"I was that way," he said, "full of opinions, like one of those
little terrier pups with his tail sawed off, so he wags with the
stump, same way a clock does with the pendulum when the weight's gone
--pretty chipper. I used to come often from the other end of Newport
Street, where I was born, to Pemberton's. But that wasn't on account
of Pemberton, though he was agreeable, but on account of Madge
Pemberton. Madge and I were agreed, and Pemberton was agreeable, but
I was restless and keyed high in those days, resembling pups, as
stated.
"No anchoring to Pemberton's chimney for me," I says. "No digging
clams and fishing for small fry in Long Island Sound for me. I'm
going to sea."
And Madge asks, "Why?" calm and reasonable, and I was near stumped
for reasons, having only the same reason as a lobster has for being
green. It's the nature of him, which he'll change that colour when
he's had experience and learned what's what in the boiling. I fished
around for reasons.
"When I'm rich," I says, "I'll fix up Pemberton's for a swell hotel."
Madge says, "It's nice as it is," and acted low in her mind. But if
she thought the less of me for wanting to go to sea, I couldn't say.
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