“‘’Tis no excuse,’ says I.
“‘Ay,’ says he, ‘but I was ’lowin’ t’ make a gentleman of un. He’s the on’y one I got,’ says he, ’an’ his mother’s dead.’
“‘’Twas no way t’ go about it,’ says I.
“‘Ye’ve no lad o’ your own,’ says he, ‘an’ ye don’t know. They was a pot o’ money in this, Top,’ says he. ‘I was ’lowin’ t’ make a gentleman o’ my young one an I lived through; but I got t’ go––I got t’ go t’ hell an’ leave un. They’s ice in these big seas,’ says he, ‘an I’ve broke my left arm, an’ can’t stand it much longer. But you’ll live it out, Top; you’ll live it out––I knows ye will. The wind’s gone t’ the nor’west, an’ the sea’s goin’ down; an’ they’ll be a fleet o’ Labrador craft up the morrow t’ pick you up. An’ I was ’lowin’, Top,’ says he, ‘that you’d take my kid an’ fetch un up as his mother would have un grow. They isn’t no one else t’ do it,’ says he, ‘an’ I was ’lowin’ you might try. I’ve broke my left arm,’ says he, ‘an’ got my fingers froze, or I’d live t’ do it myself. They’s a pot o’ money in this, Top,’ says he. ‘You tell the owner o’ this here ship,’ says he, ‘an’ he’ll pay––he’ve got t’ pay!’
“I had no wish for the task, Dannie––not bein’ much on nursin’ in them days.
“‘I got t’ go t’ hell for this, Top,’ says your father, ‘an’ I ’lowed ye’d ease the passage.’
“‘Skipper, sir,’ says I, ‘is ye not got a scrap o’ writin’?’
“He fetched out this here little Bible.
“‘Top,’ says he, ‘I ’lowed I’d have a writin’ t’ make 332 sure, the owner o’ this here ship bein’ on’y a fish speculator; an’ I got it in this Bible.’
“‘Then,’ says I, ‘I’ll take that young one, Tom Callaway, if I weathers this here mess.’