"You knows very well that I can't."
"I'm not so sure that 'twould be wise t' withhold the truth," says I. "'Tis a mystery t' me—wisdom an' folly in a case like this. Anyhow," says I, givin' free course, in the melancholy that possessed me, to an impulse o' piety, "God Almighty knows how t' manage His world. An' as I looks at your face, an' as I listens t' your complaint," says I, "I'm willin' t' wager that He've got His plan worked near t' the point o' perfection at this very minute."
"Tell me how, Tumm."
"I'll leave you to brood on it," says I, "whilst I plays my flute."
Skipper Harry brooded whilst I tooted Toby Farr's woeful song called The Last Man o' the Fore-an'-After:
When the schooner struck the rock,
She was splintered by the shock;
An' the breakers didn't ask for leave or token.
No! They hove un, man an' kid,
Slap ag'in the cliff, they did,
An' kep' heavin' 'til the bones of all was broken!
"Skipper Harry," says I, then, puttin' aside my ol' flute, "doesn't you know what you can do t' help that lad out o' trouble for good an 'all?"
"I wish I did, Tumm."
"Is you as stupid as all that?"
"I isn't stupid as a usual thing," says he. "My wits is all scattered with rage an' sadness. That's the only trouble."