Part 14

"Somehow," Tumm began, his voice fallen rather despondent, I fancied, but yet continuing most curiously genial, "it always made me think o' dust an' ashes t' clap eyes on ol' Bill Hulk o' Gingerbread Cove. Ay, b'y; but I could jus' fair hear the parson singsong that mean truth o' life: 'Dust t' dust; ashes t' ashes'--an' make the best of it, ye sinners an' young folk! When ol' Bill hove alongside, poor man! I'd think no more o' maids an' trade, o' which I'm fair sinful fond, but on'y o' coffins an' graves an' ground. For, look you! the ol' feller was so white an' wheezy--so fishy-eyed an' crooked an' shaky along o' age. 'Tis a queer thing, sir, but, truth o' God, so old was Bill Hulk that when he'd board me I'd remember somehow the warm breast o' my mother, an' then think, an' couldn't help it, o' the bosom o' dust where my head must lie."

Tumm paused.

"Seemed t' me, somehow," he continued, "when the _Quick as Wink_ was lyin' of a Sunday t' Gingerbread Cove--seemed t' me somehow, when I'd hear the church bell ring an' echo across the water an' far into the hills--when I'd cotch sight o' ol' Bill Hulk, with his staff an' braw black coat, crawlin' down the hill t' meetin'--ay, an' when the sun was out, warm an' yellow, an' the maids an' lads was flirtin' over the roads t' hear the parson thunder agin their hellish levity--seemed t' me then, somehow, that ol' Bill was all the time jus' dodgin' along among open graves; for, look you! the ol' feller had such trouble with his legs. An' I'd wish by times that he'd stumble an' fall in, an' be covered up in a comfortable an' decent sort o' fashion, an' stowed away for good an' all in the bed where he belonged.

"'Uncle Bill,' says I, 'you at it yet?'

"'Hangin' on, Tumm,' says he. 'I isn't quite through.'

"'Accordin' t' the signs,' says I, 'you isn't got much of a grip left.'

"'Yes, I is!' says he. 'I got all my fishin' fingers exceptin' two, an' I 'low they'll last me till I'm through.'

"Ecod! sir, but it made me think so mean o' the world that I 'lowed I'd look away.

"'No, Tumm,' says he, 'I isn't _quite_ through.'

"'Well,' says I, 'you must be tired.'

"'Tired,' says he. 'Oh no, b'y! Tired? Not me! I got a little spurt o' labor t' do afore _I_ goes.'

"'An' what's that, Uncle Bill?' says I.

"'Nothin' much,' says he.

"'But what _is_ it?'

"'Nothin' much,' says he; 'jus' a little spurt o' labor.'

"The ol' feller lived all alone, under Seven Stars Head, in a bit of a white house with black trimmin's, jus' within the Tickle, where 'twas nice an' warm an' still; an' he kep' his house as neat an' white as a ol' maid with a gray tomcat an' a window-garden o' geraniums, an', like all the ol' maids, made the best fish on fifty mile o' coast. 'Twas said by the ol' folks o' Gingerbread Cove that their fathers knowed the time when Bill Hulk had a partner; but the partner got lost on the Labrador, an' then Bill Hulk jus' held on cotchin' fish an' keepin' house all alone, till he got the habit an' couldn't leave off. Was a time, I'm told, a time when he had his strength--was a time, I'm told, afore he wore out--was a time when Bill Hulk had a bit o' money stowed away in a bank t' St. John's. Always 'lowed, I'm told, that 'twas plenty t' see un through when he got past his labor. 'I got enough put by,' says he. 'I got more'n enough. I'm jus' fishin' along,' says he, 't' give t' the poor. Store in your youth,' says he, 'an' you'll not want in your age.' But somehow some o' them St. John's gentlemen managed t' discover expensive ways o' delightin' theirselves; an' what with bank failures an' lean seasons an' lumbago, ol' Bill was fallen poor when first I traded Gingerbread Cove. About nine year after that, bein' then used t' the trade o' that shore, I 'lowed that Bill had better knock off an' lie in the sun till 'twas time for un t' go t' his last berth. ''Twon't be long,' thinks I, 'an' I 'low my owners can stand it. Anyhow,' thinks I, ''tis high time the world done something for Bill.'

"But--

"'Tumm,' says he, 'how many books is kep' by traders in Newf'un'land?'

