urring while he
made ready for the splitting-table. He chuckled, he tweaked his long
nose until it flared, he scratched his head, he sighed, he scowled, he
broke into vociferous laughter; and he muttered "Ecod!" an innumerable
number of times, voicing, thereby, the gamut of human emotions and the
degrees thereof, from lowest melancholy to a crafty sort of cynicism and
thence to the height of smug elation. And, presently, when he had peered
down the path to the stage, where the twins were forking the fish, he
approached, stepping mysteriously, his gigantic forefinger raised in a
caution to hush.

"Davy," he whispered, "you isn't got that letter _aboard_ o' you, is
you?"

My heart misgave me; but--I nodded.

"Well, well!" cried he. "I'm thinkin'," he added, his surprise somewhat
mitigated by curiosity, "that you'll be havin' it in your jacket
pocket."

"Ay," was my sharp reply; "but I'll not read it."

"No, no!" said he, severely, lifting a protesting hand, which he had now
encased in a reeking splitting-mit. "I'd not _have_ you read it. Sure,
I'd never 'low _that_! Was you thinkin', David Roth," now so
reproachfully that my doubts seemed treasonable, "that I'd _want_ you
to? Me--that nibbled once? Not I, lad! But as you _does_ happen t' have
that letter in your jacket, you wouldn't mind me just takin' a _look_ at
it, would you?"

I produced the crumpled missive--with a sigh: for the skipper's drift
was apparent.

"My letter!" said he, gazing raptly. "Davy, lad, I'd kind o'--like
t'--just t'--_feel_ it. They wouldn't be no hurt in me _holdin'_ it,
would they?"

I passed it over.

"Now, Davy," he declared, his head on one side, the letter held gingerly
before him, "I wouldn't read that letter an I could. No, lad--not an I
could! But I've heared tell she had a deal o' l'arnin'; an' I'd kind
o'--like t'--take a peek inside. Just," he added, hurriedly, "t' see
what power she had for writin'."

This pretense to a purely artistic interest in the production was
wondrously trying to the patience.

"Skipper Davy," he went on, awkwardly, skippering me with a guile that
was shameless, "it bein' from a woman--bein' from a _woman_, now, says
I--'twould be no more 'n po-lite t' open it. Come, now, Davy!" he
challenged. "You wouldn't _say_ 'twould be more 'n po-lite, would you?
It bein' from a lone woman?"

I made no answer: for, at that moment, I caught sight of the twins,
listening with open-mouthed interest from the