“So she wiped her eyes, an' blowed her nose, an' give a little sniff, an' looked up, an' smiled.
“'I isn't good enough for you,' says the poor cook. 'But, Liz,' says he, 'if you kissed me,' says he, 'I wouldn't mind a bit. An' they isn't a man in this here fo'c's'le,' says he, lookin' around, 'that'll say I'd mind. Not one,' says he, with the little devil jumpin' in his eyes.
“Then she stopped cryin' for good.
“'Go ahead, Liz!' says he. 'I ain't afeared. Come on! Give us a kiss!'
“'Motheth Thooth,' says she, 'you're the firtht man ever athked me t' give un a kith!'
“She kissed un. 'Twas like a pistol-shot. An', Lord! her poor face was shinin'....”
In the forecastle of the Good Samaritan we listened to the wind as it scampered over the deck; and we watched Tumm pick at the knot in the table.
“Was she happy?” I asked, at last.
“Well,” he answered, with a laugh, “she sort o' got what she was wantin'. More'n she was lookin' for, I 'low. Seven o' them. An' all straight an' hearty. Ecod! sir, you never seed such a likely litter o' young uns. Spick an' span, ecod! from stem t' stern. Smellin' clean an' sweet; decks as white as snow; an' every nail an' knob polished 'til it made you blink t' see it. An' when I was down Thunder Arm way, last season, they was some talk o' one o' them bein' raised for a parson!”
I went on deck. The night was still black; but beyond—high over the open sea, hung in the depths of the mystery of night and space—there was a star.