life? What's come o' all the thinkin'?'

"'Tumm,' says he, 'I don't think no more. An' the laws o' life,' says he, 'is foolishness. The fac' is, Tumm,' says he, 'things look wonderful different t' me now. I isn't the same as I used t' be in them old days.'

"'You isn't had a fever, Botch?' says I.

"'Well,' says he, 'I got religion.'

"'Oh!' says I. 'What kind?'

"'Vi'lent,' says he.

"'I see,' says I.

"'I isn't converted just this minute,' says he. 'I 'low you might say, an' be near the truth, that I'm a d.a.m.ned backslider. But I _been_ converted, an' I may be again. Fac' is, Tumm,' says he, 'when I gets up in the mornin' I never knows which I'm in, a state o' grace or a state o' sin. It usual takes till after breakfast t' find out.'

"'Botch, b'y,' says I, for it made me feel awful bad, 'don't you go an'

trouble about that.'

"'You don't know about h.e.l.l,' says he.

"'I _does_ know about h.e.l.l,' says I. 'My mother told me.'

"'Ay,' says he; 'she told you. But you doesn't _know_.'

"'Botch,' says I, 'twould s'prise me if she left anything out.'

"He wasn't happy-Botch wasn't. He begun t' kick his heels, an' scratch his whisps o' beard, an' chaw his finger-nails. It made me feel bad. I didn't like t' see Botch took that way. I'd rather see un crawl into nuthin' an' think, ecod! than chaw his nails an' look like a scared idjit from the mad-house t' St. John's.

"'You got a soul, Tumm,' says he.

"'I knows that,' says I.

"'How?' says he.

"'My mother told me.'

"Botch took a look at the stars. An' so I, too, took a look at the funny little things. An' the stars is so many, an' so wonderful far off, an'

so wee an' queer an' perf.e.c.kly solemn an' knowin', that I 'lowed I didn't know much about heaven an' h.e.l.l, after all, an' begun t' feel shaky.

"'I got converted,' says Botch, 'by means of a red-headed parson from the Cove o' the Easterly Winds. _He_ knowed everything. They wasn't no _why_ he wasn't able t' answer. "The glory o' G.o.d," says he; an' there was an end to it. An' bein' converted of a suddent,' says Botch, without givin' much thought t' what might come after, I 'lowed the parson had the rights of it. Anyhow, I wasn't in no mood t' set up my word against a real parson in a black coat, with a Book right under his arm. I 'lowed I wouldn't stay very long in a state o' grace if I done _that_. The fac'

is, he _told_ me so. "Whatever," thinks I, "the glory o' G.o.d does well enough, if a man only _will_ believe; an' the tears an' crooked backs an' hunger o' this here world," thinks I, "which the parson lays t' Him, fits in very well with the reefs an' easterly gales He made." So I 'lowed I'd better take my religion an' ask no questions; an' the parson said 'twas very wise, for I was only an ignorant man, an' I'd reach a state o' sanctification if I kep' on in the straight an' narrow way. So I went no more t' the grounds. For what was the _use_ o' goin' there?

'Peared t' me that heaven was my home. What's the use o' botherin' about the fish for the little time we're here? I couldn't get my _mind_ on the fish. "Heaven is my home," thinks I, "an' I'm tired, an' I wants t' get there, an' I don't want t' trouble about the world." 'Twas an immortal soul I had t' look out for. So I didn't think no more about laws o'

life. 'Tis a sin t' pry into the mysteries o' G.o.d; an' 'tis a sinful waste o' time, anyhow, t' moon about the heads, thinkin' about laws o'

life when you got a immortal soul on your hands. I wanted t' save that soul! _An I wants t' save it now_!'

"'Well,' says I, 'ain't it sove?'

"'No,' says he; 'for I couldn't help thinkin'. An' when I thunk, Tumm-whenever I fell from grace an' thunk real hard-I couldn't believe some o' the things the red-headed parson said I _had_ t' believe if I wanted t' save my soul from h.e.l.l.'

