crew.

"'I love un!' says he. 'Can't be too many for _me_!'

"An' everybody knowed it; an' everybody wondered, too, how Tim Mull
would skipper his own little crew when he'd shipped un.

"Tim Mull fell in love, by-an'-by, with a dark maid o' the Tickle. By
this time his mother was dead, an' he lived all alone in the cottage
by Fo'c's'le Head. He had full measure o' the looks an' ways that win
women. 'Twas the fashion t' fish for un. An' 'twas a thing that was
shameless as fashion. Most o' the maids o' Harbor had cast hooks.
Polly Twitter, for one, an' in desperation: a pink an' blue wee parcel
o' fluff--an' a trim little craft, withal. But Tim Mull knowed nothin'
o' this, at all; he was too stupid, maybe,--an' too decent,--t' read
the glances an' blushes an' laughter they flung out for bait.

"'Twas Mary Low--who'd cast no eyes his way--that overcome un. She
loved Tim Mull. No doubt, in the way o' maids, she had cherished her
hope; an' it may be she had grieved t' see big Tim Mull, entangled in
ribbons an' curls an' the sparkle o' blue eyes, indulge the
flirtatious ways o' pretty little Polly Twitter. A tall maid, this
Mary--soft an' brown. She'd brown eyes, with black lashes to hide un,
an' brown hair, growin' low an' curly; an' her round cheeks was brown,
too, flushed with red. She was a maid with sweet ways an' a tender
pride; she was slow t' speak an' not much give t' laughter; an' she
had the sad habit o' broodin' overmuch in the dusk. But she'd eyes for
love, never fear, an' her lips was warm; an' there come a night in
spring weather--broad moonlight an' a still world--when Tim Mull give
way to his courage.

"'Tumm,' says he, when he come in from his courtin', that night,
'there'll be guns poppin' at Tinkle Tickle come Friday.'

"'A weddin'?' says I.

"'Me an' Mary Low, Tumm. I been overcome at last. 'Twas the moon.'

"'She's ever the friend o' maids,' says I.

"'An' the tinkle of a goat's bell on Lookout. It fell down from the
slope t' the shadows where the alders arch over the road by Needle
Rock. Jus' when me an' Mary was passin' through, Tumm! You'd never
believe such an accident. There's no resistin' brown eyes in spring
weather. She's a wonderful woman, lad.'

"'That's queer!' says I.

"'A wonderful woman,' says he. 'No shallow water there. She's deep. I
can't _tell_ you how wonderful she is. Sure, I'd have t' play it on
the concertina.'

"'I'll lead the chivari,' says I, 'an' you grant me a fa