“I’m never allowed t’ know,” said I.
He was quick to catch the complaint. “Ye’re growin’ up, Dannie,” he observed; “isn’t you, lad?”
I fancied I was already grown.
“Ah, well!” says he; “they’ll come a time, lad, God help ye! when ye’ll know.”
“I wisht ’twould hasten,” said I.
“I wisht ’twould never come at all,” said he.
’Twas disquieting....
Work on the Shining Light went forward apace and with right good effect. ’Twas not long––it might be a fortnight––before her hull was as sound as rotten plank could be made with gingerly calking. ’Twas indeed a delicate task to tap the timbers of her: my uncle must sometimes pause for anxious debate upon the wisdom of venturing a stout blow. But copper-painted below the water-line, adorned above, she made a brave showing at anchor, whatever she might do at sea; and there was nothing for it, as my uncle said, but to have faith, 181 which would do well enough: for faith, says he, could move mountains. When she had been gone over fore and aft, aloft and below, in my uncle’s painstaking way––when she had been pumped and ballasted and cleared of litter and swabbed down and fitted with a new suit of sails––she so won upon our confidence that not one of us who dwelt on the neck of land by the Lost Soul would have feared to adventure anywhere aboard.
The fool of Twist Tickle pulled a long face.