Bumpus is Perplexed—Mysterious Communings and a Curious Leave-Taking.  
“It’s a puzzler,” said Jo Bumpus to himself—for Jo was much in the habit of conversing with himself; and a very good habit it is, one that is often attended with much profit to the individual, when the conversation is held upon right topics and in a proper spirit—“it’s a puzzler, it is; that’s a fact.”
 
Having relieved his mind of this observation, the seaman proceeded to cut down some tobacco, and looked remarkably grave and solemn as if “it” were not only a puzzler but an alarmingly serious puzzler.
 
“Yes, it’s the biggest puzzler as ever I comed across,” said he, filling his pipe—for John, when not roused, got on both mentally and physically by slow stages.
 
“Niver know’d its equal,” he continued, beginning to smoke, which operation, as the pipe did not “draw” well at first, prevented him from saying anything more.
 
It was early morning when Bumpus said all this, and the mariner was enjoying his morning pipe in a reclining attitude on the grass beneath Alice Mason’s favourite tree, from which commanding position he gazed approvingly on the magnificent prospect of land and sea which lay before him, bathed in the light of the rising sun.
 
“It is wery koorious,” continued John, taking his pipe out of his mouth and addressing himself to it with much gravity—“wery koorious. Things always seems wot they isn’t, and turns out to be wot they didn’t appear as if they wasn’t; werry odd indeed, it is! Only to think that this here sandal-wood trader should turn out for to be Henry’s father and the widow’s mother—no, I mean the widow’s husband,—an’ a pirate, an’ a deliverer o’ little boys and gals out o’ pirates’ hands—his own hands, so to speak—not to mention captings in the Royal Navy, an’ not sich a bad feller after all, as won’t have his liberty on no account wotiver, even if it was gived to him for nothin’, and yet wot can’t git it if he wanted it iver so much; and to think that Jo Bumpus should come for to lend hisself to— Hallo! Jo, back yer tops’ls! Didn’t Henry tell ye that ye wasn’t to convarse upon that there last matter even with yerself, for fear o’ bein’ overheard and sp’ilin’ the whole affair? Come, I’ll refresh myself.”
 
The refreshment in which Jo proposed to indulge was of a peculiar kind which never failed him—it was the perusal of Susan’s love-letter.
 
He now sat up, drew forth the precious and much soiled epistle, unfolded and spread it out carefully on his knees, placed his pipe very much on one side of his mouth, in order that the smoke might not interfere with his vision, and began to read.
 
“‘Peeler’s Farm,’ ah! Susan darlin’, it’s Jo Bumpus as would give all he has in the world, includin’ his Sunday clo’se, to be anchored alongside o’ ye at that same farm! ‘Sanfransko.’ I misdoubt the spellin’ o’ that word, Susan dear; it seems to me raither short, as if ye’d docked off its tail. Howsomever—‘For John bumpuss’—O Susan, Susan! if ye’d only remember the big B, and there ain’t two esses. I’m sure it’s not for want o’ tellin’ ye, but ye was never great in the way ov memry or spellin’. Pr’aps it’s as well. Ye’d ha’ bin too perfect, an’ that’s not desirable, by no means—‘my darlin’ Jo’—ay, them’s the words. It’s that as sets my ’art a b’ilin’-over like.”
 
Here Jo raised his eyes from the letter and revelled silently in the thought for at least two minutes, during which his pipe did double duty in half its usual time. Then he recurred to his theme, but some parts he read in silence, and without audible comment.
 
“Ay,” said he, “‘sandle-wood skooners, the Haf ov thems pirits’—so they is, Susan. It’s yer powers o’ prophecy as amazes me—‘an’ The other hafs no beter’—a deal wus, Susan, if ye only know’d it. Ah! my sweet gal, if ye knew wot a grief that word ‘beter’ wos to me before I diskivered wot it wos, ye’d try to improve yer hand o’ write, an’ make fewer blots!”
 
At this point Jo was arrested by the sound of footsteps behind him. He folded up his letter precipitately, thrust it into his left breast-pocket, and jumped up with a guilty air about him.
 
“Why, Bumpus, we have startled you out of a morning nap, I fear,” said Henry Stuart, who, accompanied by his mother, came up at that moment. “We are on our way to say good-bye to Mr Mason. As we passed this knoll I caught sight of you and came up to ask about the boat.”
 
“It’s all right,” said Bumpus, who quickly recovered his composure—indeed he had never lost much of it. “I’ve bin down to Saunder’s store and got the ropes for your—”
 
“Hush! man, there is no need of telling me what they are for,” said Henry, with a mysterious look at his mother.
 
“Why not tell me all, Henry?” said Mrs Stuart; “surely you can trust me?”
 
“Trust you, mother?” replied the youth with a smile, “I should think so; but there are reasons for my not telling you everything just now. Surely you can trust me? I have told you as much as I think advisable in the meantime. Ere long I will tell you all.”
 
The widow sighed and was fain to rest content. She sat down beside the tree while her companions talked together apart in low tones.
 
“Now Jo, my man,” continued Henry, “one of our friends must be got out of the way.”
 
“Wery good; I’m the man as’ll do it.”
 
“Of course I don’t mean that he’s to be killed!&r............