, an' much give t' broodin' on the things he'd found out in this life. ''Tis rare that He's mean with such gifts,' says he. 'But 'tis queer the way He bestows un. Ecod!' says he, in a temper, 'I've never been able t' fathom his ways, old as I is!'
"'I wants a big crew o' lads an' little maids, Tom,' says Tim Mull. 'Can't be too many for me if I'm to enjoy my cruise in this world.'
"'They've wide mouths, lad.'
"'Hut!' says Tim. 'What's a man for? I'll stuff their little crops. You mark me, b'y!'
"So it went with Tim Mull in his bachelor days: he'd forever a maid on his shoulder or a lad by the hand. He loved un. 'Twas knowed that he loved un. There wasn't a man or maid at Tinkle Tickle that didn't know. 'Twas a thing that was called t' mind whenever the name o' Tim Mull come up. 'Can't be too many kids about for Tim Mull!' An' they loved him. They'd wait for un t' come in from the sea at dusk o' fine days; an' on fine Sunday afternoons—sun out an' a blue wind blowin'—they'd troop at his heels over the roads an' hills o' the Tickle. They'd have no festival without un. On the eve o' Guy Fawkes, in the fall o' the year, with the Gunpowder Plot t' celebrate, when 't was
Remember, remember,
The Fifth o' November!
't was Tim Mull that must wind the fire-balls, an' sot the bonfires, an' put saleratus on the blisters. An' at Christmastide, when the kids o' Harbor come carolin' up the hill, all in mummers' dress, pipin',—
God rest you, merry gentlemen;
Let nothin' you dismay!