"Come, Caleb Trotter!" he exclaimed, suddenly jumping in and seizing
the paddles; "this sort o' thing won't do, nohow. Here you be paid
for lookin' arter a gentl'm'n as wanders in hes wits, and fust news
es, you be doin' the same yoursel'. 'Tes terribul queer, though," he
added, and with that began to row towards town with an energy that
set the boat quivering.
When he returned, in less than two hours' time, he found Mr. Fogo
with a barrel full of water and the stump of a decayed broom, washing
out the back kitchen. The Twin had gone.
"Here we be, sir. Pound o' candles, pound o' tea, two loaves o'
bread, knives, forks, two cups, three eggs--one on 'em smashed, in my
trowsy pocket--saucepan, kettle, tea-pot, an' a hunk o' cold beef as
salt as Lot's wife's elbow. That's the fust load. There's more in
the boat, but I must ax'ee to bear a hand wi' thicky portmanty o'
youm, 'cos 'tes mortal heavy. I see'd Jan Higgs's wife a-fishin'
about two hundred yards from the quay, on my way up, an' warned her
to keep her distance. There's a well o' water round at the back, an'
I've fetched a small sack o' coal, and ef us don't have a dish o' tay
ready in a brace o' shakes, then Tom's killed an' Mary's forlorn."
With the statement of which gloomy alternative Mr.
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