And he always treated
me fine, raised my wages right along, and the like of that. 'Twas him
that put me in the way of investin' my money in them sugar stocks and
the rest. He made me rich, or headed me that way. And when he lost all
he had except this place here and was dyin' aboard the old schooner, he
calls me to him and he says:
"'Sol,' he says, 'Sol, I've done consider'ble for you, and you've said
you was grateful. Well, I'm goin' to ask a favor of you. I ain't got a
cent of my own left, and my niece by marriage, Thankful Cahoon that was,
that I love same as if she was my own child, may, sometime or other,
be pretty hard put to it to get along. I want you to look after her. If
ever the time comes that she needs money or help I want you to do for
her what I'd do if I was here. If you don't,' he says, risin' on one
elbow in the bunk, 'I'll come back and ha'nt you. Promise on your solemn
oath.' And I promised. And you know how I've kept that promise. And last
night he come back. Yes, sir, he come back!"
Still Thankful said nothing. He groaned again and went on:
"Last night," he said, "up in that bedroom, I woke up and, as sure as
I'm settin' here this minute, I heard Cap'n Abner Barnes snorin' just
as he snored afore his death aboard the schooner, T. I. Smalley, in the
stateroom next to mine. I knew it in a minute, but I got up and went all
round my room and the empty one alongside. There was nothin' there, of
course. Nothin' but the snorin'.
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