e'll come a time afore long when he'll find out all of a sudden
about his pa. Whew!"

I found my flute an' stretched myself out on the counter t' draw
comfort from tootin' it.

"Somebody'll blunder," says the skipper. "Some poor damn' fool."

"Is I ever played you Nellie was a Lady?"

"'Tis awful!"

"'Tis not," says I. "'Tis a popular ballad an' has many good points."

"I don't mean the ballad, Tumm," says he. "Play it an you wants to.
Don't sing it, though, I'm too bothered t' tolerate more confusion
this night. The more I thinks o' the mess that that poor lad's in the
worse I grieves. Man alive, 'tis a terrible business altogether! If
they hadn't praised his father so high--if they hadn't teached the lad
t' think that he'd write a letter or come home again--if the lad
wasn't jus' the loyal little nipper that he is! I tell you, Tumm, that
lad's sheer daft with admiration of his pa. He've lifted his pa above
God Almighty. When he finds out the truth, he'll fall down and scream
in agony, an' he'll die squirmin', too. I can fair hear un now--an'
see un writhe in pain."

All this while I was whisperin' in my flute. 'Twas a comfort t' ease
my mood in that way.

"I can't bear t' think of it, Tumm," says the skipper. "'Tis the
saddest thing ever I heared of. I wish we'd never dropped anchor in
Hide-an'-Seek Harbor."

"I don't," says I.

"Then you've a heart harder than rock," says he.

"Come, now," says I; "have done with the matter. 'Tis no affair o'
yours, is it?"

"The lad mustn't find out the truth."

"Can you stop the mouth o' the whole wide world?"

"You knows very well that I can't."

"I'm not so sure that 'twould be wise t' withhold the truth," says I.
"'Tis a mystery t' me--wisdom an' folly in a case like this. Anyhow,"
says I, givin' free course, in the melancholy that possessed me, to an
impulse o' piety, "God Almighty knows how t' manage His world. An' as
I looks at your face, an' as I listens t' your complaint," says I,
"I'm willin' t' wager that He've got His plan worked near t' the point
o' perfection at this very minute."

"Tell me how, Tumm."

"I'll leave you to brood on it," says I, "whilst I plays my flute."

Skipper Harry brooded whilst I tooted Toby Farr's woeful song called
The Last Man o' the _Fore-an'-After_:

When the schooner struck the rock,
She was splintered by the shock;
An' the breakers didn't ask for leave or token.
No! They hove un, man an' kid,