"'Botch,' says I, 'leave your soul be.'

"'I can't,' says he. 'I can't! I got a immortal soul, Tumm. What's t'

become o' that there soul?'

"'Don't you trouble it,' says I. 'Leave it be. 'Tis too tender t' trifle with. An', anyhow,' says I, 'a man's belly is all he can handle without strainin'.'

"'But 'tis _mine_-_my_ soul!'

"'Leave it be,' says I. 'It'll get t' heaven.'

"Then Botch gritted his teeth, an' clinched his hands, an' lifted his fists t' heaven. There he stood, Botch o' Jug Cove, on the for'ard deck o' the _Three Sisters_, which was built by the hands o' men, slippin'

across the Straits t' the Labrador, in the light o' the old, old moon-there stood Botch like a man in tarture!

"'I isn't sure, Tumm,' says he, 'that I wants t' go t' heaven. For I'd be all the time foolin' about the gates o' h.e.l.l, peepin' in,' says he; 'an' if the devils suffered in the fire-if they moaned an' begged for the mercy o' G.o.d-I'd be wantin' t' go in, Tumm, with a jug o' water an'

a pa'm-leaf fan!'

"'You'd get pretty well singed, Botch,' says I.

"'I'd _want_ t' be singed!' says he.

"'Well, Botch,' says I, 'I don't know where you'd best lay your course for, heaven or h.e.l.l. But I knows, my b'y,' says I, 'that you better give your soul a rest, or you'll be sorry.'

"'I can't,' says he.

"'It'll get t' one place or t'other,' says I, 'if you on'y bides your time.'

"'How do you know?' says he.

"'Why,' says I, 'any parson'll _tell_ you so!'

"'But how do _you_ know?' says he.

"'Damme, Botch!' says I, 'my mother told me so.'

"'That's it!' says he.

"'What's it?'

"'Your mother,' says he. ''Tis all hearsay with you an' me. But I wants t' know for myself. Heaven or h.e.l.l, d.a.m.nation or salvation, G.o.d or nothin'!' says he. 'I wouldn't care if I on'y _knowed_. But I don't know, an' can't find out. I'm tired o' hearsay an' guessin', Tumm. I wants t' know. Dear G.o.d of all men,' says he, with his fists in the air, 'I _wants t' know_!'

"'Easy,' says I. 'Easy there! Don't you say no more. 'Tis mixin' t' the mind. So,' says I, 'I 'low I'll turn in for the night.'

"Down I goes. But I didn't turn in. I couldn't-not just then. I raked around in the bottom o' my old nunny-bag for the Bible my dear mother put there when first I sot out for the Labrador in the Fear of the Lord.

'I wants a message,' thinks I; 'an' I wants it bad, an' I wants it almighty quick!' An' I spread the Book on the forecastle table, an' I put my finger down on the page, an' I got all my nerves t'gether-_an' I looked_! Then I closed the Book. They wasn't much of a message; it _done_, t' be sure, but 'twasn't much: for that there yarn o' Jonah an'

the whale is harsh readin' for us poor fishermen. But I closed the Book, an' wrapped it up again in my mother's cotton, an' put it back in the bottom o' my nunny-bag, an' sighed, an' went on deck. An' I cotched poor Botch by the throat; an', 'Botch,' says I, 'don't you never say no more about souls t' me. Men,' says I, 'is all hangin' on off a lee sh.o.r.e in a big gale from the open; an' they isn't no mercy in that wind. I got my anchor down,' says I. 'My fathers forged it, hook-an'-chain, an' _they_ weathered it out, without fear or favor. 'Tis the on'y anchor I got, anyhow, an' I don't want it t' part. For if it do, the broken bones o'

my soul will lie slimy an' rotten on the reefs t' leeward through all eternity. You leave me be,' says I. 'Don't you never say soul t' me no more!'

"I 'low," Tumm sighed, while he picked at a knot in the table with his clasp-knife, "that if I could ''a' done more'n just what mother teached me, I'd sure have prayed for poor Abraham Botch that night!"