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diff --git a/36998-h/36998-h.htm b/36998-h/36998-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..32958f8 --- /dev/null +++ b/36998-h/36998-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,12735 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" > +<head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> + <meta content="Every Man for Himself" name="DC.Title"/> + <meta content="Norman Duncan" name="DC.Creator"/> + <meta content="en" name="DC.Language"/> + <meta content="1908" name="DC.Created"/> + <meta name="generator" content="ppgen (1.17) generated Aug 07, 2011 06:36 AM" /> + <title>Every Man for Himself</title> + <style type="text/css"> + body {margin-left:10%; margin-right:10%;} + p {margin-top:1ex; margin-bottom:0; text-align:justify;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size:x-small; text-align:right; text-indent:0; + position:absolute; right:2%; padding:1px 3px; font-style:normal; + font-variant:normal; font-weight:normal; text-decoration:none; + background-color:inherit; border:1px solid #eee;} + .pncolor {color:silver;} + h1 {text-align:center; font-weight:normal; + font-size:1.4em; margin-top:4em; margin-bottom:2em;} + h2 {text-align:left; font-weight:normal; + font-size:1.2em; margin-top:4em; margin-bottom:2em;} + h3 {text-align:center; font-weight:bold; + font-size:0.9em; margin-top:1.5em; margin-bottom:1em;} + hr.pb {margin:30px 0; width:100%; border:none; border-top:thin dashed silver; clear:both;} + .sc {font-variant: small-caps;} + .center {margin-left:auto; margin-right:auto; text-align:center;} + .larger {font-size:larger;} + .smaller {font-size:smaller;} + hr.fnsep {border:none; border-bottom: 1px solid black; width:10%; margin-left:0; margin-top:20px} + .figcenter {margin: auto; text-align: center;} + table.c {margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;} + .caption {font-size: 80%;} + .footnote a {text-decoration:none;} + .footnote {font-size: 80%;} + .fnanchor {font-size: 80%; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: 0.25em;} + .sc {font-variant:small-caps} + .footnote .label {float:left; text-align:left; width:2em;} + div.center>:first-child {margin: .5em auto 0 auto;text-align:center;} + div.center p {margin: 0 auto; text-align:center;} + hr.tb {border:none; border-bottom: 1px solid black; margin: 20px auto; width:35%} + </style> +</head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Every Man for Himself, by Norman Duncan + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Every Man for Himself + +Author: Norman Duncan + +Release Date: August 7, 2011 [EBook #36998] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF *** + + + + +Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + +<div><a name='ifpc' id='ifpc'></a></div> +<div class='figcenter' style='padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em'> +<a name='i001' id='i001'></a> +<img src="images/illus-fpc.jpg" alt="SHE WAS PROMISED TO SLOW JIM TOOL" title=""/><br /> +<span class='caption'>SHE WAS PROMISED TO SLOW JIM TOOL</span> +</div> +<div class='center'> +<p><span style='font-size:1.6em;font-weight:bold;'>EVERY MAN</span></p> +<p><span style='font-size:1.6em;font-weight:bold;'>FOR</span></p> +<p><span style='font-size:1.6em;font-weight:bold;'>HIMSELF</span></p> +<p> </p> +<p>BY</p> +<p><span style='font-size:larger;'>NORMAN DUNCAN</span></p> +<p> </p> +<p><span style='font-size:smaller;'>AUTHOR OF</span></p> +<p><span style='font-size:smaller;'>“THE CRUISE OF THE <em>SHINING LIGHT</em>”</span></p> +<p><span style='font-size:smaller;'>“DOCTOR LUKE OF THE <em>LABRADOR</em>”</span></p> +<p><span style='font-size:smaller;'>ETC. ETC</span></p> +</div> +<div class='figcenter' style='padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em'> +<a name='i002' id='i002'></a> +<img src='images/illus-emb.png' alt='' title=''/><br /> +</div> +<div class='center'> +<p>NEW YORK AND LONDON</p> +<p><span style='font-size:larger;'>HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS</span></p> +<p>MCMVIII</p> +</div> +<p> + <br /> + <br /> + <br /> +</p> +<div class='center'> +<p><span style='font-size:smaller;'>Copyright, 1906,1907,1908, by <span class='sc'>Harper & Brothers</span>.