Part 11 (1/2)

”Women!” cried I. ”Sure, she'll trouble you no more. You're well rid o'

she.”

”But I _isn't_ rid o' she, Davy,” he groaned, ”an' that's what's troublin' the twins an' me. I isn't rid o' she, for I've heared tell she've some l'arnin' an' can write a letter.”

”Write!” cried I. ”She won't write.”

”Ah, Davy,” sighed the skipper, his head falling over his breast, ”you've no knowledge o' women. They never gives in, lad, that they're beat. They never _knows_ they're beat. An' that one, lad, wouldn't know it if she was told!”

”Leave her write so much as she wants,” said I. ”'Twill do you no harm.”

”No harm?” said he, looking up. ”No harm in writin'?”

”No,” said I. ”Sure, you can't read!”

The twins leaped from the corner-seat and emitted a shrill and joyful whoop. Skipper Tommy threw back his head, opened his great mouth in silent laughter, and slapped his thigh with such violence that the noise was like a pistol shot.

”No more I can,” he roared, ”an' I'm too old t' l'arn!”

Laughter--a fit of it--seized him. It exploded like a thunder-clap, and continued, uproariously, interrupted by gasps, when he lost his breath, and by groans, when a st.i.tch made him wince. There was no resisting it.

The twins doubled up in the corner-seat, miserably screaming, their heels waving in the air; and Davy Roth collapsed on the floor, gripping his sides, his eyes staring, his mouth wide open, venting his mirth, the while, in painful shrieks. Skipper Tommy was himself again--freed o' the nets o' women--restored to us and to his own good humour--once again boon comrade of the twins and me! He jumped from his chair; and with a ”Tra-la-la!” and a merry ”Hi-tum-ti-iddle-dee-um!” he fell into a fantastic dance, thumping the boards with his stockinged feet, advancing and retreating with a flourish, bowing and balancing to an imaginary partner, all in a fas.h.i.+on so excruciatingly exaggerated that the twins screamed, ”Don't, father!” and Davy Roth moaned, ”Oh, stop, zur, please, zur!” while the crimson, perspiring, light-footed, ridiculously bow-legged old fellow still went cavorting over the kitchen floor.

But I was a child--only a child--living in the shadow of some great sorrow, which, though I did not know it, had pressed close upon us.

There flashed before me a vision of my mother lying wan and white on the pillows. And I turned on my face and began to cry.

”Davy, lad!” said the skipper, tenderly, seeking to lift my head. ”Hush, lad! Don't cry!”

But I sobbed the harder.

”Ah, Davy,” the twins pleaded, ”stop cryin'! Do, now!”

Skipper Tommy took me on his knee; and I hid my face on his breast, and lay sobbing hopelessly, while he sought to sooth me with many a pat and ”Hus.h.!.+” and ”Never mind!”

”I'm wantin' t' go home,” I moaned.

He gathered me closer in his arms. ”Do you stay your grief, Davy,” he whispered, ”afore you goes.”

”I'm wantin' t' go home,” I sobbed, ”t' my mother!”

Timmie and Jacky came near, and the one patted my hand, and the other put an arm around me.

”Sure, the twins 'll take you home, Davy,” said the skipper, softly, ”when you stops cryin'. Hush, lad! Hush, now!”

They were tender with me, and I was comforted; my sobs soon ceased, but still I kept my head against the skipper's breast. And while there I lay, there came from the sea--from the southwest in a lull of the wind--breaking into the tender silence--the blast of a steam whistle, deep, full-throated, prolonged.

”Hist!” whispered Jacky. ”Does you not hear?”