"I 'lowed I didn't know.

"'Call it a round million,' says he.

"'What of it?' says I.

"'Nothin' much,' says he.

"'But what of it?' says I.

"'Well,' says he, 'if you was t' look them million books over, goin' as easy as you please an' markin' off every line o' every page with your forefinger, what d'ye think would come t' pass?'

"I 'lowed I couldn't tell.

"'Eh?' says he. 'Come, now! give a guess.'

"'I don't know, Bill,' says I.

"'Why, Tumm,' says he, 'you wouldn't find a copper agin the name o' ol' Bill Hulk!'

"'That's good livin',' says I.

"'Not a copper!' says he. 'No, sir; _not if you looked with spectacles_. An' so,' says he, 'I 'low I'll jus' keep on payin' my passage for the little time that's left. If my back on'y holds out,' says he, 'I'll manage it till I'm through. 'Twon't be any more than twenty year. Jus' a little spurt o' labor t' do, Tumm,' says he, 'afore I goes.'

"'More labor, Uncle Bill?' says I. 'God's sake!'

"'Nothin' much,' says he; 'jus' a little spurt afore I goes in peace.'

"Ah, well! he'd labored long enough, lived long enough, t' leave other hands clean up the litter an' sweep the room o' his life. I didn't know what that little spurt o' labor was meant t' win for his peace o' mind--didn't know what he'd left undone--didn't know what his wish or his conscience urged un t' labor for. I jus' wanted un t' quit an' lie down in the sun. 'For,' thinks I, 'the world looks wonderful greedy an' harsh t' me when I hears ol' Bill Hulk's bones rattle over the roads or come squeakin' through the Tickle in his punt. 'Leave un go in peace!' thinks I. 'I isn't got no love for a world that sends them bones t' sea in an easterly wind. Ecod!' thinks I; 'but he've earned quiet passage by jus' livin' t' that ghastly age--jus' by hangin' on off a lee shore in the mean gales o' life.' Seemed t' me, too, no matter how Bill felt about it, that he might be obligin' an' quit afore he _was_ through. Seemed t' me he might jus' stop where he was an' leave the friends an' neighbors finish up. 'Tisn't fair t' ask a man t' have his labor done in a ship-shape way--t' be through with the splittin' an' all cleaned up--when the Skipper sings out, 'Knock off, ye dunderhead!' Seems t' me a man might leave the crew t' wash the table an' swab the deck an' throw the livers in the cask.

"'You be obligin', Bill,' says I, 'an' quit.'

"'Isn't able,' says he, 'till I'm through.'

"So the bones o' ol' Bill Hulk rattled an' squeaked right on till it made me fair ache when I _thunk_ o' Gingerbread Cove.

* * * * *

"About four year after that I made the Cove in the spring o' the year with supplies. 'Well,' thinks I, 'they won't be no Bill Hulk this season. With that pain in his back an' starboard leg, this winter have finished he; an' I'll lay a deal on that.' 'Twas afore dawn when we dropped anchor, an' a dirty dawn, too, with fog an' rain, the wind sharp, an' the harbor in a tumble for small craft; but the first man over the side was ol' Bill Hulk.

"'It _can't_ be you, Uncle Bill!' says I.

"'Tumm,' says he, 'I isn't quite through--yet.'

"'You isn't goin' at it _this_ season, is you?'

"'Ay,' says he; 'goin' at it again, Tumm.'

"'What for?' says I.

"'Nothin' much,' says he.

"'But what _for_?'

"'Well,' says he, 'I'm savin' up.'

"'Savin' up?' says I. 'Shame _to_ you! What you savin' up for?'

"'Oh,' says he, 'jus' savin' up.'

"'But what _for_?' says I. 'What's the sense of it?'

"'Bit o' prope'ty,' says he. 'I'm thinkin' o' makin' a small investment.'

"'At your age, Uncle Bill!' says I. 'An' a childless man!'

"'Jus' a small piece,' says he. 'Nothin' much, Tumm.'

"'But it won't do you no _good_,' says I.

"'Well, Tumm,' says he, 'I'm sort o' wantin' it, an' I 'low she won't go t' waste. I been fishin' from Gingerbread Cove for three hundred year,' says he, 'an' when I knocks off I wants t' have things ship-shape. Isn't no comfort, Tumm,' says he, 'in knockin' off no other way.'