</span></p> +<p><span style='font-size:smaller;'>Copyright, 1906, by <span class='sc'>Houghton, Mifflin, and Company</span>.</span></p> +<p><span style='font-size:smaller;'>Copyright, 1905, by <span class='sc'>The Outlook Company</span>.</span></p> +<p><span style='font-size:smaller;'>Copyright, 1907, by <span class='sc'>The Century Co</span>.</span></p> +<p> </p> +<p><span style='font-size:smaller;'><em>All rights reserved</em></span></p> +<p><span style='font-size:smaller;'>Published September, 1908.</span></p> +</div> +<p> + <br /> + <br /> + <br /> +</p> +<div class='center'> +<p><span style='font-size:larger;'>CONTENTS</span></p> +</div> +<table class='c' summary='table of contents'> +<tr><td style='font-size:smaller'>CHAPTER</td><td></td><td style='font-size:smaller'>PAGE</td></tr> +<tr><td valign='top' style='text-align:right; padding-right:1em;'>I.</td><td valign='top' style='text-align:left; padding-right:3em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Wayfarer</span></td><td valign='top' style='text-align:right;'><a href='#chI'>1</a></td></tr> +<tr><td valign='top' style='text-align:right; padding-right:1em;'>II.</td><td valign='top' style='text-align:left; padding-right:3em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>A Matter of Expediency</span></td><td valign='top' style='text-align:right;'><a href='#chII'>40</a></td></tr> +<tr><td valign='top' style='text-align:right; padding-right:1em;'>III.</td><td valign='top' style='text-align:left; padding-right:3em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Minstrel</span></td><td valign='top' style='text-align:right;'><a href='#chIII'>66</a></td></tr> +<tr><td valign='top' style='text-align:right; padding-right:1em;'>IV.</td><td valign='top' style='text-align:left; padding-right:3em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Squall</span></td><td valign='top' style='text-align:right;'><a href='#chIV'>98</a></td></tr> +<tr><td valign='top' style='text-align:right; padding-right:1em;'>V.</td><td valign='top' style='text-align:left; padding-right:3em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Fool of Skeleton Tickle</span></td><td valign='top' style='text-align:right;'><a href='#chV'>132</a></td></tr> +<tr><td valign='top' style='text-align:right; padding-right:1em;'>VI.</td><td valign='top' style='text-align:left; padding-right:3em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>A Comedy of Candlestick Cove</span></td><td valign='top' style='text-align:right;'><a href='#chVI'>149</a></td></tr> +<tr><td valign='top' style='text-align:right; padding-right:1em;'>VII.</td><td valign='top' style='text-align:left; padding-right:3em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>“By-an’-by” Brown of Blunder Cove</span></td><td valign='top' style='text-align:right;'><a href='#chVII'>182</a></td></tr> +<tr><td valign='top' style='text-align:right; padding-right:1em;'>VIII.</td><td valign='top' style='text-align:left; padding-right:3em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>They Who Lose at Love</span></td><td valign='top' style='text-align:right;'><a href='#chVIII'>208</a></td></tr> +<tr><td valign='top' style='text-align:right; padding-right:1em;'>IX.</td><td valign='top' style='text-align:left; padding-right:3em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Revolution at Satan’s Trap</span></td><td valign='top' style='text-align:right;'><a href='#chIX'>231</a></td></tr> +<tr><td valign='top' style='text-align:right; padding-right:1em;'>X.