I've broke my left arm, an' can't stand it much longer. But you'll
live it out, Top; you'll live it out--I knows ye will. The wind's gone
t' the nor'west, an' the sea's goin' down; an' they'll be a fleet o'
Labrador craft up the morrow t' pick you up. An' I was 'lowin', Top,'
says he, 'that you'd take my kid an' fetch un up as his mother would
have un grow. They isn't no one else t' do it,' says he, 'an' I was
'lowin' you might try. I've broke my left arm,' says he, 'an' got my
fingers froze, or I'd live t' do it myself. They's a pot o' money in
this, Top,' says he. 'You tell the owner o' this here ship,' says he,
'an' he'll pay--he've got t' pay!'

"I had no wish for the task, Dannie--not bein' much on nursin' in them
days.

"'I got t' go t' hell for this, Top,' says your father, 'an' I 'lowed
ye'd ease the passage.'

"'Skipper, sir,' says I, 'is ye not got a scrap o' writin'?'

"He fetched out this here little Bible.

"'Top,' says he, 'I 'lowed I'd have a writin' t' make sure, the owner
o' this here ship bein' on'y a fish speculator; an' I got it in this
Bible.'

"'Then,' says I, 'I'll take that young one, Tom Callaway, if I
weathers this here mess.'

"'Ay,' says he, 'but I'm not wishin' t' go t' hell for _that_.'

"'Twas come broad day now.

"'An I'm but able, Tom Callaway,' says I, 'I'll make a gentleman of un
t' ease your pains.'

"'Would ye swear it?' says he.

"I put my hand on the Book; an' I knowed, Dannie, when I made ready t'
take that oath, out there on the Devil's Teeth, that I'd give my soul
t' hell for the wickedness I must do. I done it with my eyes wide open
t' the burden o' evil I must take up; an' 'twas sort o' hard t' do,
for I was by times a Christian man, Dannie, in them ol' days, much sot
on church an' prayer an' the like o' that. But I seed that your poor
father was bent on makin' a gentleman out o' you t' please your dead
mother's wishes, an' I 'lowed, havin' no young un o' my own, that I
_didn't_ know much about the rights of it; an' I knowed he'd suffer
forever the pains o' hell for what he done, whatever come of it, an' I
'lowed 'twould be a pity t' have the murder o' seven poor men go t'
waste for want o' one brave soul t' face the devil. 'Nick,' thinks I,
while your father, poor, doomed man! watched me--I can see here in the
dusk the blood an' water on his white face--'Nick,' thinks I, 'an you
was one o' them seven poor, murdered men, ye'd want the price o' your
life paid t'