"Three hundred year he 'lowed he'd fished from that there harbor, a hook-an'-line man through it all; an' as they wasn't none o' us abroad on the coast when he come in, he'd stick to it, spite o' parsons. They was a mean little red-headed parson came near churchin' un for the whopper; but Bill Hulk wouldn't repent. 'You isn't been here long enough t' _know_, parson,' says he. ''Tis goin' on three hundred year, I tells you! I'll haul into my fourth hundred,' says he, 'come forty-three year from Friday fortnight.' Anyhow, he'd been castin' lines on the Gingerbread grounds quite long enough. 'Twas like t' make a man's back ache--t' make his head spin an' his stomach shudder--jus' t' think o' the years o' labor an' hardship Bill Hulk had weathered. Seemed t' me the very stars must o' got fair disgusted t' watch un put out through the Tickle afore dawn an' pull in after dark.

"'Lord!' says they. 'If there ain't Bill Hulk puttin' out again! Won't nothin' _ever_ happen t' he?'"

I thought it an unkind imputation.

"Well," Tumm explained, "the little beggars is used t' change; an' I wouldn't wonder if they was bored a bit by ol' Bill Hulk."

It might have been.

"Four or five year after that," Tumm proceeded, "the tail of a sou'east gale slapped me into Gingerbread Cove, an' I 'lowed t' hang the ol' girl up till the weather turned civil. Thinks I, ''Tis wonderful dark an' wet, but 'tis also wonderful early, an' I'll jus' take a run ashore t' yarn an' darn along o' ol' Bill Hulk.' So I put a bottle in my pocket t' warm the ol' ghost's marrow, an' put out for Seven Stars Head in the rodney. 'Twas mean pullin' agin the wind, but I fetched the stage-head 't last, an' went crawlin' up the hill. Thinks I, 'They's no sense in knockin' in a gale o' wind like this, for Bill Hulk's so wonderful hard o' hearin' in a sou'east blow.'

"So I drove on in.

"'Lord's sake, Bill!' says I, 'what you up to?'

"'Nothin' much, Tumm,' says he.

"'It don't look right,' says I. 'What _is_ it?'

"'Nothin' much,' says he; 'jus' countin' up my money.'

"'Twas true enough: there he sot--playin' with his fortune. They was pounds of it: coppers an' big round pennies an' silver an' one lone gold piece.

"'You been gettin' rich?' says I.

"'Tumm,' says he, 'you got any clear idea o' how much hard cash they is lyin' right there on that plain deal table in this here very kitchen you is in?'

"'I isn't,' says I.

"'Well,' says he, 'they's as much as fourteen dollar! An' what d'ye think o' that?'

"I 'lowed I'd hold my tongue; so I jus' lifted my eyebrow, an' then sort o' whistled, 'Whew!'

"'Fourteen,' says he, 'an' more!'

"'_Whew!_' says I.

"'An', Tumm,' says he, 'I had twenty-four sixty once--about eighteen year ago.'

"'You got a heap now,' says I. 'Fourteen dollar! Whew!'

"'No, Tumm!' cries he, all of a sudden. 'No, no! I been lyin' t' you. I been lyin'!' says he. 'Lyin'!'

"'I don't care,' says I; 'you go right ahead an' lie.'

"'They _isn't_ fourteen dollar there,' says he. 'I jus' been makin' _believe_ they was. See that there little pile o' pennies t' the nor'east? I been sittin' here countin' in them pennies twice. They isn't fourteen dollar,' says he; 'they's on'y thirteen eighty-four! But I _wisht_ they was fourteen.'

"'Never you mind,' says I; 'you'll get that bit o' prope'ty yet.'

"'I _got_ to,' says he, 'afore I goes.'

"'Where does it lie?' says I.

"'Oh, 'tisn't nothin' much, Tumm,' says he.

"'But what _is_ it?'

"'Nothin' much,' says he; 'jus' a small piece.'

"'Is it meadow?' says I.

"'No,' says he; 'tisn't what you might call meadow an' be right, though the grass grows there, in spots, knee high.'

"'Is it a potato-patch?'

"'No,' says he; 'nor yet a patch.'

"''Tisn't a _flower_ garden, is it?' says I.

"'N-no,' says he; 'you couldn't rightly say so--though they _grows_ there, in spots, quite free an' nice.'