</td><td valign='top' style='text-align:left; padding-right:3em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Surplus</span></td><td valign='top' style='text-align:right;'><a href='#chX'>273</a></td></tr> +</table> +<p> + <br /> + <br /> + <br /> +</p> +<div class='center'> +<p><span style='font-size:larger;'>ILLUSTRATIONS</span></p> +</div> +<table class='c' summary='loi'> +<tr><td valign='top' style='text-align:left; padding-right:1em;'>SHE WAS PROMISED TO SLOW JIM TOOL.</td><td valign='top' style='text-align:right;'><a href='#ifpc'>Frontispiece</a></td></tr> +<tr><td valign='top' style='text-align:left; padding-right:1em;'>“I SEED THE SHAPE OF A MAN LEAP FOR MY PLACE”</td><td valign='top' style='text-align:right;'><a href='#i062'>62</a></td></tr> +<tr><td valign='top' style='text-align:left; padding-right:1em;'>THE DARK, SMILING SALIM, WITH HIS MAGIC PACK, WAS WELCOME</td><td valign='top' style='text-align:right;'><a href='#i088'>88</a></td></tr> +<tr><td valign='top' style='text-align:left; padding-right:1em;'>“YOU KEEP YOUR TONGUE OFF POOR LIZABETH”</td><td valign='top' style='text-align:right;'><a href='#i112'>112</a></td></tr> +<tr><td valign='top' style='text-align:left; padding-right:1em;'>“YOU WAS FIXED ALL RIGHT?” PARSON JAUNT ASKED</td><td valign='top' style='text-align:right;'><a href='#i178'>178</a></td></tr> +<tr><td valign='top' style='text-align:left; padding-right:1em;'>“OL’ BILL HULK CRAWLIN’ DOWN THE HILL T’ MEETIN’”</td><td valign='top' style='text-align:right;'><a href='#i276'>276</a></td></tr> +</table> +<h1>EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF</h1> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_1'></a>1</span><a name='chI' id='chI'></a>I—THE WAYFARER</h2> +<p> +The harbor lights were out; all the world of +sea and sky and barren rock was black. It +was Saturday—long after night, the first snow +flying in the dark. Half a gale from the north +ran whimpering through the rigging, by turns +wrathful and plaintive—a restless wind: it would +not leave the night at ease. The trader <em>Good +Samaritan</em> lay at anchor in Poor Man’s Harbor +on the Newfoundland coast: this on her last voyage +of that season for the shore fish. We had +given the schooner her Saturday night bath; she +was white and trim in every part: the fish stowed, +the decks swabbed, the litter of goods in the cabin +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_2'></a>2</span> +restored to the hooks and shelves. The crew was +in the forecastle—a lolling, snoozy lot, now desperately +yawning for lack of diversion. Tumm, +the clerk, had survived the moods of brooding and +light irony, and was still wide awake, musing +quietly in the seclusion of a cloud of tobacco +smoke. By all the signs, the inevitable was at +hand; and presently, as we had foreseen, the +pregnant silence fell. +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +With one blast—a swishing exhalation breaking +from the depths of his gigantic chest, in its +passage fluttering his unkempt mustache—Tumm +dissipated the enveloping cloud; and having thus +emerged from seclusion he moved his glance from +eye to eye until the crew sat in uneasy expectancy. +</p> +<p> +“If a lad’s mother tells un he’ve got a soul,” +he began, “it don’t do no wonderful harm; but +if a man finds it out for hisself—” +</p> +<p> +The pause was for effect; so, too, the pointed +finger, the lifted nostrils, the deep, inclusive +glance. +</p> +<p> +“—it plays the devil!” +</p> +<p> +The ship’s boy, a cadaverous, pasty, red-eyed, +drooping-jawed youngster from the Cove o’ First +Cousins, gasped in a painful way. He came closer +to the forecastle table—a fascinated rabbit. