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“‘You come along o’ me as mate, Tumm,’ says he, ‘an’ I’ll fill your pocket.’

“‘I’m not averse t’ cash,’ says I.

“‘These here ol’ bones creaks out t’ the ice for swiles,’ says he, ‘an’ not for the pleasures o’ cruisin’.’

“‘I’ll ship, Skipper Sammy,’ says I. ‘I’ll ship with the skipper that gets the fat.’

“‘You hails from Chain Tickle?’ says he.

“‘I does.’

“‘Tumm,’ says he, ‘I’m a old man, an’ I’m downcast in these last days; an’ I been ‘lowin’, somehow, o’ late, that a dash o’ young blood in my whereabouts might cheer me up. I ‘low, Tumm,’ says he, ‘you don’t know a likely lad t’ take along t’ the ice an’ break in for his own good? Fifteen years or so? I’d berth un well aboard the Bloodhound.’

“‘I does,’ says I.

“‘You might fetch un,’ says he; ‘nothin’ like young blood t’ cheer the aged.’

“‘I’ll fetch un quick enough, Skipper Sammy,’ says I, ‘if you’ll stand by my choice.’

“‘As I knowed you would, Tumm,’ says he, ‘you takes me cleverly.’

“It wasn’t long after that afore a young lad I knowed in Chain Tickle come shoutin’ down t’ St. John’s. A likely lad, too: blue-eyed, tow-headed, an’ merry–the likes of his mother, a widow. No liar, no coward, no pinch-a-penny: a fair, frank-eyed, lovable little rascal–a forgiven young scapegrace–with no mind beyond the love an’ livin’ jollity o’ the day. Hang the morrow! says he; the morrow might do very well, he’d be bound, when it come. Show him the fun o’ the minute. An’ he had a laugh t’ shame the dumps–a laugh as catchin’ as smallpox. ‘Ecod!’ thinks I; ‘it may very well be that Sam Small will smile.’ A brave an’ likely lad: with no fear o’ the devil hisself–nor overmuch regard, I’m thinkin’, for the chastisements o’ God Almighty–but on’y respect for the wish of his own little mother, who was God enough for he. ‘What!’ says he; ‘we’re never goin’ t’ sea with Sam Small. Small Sam Small? Sam Small, the skinflint?’ But he took a wonderful fancy t’ Small Sam Small; an’ as for Skipper Sammy–why–Skipper Sammy loved the graceless rogue on sight. ‘Why, Tumm,’ says he, ‘he’s jus’ like a gentleman’s son. Why ’tis–’tis like a nip o’ rum–’tis as good as a nip o’ the best Jamaica–t’ clap eyes on a fair, fine lad like that. Is you marked his eyes, Tumm?–saucy as blood an’ riches. They fair bored me t’ the soul like Sir Harry McCracken’s. They’s blood behind them eyes–blood an’ a sense o’ wealth. An’ his strut! Is you marked the strut, Tumm?–the very air of a game-cock in a barnyard. It takes a gentleman born t’ walk like that. I tells you, Tumm, with wealth t’ back un–with wealth t’ back body an’ brain an’ blue blood like that–the lad would be a lawyer at twenty-three an’ Chief Justice o’ Newf’un’land at thirty-seven. You mark me !’

“I’m thinkin’, whatever, that Small Sam Small had the natural prejudice o’ fatherhood.

“‘Tumm,’ says he, ‘he’s cheered me up. Is he savin’?’

“‘Try for yourself,’ says I.

“Skipper Sammy put the boy t’ the test, next night, at the Anchor an’ Chain. ‘Lad,’ says he, ‘here’s the gift o’ half a dollar.’

“‘For me, Skipper Sammy?’ says the lad. ”Tis as much as ever I had in my life. Have a drink.’

“‘Have a what ?’

“‘You been wonderful good t’ me, Skipper Sammy,’ says the lad, ‘an’ I wants t’ buy you a glass o’ good rum.’

“‘Huh!’ says Small Sam Small; ”tis expensive.’

“‘Ay,’ says the lad; ‘but what’s a half-dollar for ?’

“‘Well,’ says Skipper Sammy, ‘a careful lad like you might save it.’

“The poor lad passed the half-dollar back over the table t’ Small Sam Small. ‘Skipper Sammy,’ says he, ‘ you save it. It fair burns my fingers.’