And this, Molly," he continues, "is the
self-same child my friend here, who I am as happy to meet as a body
can be, wants me to carry off from these wolves of slavery; and if I
don't, then my name's not Jack Splitwater!" So saying, he bustles
about, tells the nervous man he must excuse the want of finery, that
he has been a hard coaster for God knows how many years, and the
little place is all he can afford; for indeed he is poor, but
expects a better place one of these days. Then he draws forth from a
little nook in the stern locker a bottle, which he says contains
pure stuff, and of which he invites his visitor to partake, that he
may keep up a good heart, still hoping for the best. The nervous man
declines his kind invitation,--he has too much at heart, and the
sight of the child so reminds him of his own now blighted in
slavery. The good woman now becoming deeply concerned, Hardweather
must needs recount the story, and explain the strange man's
troubles, which he does in simple language; but, as the yarn is
somewhat long, the reader must excuse our not transcribing it here.
With anxious face and listening ears did the woman absorb every
word; and when the earnest skipper concluded with grasping firmly
the man's hand, and saying-"Just you scheme the strategy, and if I
don't carry it out my name aint Jack Hardweather!" would she fain
have had him go on. "Lack a day, good man!" she rejoined, fondling
closer to her bosom the little suckling; "get ye the wee bairn and
bring it hither, and I'll mak it t'uther twin-na body'll kno't! and
da ye ken hoo ye may mak the bonny wife sik a body that nane but
foxes wad ken her.
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