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_3'></a>3</span> +</p> +<p> +“Billy Ill,” said Tumm, “you better turn in.” +</p> +<p> +“I isn’t sleepy, sir.” +</p> +<p> +“I ’low you better <em>had</em>,” Tumm warned. “It +ain’t fit for such as you t’ hear.” +</p> +<p> +The boy’s voice dropped to an awed whisper. +“I wants t’ hear,” he said. +</p> +<p> +“Hear?” +</p> +<p> +“Ay, sir. I wants t’ hear about souls—an’ +the devil.” +</p> +<p> +Tumm sighed. “Ah, well, lad,” said he, “I +’low you was born t’ be troubled by fears. God +help us all!” +</p> +<p> +We waited. +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +“He come,” Tumm began, “from Jug Cove—bein’,” +he added, indulgently, after a significant +pause, “born there—an’ that by sheer ill luck of +a windy night in the fall o’ the year, when the ol’ +woman o’ Tart Harbor, which used t’ be handy +thereabouts, was workin’ double watches at +Whale Run t’ save the life of a trader’s wife +o’ the name o’ Tiddle. I ’low,” he continued, +“that ’tis the only excuse a man <em>could</em> have for +hailin’ from Jug Cove; for,” he elucidated, “’tis +a mean place t’ the westward o’ Fog Island, a +bit below the Black Gravestones, where the +<em>Soldier o’ the Cross</em> was picked up by Satan’s +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_4'></a>4</span> +Tail in the nor’easter o’ last fall. You opens the +Cove when you rounds Greedy Head o’ the Henan’-Chickens +an’ lays a course for Gentleman +Tickle t’ other side o’ the Bay. ’Tis there that +Jug Cove lies; an’ whatever,” he proceeded, +being now well under way, with all sail drawing +in a snoring breeze, “’tis where the poor devil +had the ill luck t’ hail from. We was drove +there in the <em>Quick as Wink</em> in the southerly gale +o’ the Year o’ the Big Shore Catch; an’ we lied +three dirty days in the lee o’ the Pillar o’ Cloud, +waitin’ for civil weather; for we was fished t’ +the scrupper-holes, an’ had no heart t’ shake +hands with the sea that was runnin’. ’Tis a +mean place t’ be wind-bound—this Jug Cove: +tight an’ dismal as chokee, with walls o’ black +rock, an’ as nasty a front yard o’ sea as ever I +knowed. +</p> +<p> +“‘Ecod!’ thinks I, ‘I’ll just take a run ashore t’ +see how bad a mess really <em>was</em> made o’ Jug Cove.’ +</p> +<p> +“Which bein’ done, I crossed courses for the +first time with Abraham Botch—Botch by name, +an’ botch, accordin’ t’ my poor lights, by nature: +Abraham Botch, God help un! o’ Jug Cove. +’Twas a foggy day—a cold, wet time: ecod! the +day felt like the corpse of a drowned cook. The +moss was soggy; the cliffs an’ rocks was all a-drip; +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_5'></a>5</span> +the spruce was soaked t’ the skin—the earth all +wettish an’ sticky an’ cold. The southerly gale +ramped over the sea; an’ the sea got so mad at the +wind that it fair frothed at the mouth. I ’low the +sea was tired o’ foolin’, an’ wanted t’ go t’ sleep; +but the wind kep’ teasin’ it—kep’ slappin’ an’ +pokin’ an’ pushin’—till the sea couldn’t stand it +no more, an’ just got mad. Off shore, in the +front yard o’ Jug Cove, ’twas all white with +breakin’ rocks—as dirty a sea for fishin’ punts +as a man could sail in nightmares. From the +Pillar o’ Cloud I could see, down below, the +seventeen houses o’ Jug Cove, an’ the sweet little +<em>Quick as Wink</em>; the water was black, an’ the hills +was black, but the ship an’ the mean little houses +was gray in the mist. T’ sea they was nothin’—just +fog an’ breakers an’ black waves. T’ land-ward, +likewise—black hills in the mist. A dirty +sea an’ a lean shore! +</p> +<p> +“‘Tumm,’ thinks I, ‘’tis more by luck than +good conduct that you wasn’t born here. You’d +thank God, Tumm,’ thinks I, ‘if you didn’t feel +so dismal scurvy about bein’ the Teacher’s pet.’ +</p> +<p> +“An’ then— +</p> +<p> +“‘Good-even,’ says Abraham Botch. +</p> +<p> +“There he lied—on the blue, spongy caribou-moss, +at the edge o’ the cliff, with the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_6'></a>6</span> +black-an’—white sea below, an’ the mist in the sky an’ +on the hills t’ leeward. Ecod! but he was lean +an’ ragged: this fellow sprawlin’ there, with his +face t’ the sky an’ his legs an’ leaky boots scattered +over the moss. Skinny legs he had, an’ a chest +as thin as paper; but aloft he carried more sail +’n the law allows—sky-scraper, star-gazer, an’, +ay! even the curse-o’-God-over-all. That was +Botch—mostly head, an’ a sight more forehead +than face, God help un! He’d a long, girlish +face, a bit thin at the cheeks an’ skimped at the +chin; an’ they wasn’t beard enough anywheres +t’ start a bird’s nest. Ah, but the eyes o’ that +botch! Them round, deep eyes, with the still +waters an’ clean shores! I ’low I can’t tell you +no more—but only this: that they was somehow +like the sea, blue an’ deep an’ full o’ change an’ +sadness. Ay, there lied Botch in the fog-drip—poor +Botch o’ Jug Cove: eyes in his head; his +dirty, lean body clothed in patched moleskin an’ +rotten leather. +</p> +<p> +“An’— +</p> +<p> +“‘Good-even, yourself,’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘My name’s Botch,’ says he. ‘Isn’t you from +the <em>Quick as Wink</em>?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘I is,’ says I; ’an’ they calls me Tumm.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘That’s a very queer name,’ says he. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_7'></a>7</span> +</p> +<p> +“‘Oh no!’ says I. ‘They isn’t nothin’ queer +about the name o’ Tumm.’ +</p> +<p> +“He laughed a bit—an’ rubbed his feet together: +just like a tickled youngster. ‘Ay,’ says +he; ‘that’s a wonderful queer name. Hark!’ +says he. ‘You just listen, an’ I’ll <em>show</em> you. +Tumm,’ says he, ‘Tumm, Tumm, Tumm.... Tumm, +Tumm, Tumm.... Tumm—’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Don’t,’ says I, for it give me the fidgets. +‘Don’t say it so often.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Why not?’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“‘I don’t like it,” says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘Tumm,’ says he, with a little cackle, ‘Tumm, +Tumm, Tumm—’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Don’t you do that no more,’ says I. ‘I won’t +have it. When you says it that way, I ’low I +don’t know whether my name is Tumm or Tump. +’Tis a very queer name. I wisht,’ says I, ‘that +I’d been called Smith.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘’Twouldn’t make no difference,’ says he. +‘All names is queer if you stops t’ think. Every +word you ever spoke is queer. Everything is +queer. It’s <em>all</em> queer—once you stops t’ think +about it.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Then I don’t think I’ll stop,’ says I, ‘for +I don’t <em>like</em> things t’ be queer.’ +</p> +<p> +“Then Botch had a little spell o’ thinkin’.” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_8'></a>8</span> +</p> +<p> +Tumm leaned over the forecastle table. +</p> +<p> +“Now,” said he, forefinger lifted, “accordin’ t’ +my lights, it ain’t nice t’ see <em>any</em> man thinkin’: +for a real man ain’t got no call t’ think, an’ can’t +afford the time on the coast o’ Newf’un’land, +where they’s too much fog an’ wind an’ rock t’ +’low it. For me, I’d rather see a man in a ’leptic +fit: for fits is more or less natural an’ can’t be +helped. But Botch! When Botch <em>thunk</em>—when +he got hard at it—’twould give you the shivers. +He sort o’drawed away—got into nothin’. They +wasn’t no sea nor shore for Botch no more; they +wasn’t no earth, no heavens. He got rid o’all +that, as though it hindered the work he was at, +an’ didn’t matter anyhow. They wasn’t nothin’ +left o’things but botch—an’ the nothin’ about +un. Botch <em>in</em> nothin’. Accordin’ t’ my lights, +’tis a sinful thing t’do; an’ when I first seed Botch +at it, I ’lowed he was lackin’ in religious opinions. +’Twas just as if his soul had pulled down the +blinds, an’ locked the front door, an’ gone out for +a walk, without leavin’ word when ’twould be +home. An’, accordin’ t’ my lights, it ain’t right, +nor wise, for a man’s soul t’ do no such thing. +A man’s soul ’ain’t got no common-sense; it ’ain’t +got no caution, no manners, no nothin’ that it +needs in a wicked world like this. When it gets +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_9'></a>9</span> +loose, ’t is liable t’ wander far, an’ get lost, an’ +miss its supper. Accordin’ t’ my lights, it ought +t’ be kep’ in, an’ fed an’ washed regular, an’ put +t’ bed at nine o’clock. But Botch! well, there +lied his body in the wet, like an unloved child, +while his soul went cavortin’ over the Milky Way. +</p> +<p> +“He come to all of a sudden. ‘Tumm,’ says +he, ‘you is.