Part 31 (1/2)
”Of the man at Runner's Woe?” the doctor asked.
”No, zur. He on'y done murder. 'Twas not o' he. 'Twas o' something sadder than that.”
”Then 'tis too sad to tell,” he said.
”No,” I insisted. ”'Twould do well-fed folk good t' hear it.”
”What was it?” my sister asked.
”I was thinkin'----”
Ah, but '_twas_ too sad!
”O' what?”
”O' the child at Comfort Harbour, Bessie, that starved in his mother's arms.”
Timmie Lovejoy threw more billets on the fire. They flamed and spluttered and filled the room with cheerful light.
”Davy,” said the doctor, ”we can never cure the wretchedness of this coast.”
”No, zur?”
”But we can try to mitigate it.”
”We'll try,” said I. ”You an' me.”
”You and I.”
”And I,” my sister said.
Lying between the st.u.r.dy little twins, that night--where by right of caste I lay, for it was the warmest place in the bed--I abandoned, once and for all, my old hope of sailing a schooner, with the decks awash.
”Timmie!” I whispered.
He was sound asleep. I gave him an impatient nudge in the ribs.
”Ay, Davy?” he asked.
”You may have my hundred-tonner,” said I.
”What hundred-tonner?”
”The big fore-an'-after, Timmie, I'm t' have when I'm growed. You may skipper she. You'll not wreck her, Timmie, will you?”