"'Uncle Bill,' says I, 'you isn't never told me nothin' about that there bit o' prope'ty. What's it held at?'

"'The prope'ty isn't much, Tumm,' says he. 'Jus' a small piece.'

"'But how much _is_ it?'

"'Tom Neverbudge,' says he, 'is holdin' it at twenty-four dollar; he've come down one in the las' seven year. But I'm on'y 'lowin' t' pay twenty-one; you sees I've come _up_ one in the las' _four_ year.'

"''Twould not be hard t' split the difference,' says I.

"'Ay,' says he; 'but they's a wonderful good reason for not payin' more'n twenty-one for that there special bit o' land.'

"'What's that?' says I.

"'Well,' says he, ''tis second-handed.'

"'Second-handed!' says I. 'That's queer!'

"'Been used,' says he.

"'Used, Uncle Bill?'

"'Ay,' says he; 'been used--been used, now, for nigh sixty year.'

"'She's all wore out?' says I.

"'No,' says he; 'not wore out.'

"'_She'd_ grow nothin'?' says I.

"'Well,' says he, 'nothin' much is expected, Tumm,' says he, 'in that line.'

"I give a tug at my pocket, an', ecod! out jumped the bottle o' Scotch.

"'Well, well!' says he. 'Dear man! But I bet ye,' says he, 'that you isn't fetched no pain-killer.'

"'That I is!' says I.

"'Then,' says he, 'about half an' half, Tumm, with a dash o' water; that's the way I likes it when I takes it.'

"So we fell to, ol' Bill Hulk an' me, on the Scotch an' the pain-killer.

* * * * *

"Well, now, after that," Tumm resumed, presently, "I went deep sea for four year in the South American fish trade; an' then, my ol' berth on the _Quick as Wink_ bein' free of incumbrance--'twas a saucy young clerk o' the name o' Bullyworth--I 'lowed t' blow the fever out o' my system with the gales o' this here coast. 'A whiff or two o' real wind an' a sight o' Mother Burke,' thinks I, 'will fix _me_.' 'Twas a fine Sunday mornin' in June when I fetched Gingerbread Cove in the ol' craft--warm an' blue an' still an' sweet t' smell. 'They'll be no Bill Hulk, thank God!' thinks I, 't' be crawlin' up the hill t' meetin' _this_ day; _he've_ got through an' gone t' his berth for all time. I'd like t' yarn with un on this fine civil Sunday,' thinks I; 'but I 'low he's jus' as glad as I is that he've been stowed away nice an' comfortable at last.' But from the deck, ecod! when I looked up from shavin', an' Skipper Jim was washin' up in the forecastle, I cotched sight o' ol' Bill Hulk, bound up the hill through the sunshine, makin' tolerable weather of it, with the wind astern, a staff in his hand, and the braw black coat on his back.

"'Skipper Jim,' sings I, t' the skipper below, 'you hear a queer noise?'

"'No,' says he.

"'Nothin' like a squeak or a rattle?'

"'No,' says he. 'What's awry?'

"'Oh, nothin' says I:' on'y ol' Bill Hulk's on the road.'

"I watched un crawl through the little door on Meetin'-house Hill long after ol' Sammy Street had knocked off pullin' the bell; an' if I didn't hear neither squeak nor rattle as he crep' along, why, I _felt_ un, anyhow, which is jus' as hard to bear. 'Well,' thinks I, 'he've kep' them bones above ground, poor man! but he's never _at_ it yet. He've knocked off for good,' thinks I; 'he'll stumble t' meetin' of a fine Sunday mornin', an' sit in the sun for a spell; an' then,' thinks I, 'they'll stow un away where he belongs.' So I went aboard of un that evenin' for a last bit of a yarn afore his poor ol' throat rattled an' quit.

"'So,' says I, 'you is at it yet?'

"'Ay, Tumm,' says he; 'isn't quite through--yet. But,' says he, 'I'm 'lowin' t' _be_.'

"'Hard at it, Uncle Bill?' says I.

"'Well, no, Tumm,' says he; 'not hard. Back give warnin' a couple o' year ago,' says he, 'an' I been sort o' easin' off for fear o' accident. I've quit the Far Away grounds,' says he, 'but I been doin' very fair on Widows' Shoal. They's on'y one o' them fishin' there nowadays, ah' she 'lowed she didn't care.'

