Part 32 (1/2)
Meantime, at our harbour, where the world went very well, the eye of Skipper Tommy Lovejoy chanced in aimless roving to alight upon the letter from Wolf Cove, still securely fastened to the wall, ever visible warning to that happy household against the wiles o' women. I fancy that (the twins being gone to Trader's Cove to enquire for us) the mild blue eye wickedly twinkled--that it found the tender missive for the moment irresistible in fascination--that the old man approached, stepping in awe, and gazed with gnawing curiosity at the pale, sprawling superscription, his very name--that he touched the envelope with his thick forefinger, just to make sure that 'twas tight in its place, beyond all peradventure of catastrophe--that, merely to provide against its defilement by dust, he removed and fondled it--that then he wondered concerning its contents, until, despite his crying qualms of conscience (the twins being gone to Trader's Cove and Davy Roth off to Heart's Delight to help the doctor heal the young son of Agatha Rundle), this fateful dreaming altogether got the better of him. At any rate, off he hied through the wind and snow to Tom Tot's cottage: where, as fortune had it, Tom Tot was mending a caplin seine.
”Tom Tot,” said he, quite shamelessly, ”I'm fair achin' t' know what's in this letter.”
The harbour was cognizant of Skipper Tommy's state and standing temptation: much concerned, as well, as to the outcome.
”Skipper Tommy,” Tom Tot asked, and that most properly, ”is you got leave o' the boss's son?”
”Davy?”
”Ay, Davy.”
”I is not,” the skipper admitted, with becoming candour.
”Is you spoke t' the twins?”
”I is not.”
”Then,” Tom Tot concluded, ”shame on you!”
Skipper Tommy tweaked his nose. ”Tom Tot,” said he, ”you got a wonderful power for readin'. Don't you go tellin' _me_ you hasn't! I _knows_ you has.”
”Well,” Tom Tot admitted, ”as you're makin' a p'int of it, I'm fair on print, but poor on writin'.”
”Tom Tot,” Skipper Tommy went on, with a wave (I fancy) of uttermost admiration, ”I'll stand by it that you is as good at writin' as print.
That I will,” he added, recklessly, ”agin the world.”
Tom Tot yielded somewhat to this blandishment. He took the proffered letter. ”I isn't denyin', Skipper Tommy,” he said, ”that I'm able t'
make out your name on this here letter.”
”Ecod!” cried Skipper Tommy, throwing up his hands. ”I knowed it!”
”I isn't denyin',” Tom Tot repeated, gravely, ”that I'm _fair_ on writin'. Fair, mark you! No more.”
”Ay,” said the skipper, ”but I'm wantin' you t' know that this here letter was writ by a woman with a wonderful sight o' l'arnin'. I'll warrant you can read _it_. O' course,” in a large, conclusive way, ”an you _can't_----”
”Skipper Tommy,” Tom interrupted, quickly, ”I isn't _sayin'_ I can't.”
”Isn't you?” innocently. ”Why, Tom Tot, I was thinkin'----”
”No, zur!” Tom answered with heat. ”I isn't!”
”Well, you wouldn't----”
”I will!”
”So be,” said the skipper, with a sigh of infinite satisfaction. ”I'm thinkin', somehow,” he added, his sweet faith now beautifully radiant (I am sure), as was his way, ”that the Lard is mixed up in this letter.
He's mixed up in 'most all that goes on, an' I'd not be s'prised if He had a finger in this. 'Now,' says the Lard, 'Skipper Tommy,' says He, 'the mail-boat went t' the trouble o' leavin' you a letter,' says He, 'an'----'”
”Leave the Lard out o' this,” Tom Tot broke in.