“‘Tumm,’ says Jowl, ‘I ’low you thinks you got some rights in that raft.’
“‘But you isn’t,’ says he. ‘You isn’t, Tumm, because I’m a sight bigger ’n you, an’ could put you off. It isn’t in my mind t’ do it—but I _could_. I wants company, Tumm, for it looks like a long v’y’ge, an’ I’m ’lowin’ t’ have you.’
“‘They isn’t room for more’n two on that raft,’ says he.
“‘Dear God! Jowl,’ says I, ‘what you goin’ t’ do?’
“‘I’m goin’ t’ try my level best,’ says he, ‘t’ get home t’ my wife an’ kid; for they’d be wonderful disappointed if I didn’t turn up.’
“‘But the crew’s got wives an’ kids!’ says I.
“‘Tumm,’ says he, ‘don’t you go another step. If them swine in the forecastle knowed they was a raft ’longside, they’d steal it. It won’t _hold_ un, Tumm. It won’t hold more’n two, an’, ecod!’ says he, with a look at the raft, ‘I’m doubtin’ that she’s able for _that_!’
“‘No, sir!’ says he. ‘I ’low she won’t hold more’n one.’
“‘Oh yes, she will, Jowl!’ says I. ‘Dear man! yes; she’s able for two.’
“‘We’ll try,’ says he, ‘whatever comes of it. An’ if she makes bad weather, why, you can—’
“‘Why, damme! Tumm,’ says he, ‘I mean that you can get _off_. What _else_ would I mean?’
“‘What would _you_ do,’ says he, ‘if _you_ was me?’
“I give un a look that told un, an’ ’twas against my will I done it.
“‘Well,’ says he, ‘you can’t blame me, then.’
“‘Now I’ll get the grub from the forecastle, lad,’ says he, ‘an’ we’ll cast off. The _Wings o’ the Mornin’_ isn’t good for more’n half an hour more. You bide on deck, Tumm, an’ leave the swine t’ me.’
“‘All right,’ says he, when he come on deck. ‘Haul in the line.’ We lashed a water-cask an’ a grub-box t’ the raft. ‘Now, Tumm,’ says he, ‘we can take it easy. We won’t be in no haste t’ leave, for I ’low ’tis more comfortable here. Looks t’ me like more moderate weather. I feels pretty good, Tumm, with all the work done, an’ nothin’ t’ do but get aboard.’ He sung the long-metre doxology. ‘Look how the wind’s dropped!’ says he. ‘Why, lad, we might have saved the _Wings o’ the Mornin’_ if them pigs had done their dooty last night. But ’tis too late now—an’ it’s _been_ too late all day long. We’ll have a spell o’ quiet,’ says he, ‘when the sea goes down. Looks t’ me like the v’y’ge might be pleasant, once we gets through the night. I ’low the stars’ll be peepin’ afore mornin’. It’ll be a comfort t’ see the little mites. I loves t’ know they’re winkin’ overhead. They makes me think o’ God. You isn’t got a top-coat, is you, lad?’ says he. ‘Well, you better get it, then. I’ll trust you in the forecastle, Tumm, for I knows you wouldn’t wrong me, an’ you’ll need that top-coat bad afore we’re picked up. An’ if you got your mother’s Bible in your nunny-bag, or anything like that you wants t’ save, you better fetch it,’ says he. ‘I ’low we’ll get out o’ this mess, an’ we don’t want t’ have anything t’ regret.’