"'An' when,' says I, 'is you 'lowin' t' knock off?'

"'Jus' as soon as I gets through, Tumm,' says he. 'I won't be a minute longer.'

"Then along come the lean-cheeked, pig-eyed, scrawny-whiskered son of a squid which owned the bit o' prope'ty that Bill Hulk had coveted for thirty year. Man o' the name o' Tom Budge; but as he seldom done it, they called un Neverbudge; an' Gingerbread Cove is full o' Never-budges t' this day. Bill 'lowed I might as well go along o' he an' Tom t' overhaul the bit o' land they was tryin' t' trade; so out we put on the inland road--round Burnt Bight, over the crest o' Knock Hill, an' along the alder-fringed path. 'Twas in a green, still, soft-breasted little valley--a little pool o' sunshine an' grass among the hills--with Ragged Ridge t' break the winds from the sea, an' the wooded slope o' the Hog's Back t' stop the nor'westerly gales. 'Twas a lovely spot, sir, believe me, an' a gentle-hearted one, too, lyin' deep in the warmth an' glory o' sunshine, where a man might lay his head on the young grass an' go t' sleep, not mindin' about nothin' no more. Ol' Bill Hulk liked it wonderful well. Wasn't no square o' ground on that coast that he'd rather own, says he, than the little plot in the sou'east corner o' that graveyard.

"'Sight rather have that, Tumm,' says he, 'than a half-acre farm.'

"'Twas so soft an' snug an' sleepy an' still in that little graveyard that I couldn't blame un for wantin' t' stretch out somewheres an' stay there forever.

"'Ay,' says he, 'an' a thirty-foot potato-patch throwed in!'

"'''Tis yours at the price,' says Tom Neverbudge.

"'_If_,' says Bill Hulk, ''twasn't a second-handed plot. See them graves in the sou'west corner, Tumm?'

"Graves o' two children, sir: jus' on'y that--laid side by side, sir, where the sunlight lingered afore the shadow o' Hog's Back fell.

"'Been there nigh sixty year,' says Bill. 'Pity,' says he; 'wonderful pity.'

"'They won't do you no harm,' says Neverbudge.

"'Ay,' says Bill; 'but I'm a bachelor, Tom, used t' sleepin' alone,' says he, 'an' I'm 'lowin' I wouldn't take so wonderful quick t' any other habit. I'm told,' says he, 'that sleepin' along o' children isn't what you might call a easy berth.'

"'You'd soon get used t' _that_,' says Neverbudge. 'Any family man'll tell you so.'

"'Ay,' says Bill; 'but they isn't kin o' mine. Why,' says he, 'they isn't even friends!'

"'That don't matter,' says Neverbudge.

"'Not matter!' says he. 'Can you tell me, Tom Neverbudge, the _names_ o' them children?'

"'Not me.'

"'Nor yet their father's name?'

"'No, sir.'

"'Then,' says Bill, 'as a religious man, is you able t' tell me they was born in a proper an' perfeckly religious manner?'

"'I isn't,' says Neverbudge. 'I guarantees nothin'.'

"'An' yet, as a religious man,' says Bill, 'you stands there an' says it doesn't matter?'

"'Anyhow,' says Neverbudge, 'it doesn't matter _much_'

"'Not much!' cries Bill. 'An' you a religious man! Not much t' lie for good an' all,' says he, 'in the company o' the damned?'

"With that Tom Neverbudge put off in a rage.

"'Uncle Billy,' says I, 'what you wantin' that plot for, anyhow? 'Tis so damp 'tis fair swampy.'

"'Nothin' much,' says he.

"'But what _for?_' says I.

"'Well,' says he, 'I wants it.'

"'An' 'tis on a side-hill,' says I. 'If the dunderheads doesn't dig with care, you'll find yourself with your feet higher'n your head.'

"'Well,' says he, 'I wants it.'

"'You isn't got no friends in this neighborhood,' says I; 'they're all put away on the north side. An' the sun,' says I, 'doesn't strike here last.'

"'I wants it,' says he.

"'What for?' says I.

"'Nothin' much,' says he; 'but I wants it.'

"'But what for?' says I.

"'Well,' says he, in a temper, 'I got a _hankerin'_ for it!'

