won't!' says he.

"An' he fled--ay, took t' the heels of un, an' went stumblin' over the
road t' Rickity Tickle in the dark. I listened--helpless there at Mary
Land's door--while he floundered off beyond hearin'. An' 'twas hard--a
thing as bitter as perdition--t' tell Mary Land that he'd gone. T'
break her heart again! God's sake! But she said: 'Hush, Toby! Don't
you mind for me. I--I'm not mindin'--much. I'm used--t' waitin'.' An'
then I made off for Davy Junk's spick-an'-span cottage by Blow-Me t'
speak the words in my heart. Slippery rock an' splash o' mud
underfoot--an' clammy alder-leaves by the wayside--an' the world in a
cold drench o' misty rain--an' the night as dark as death--an' rage
an' grief beyond measure in my heart. An' at last I come t' Davy
Junk's cottage by Blow-Me, an' forthwith pushed in t' the kitchen. An'
there sot Davy Junk, snuggled up to his own fire, his face in his
hands, woebegone an' hateful of hisself an' all the world--his soul
lost, not because he'd failed in love for a maid, or worked woe in a
woman's heart, but because in fear o' the world he'd lived all his
years in despite o' love, an' love had left un for good an' all, t'
make the best of his way alone through the world he feared. He'd not
look at me at all, but shifted in his chair, an' rubbed his hands, an'
snuggled closer to his own fire, an' whimpered what I couldn't make
out. Nor would I speak t' he afore he turned t' face me--though I'd
hard labor enough t' keep my words in my throat. Whatever an' all, at
last he turned. An' 'twas the old Davy Junk come t' Rickity Tickle
again--the beast o' fear peerin' out from his soul through his little,
mean eyes. An' I might have loathed un then--had I not pitied un so
greatly.

"'I made a mistake, Tumm,' says he.

"'Ay, Skipper Davy.'

"'This here world's a wolf's world,' says he, with his teeth bared.
'An', damme, I got enough t' do t' fend for myself!'

"'Skipper Davy,' says I, 'you go t' hell!'

"'Twas the first oath ever I uttered with intention. An' I ran
straightway t' Billy Tot's cottage--t' cure the taste o' the thing on
my lips--an' t' ease the grief in my heart--an' t' find some new store
o' faith for my soul. An' I kissed Bessie Tot fair on her rosy check
in the middle o' the kitchen floor without carin' a jot who seed me."

It was the end of the yarn of Davy Junk, of Dirty-Face Bight; but
Skipper Jim, of the _Quick as Wink_, being of a curious turn,
presently inquire