l was fair dogged by the children o' Tinkle Tickle in his
bachelor days," the tale ran on. "There was that about un, somehow, in
eyes or voice, t' win the love o' kids, dogs, an' grandmothers. 'Leave
the kids have their way,' says he. 'I likes t' have un t' come t' me.
They're no bother at all. Why, damme,' says he, 'they uplift the soul
of a bachelor man like me! I loves un.'

"'You'll be havin' a crew o' your own, some day,' says Tom Blot, 'an'
you'll not be so fond o' the company.'

"'I'll ship all the Lord sends.'

"'Ah-ha, b'y!' chuckles Tom, 'He've a wonderful store o' little souls
up aloft.'

"'Then,' says Tim, 'I'll thank Un t' be lavish.'

"Tom Blot was an old, old man, long past his labor, creakin' over the
roads o' Harbor with a staff t' help his dry legs, an' much give t'
broodin' on the things he'd found out in this life. ''Tis rare that
He's mean with such gifts,' says he. 'But 'tis queer the way He
bestows un. Ecod!' says he, in a temper, 'I've never been able t'
fathom his ways, old as I is!'

"'I wants a big crew o' lads an' little maids, Tom,' says Tim Mull.
'Can't be too many for _me_ if I'm to enjoy my cruise in this world.'

"'They've wide mouths, lad.'

"'Hut!' says Tim. 'What's a man for? _I'll_ stuff their little crops.
You mark _me_, b'y!'

"So it went with Tim Mull in his bachelor days: he'd forever a maid on
his shoulder or a lad by the hand. He loved un. 'Twas knowed that he
loved un. There wasn't a man or maid at Tinkle Tickle that didn't
know. 'Twas a thing that was called t' mind whenever the name o' Tim
Mull come up. 'Can't be too many kids about for Tim Mull!' An' they
loved _him_. They'd wait for un t' come in from the sea at dusk o'
fine days; an' on fine Sunday afternoons--sun out an' a blue wind
blowin'--they'd troop at his heels over the roads an' hills o' the
Tickle. They'd have no festival without un. On the eve o' Guy Fawkes,
in the fall o' the year, with the Gunpowder Plot t' celebrate, when 't
was

Remember, remember,
The Fifth o' November!

't was Tim Mull that must wind the fire-balls, an' sot the bonfires,
an' put saleratus on the blisters. An' at Christmastide, when the
kids o' Harbor come carolin' up the hill, all in mummers' dress,
pipin',--

God rest you, merry gentlemen;
Let nothin' you dismay!

't was Tim Mull, in his cottage by Fo'c's'le Head, that had a big
blaze, an' a cake, an' a tale, an' a tune on the concertina, for the
rowdy