"'Then, Uncle Bill,' says I, for it made me sad,' I wouldn't mind them little graves. They're poor wee things,' says I, 'an' they wouldn't disturb your rest.'

"'Hush!' says he. 'Don't--_don't_ say that!'

"'Graves o' children,' says I.

"'Don't say no more, Tumm,' says he.

"'Jus' on'y poor little kids,' says I.

"'Stop!' says he. 'Doesn't you see I'm cryin'?'

"Then up come Tom Neverbudge. 'Look you, Bill Hulk!' says he, 'you can take that plot or leave it. I'll knock off seventy-five cents on account o' the risk you take in them children. Come now!' says he; 'you take it or leave it.'

"'Twenty-one fifty,' says Bill. 'That's a raise o' fifty, Tom.'

"'Then,' says Tom, 'I'll use that plot meself.'

"Bill Hulk jumped. 'You!' says he. 'Nothin' gone wrong along o' you, is they, Tom?'

"'Not yet,' says Tom; 'but they might.'

"'No chill,' says Bill, 'an' no fever? No ache in your back, is they, Tom?'

"'Nar a ache.'

"'An' you isn't give up the Labrador?'

"'Not me!'

"'Oh, well,' says Bill, feelin' easy again, 'I 'low _you_ won't never need no graveyard.'

"Tom Neverbudge up canvas an' went off afore the wind in a wonderful temper; an' then ol' Bill Hulk an' me took the homeward road. I remembers the day quite well--the low, warm sun, the long shadows, the fresh youth an' green o' leaves an' grass, the tinkle o' bells on the hills, the reaches o' sea, the peace o' weather an' Sabbath day. I remembers it well: the wheeze an' groan o' ol' Bill--crawlin' home, sunk deep in the thought o' graves--an' the tender, bedtime twitter o' the new-mated birds in the alders. When we rounded Fish Head Rock--'tis half-way from the graveyard--I seed a lad an' a maid flit back from the path t' hide whilst we crep' by; an' they was a laugh on the lad's lips, an' a smile an' a sweet blush on the maid's young face, as maids will blush an' lads will laugh when love lifts un high. 'Twas at that spot I cotched ear of a sound I knowed quite well, havin' made it meself, thank God! many a time an' gladly.

"Bill Hulk stopped dead in the path. 'What's that?' says he.

"'Is you not knowin'?' says I.

"'I've heared it afore,' says he, 'somewheres.'

"Twas a kiss,' says I.

"'Tumm,' says he, in a sort o' scared whisper, '_is they at that yet in the world?_'

"'Jus' as they used t' be,' says I, 'when you was young.'

"'Well,' says he, 'jig _me!_'

"Then I knowed, somehow, jus' how old ol' Bill Hulk must be.

"Well, thereafter," Tumm continued, with a sigh and a genial little smile, "they come lean years an' they come fat ones, as always, by the mystery o' God. Ol' Bill Hulk drove along afore the wind, with his last rags o' sail all spread, his fortune lean or fat as the Lord's own seasons 'lowed. He'd fall behind or crawl ahead jus' accordin' t' the way a careful hand might divide fish by hunger; but I 'lowed, by an' all, he was overhaulin' Tom Neverbudge's twenty-three twenty-five, an' would surely make it if the wind held true a few years longer. 'Twelve thirty more, Tumm,' says he, 'an' if 'twasn't for the pork I might manage it this season. The longer you lives, Tumm,' says he, 'the more expensive it gets. Cost me four fifty las' season for Dr. Hook's Surecure Egyptian Lumbago Oil, an' one fifty, Tumm, for a pair o' green glasses t' fend off blindness from the aged. An' I jus' got t' have pork t' keep my ol' bones warm. I don't _want_ no pork,' says he; 'but they isn't no heat in flour, an', anyhow, I got t' build my shoulder muscles up. You take a ol' hulk like mine,' says he, 'an' you'll find it a wonderful expensive craft t' keep in sailin' order.'

"'You stick t' pork,' says I.

"'I was thinkin',' says he, 'o' makin' a small investment in a few bottles o' Hook's Vigor. Clerk o' the _Free for All_,' says he, ''lows 'tis a wonderful nostrum t' make the old feel young.'

"'You stick t' pork,' says I, 'an' be damned t' the clerk o' the _Free for All_.'

"'Maybe I better,' says he, 'an' build up my shoulders. They jus' _got_ t' be humored.'