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Ay,’ says I, ‘Tumm I is. ’Tis the name I +was born with.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘You don’t find me,’ says he. ‘I says you <em>is</em>.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Is what?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Just—<em>is</em>!’ +</p> +<p> +“With that, I took un. ’Twas all t’ oncet. +He was tellin’ me that I <em>was</em>. Well, I <em>is</em>. Damme! +’twasn’t anything I didn’t <em>know</em> if I’d stopped t’ +think. But they wasn’t nobody ever called my +notice to it afore, an’ I’d been too busy about the +fish t’ mind it. So I was sort o’—s’prised. It +don’t matter, look you! t’ <em>be</em>; but ’tis mixin’ t’ the +mind an’ fearsome t’ stop t’ <em>think</em> about it. An’ +it come t’ me all t’ oncet; an’ I was s’prised, an’ +I was scared. +</p> +<p> +“‘Now, Tumm,’ says he, with his finger p’intin’, +‘where was you?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Fishin’ off the Shark’s Fin,’ says I. ‘We +just come up loaded, an’—’ +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_10'></a>10</span> +</p> +<p> +“‘You don’t find me,’ says he. ‘I says, where +was you afore you was is?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Is you gone mad?’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘Not at all, Tumm,’ says he. ‘Not at all! +’Tis a plain question. You <em>is</em>, isn’t you? Well, +then, you must have been <em>was</em>. Now, then, +Tumm, where <em>was</em> you?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Afore I was born?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Ay—afore you was is.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘God knows!’ says I. ‘I ’low <em>I</em> don’t. An’ +look you, Botch,’ says I, ‘this talk ain’t right. +You isn’t a infidel, is you?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Oh no!’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“‘Then,’ says I, for I was mad, ‘where in hell +did you think up all this ghostly tomfoolery?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘On the grounds,’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“‘On the grounds?’ Lads,” said Tumm to +the crew, his voice falling, “<em>you</em> knows what that +means, doesn’t you?” +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +The Jug Cove fishing-grounds lie off Breakheart +Head. They are beset with peril and all +the mysteries of the earth. They are fished from +little punts, which the men of Jug Cove cleverly +make with their own hands, every man his own +punt, having been taught to this by their fathers, +who learned of the fathers before them, out of the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_11'></a>11</span> +knowledge which ancient contention with the +wiles of the wind and of the sea had disclosed. +The timber is from the wilderness, taken at +leisure; the iron and hemp are from the far-off +southern world, which is to the men of the place +like a grandmother’s tale, loved and incredible. +Off the Head the sea is spread with rock and +shallow. It is a sea of wondrously changing colors—blue, +red as blood, gray, black with the night. +It is a sea of changing moods: of swift, unprovoked +wrath; of unsought and surprising gentlenesses. +It is not to be understood. There is no +mastery of it to be won. It gives no accounting +to men. It has no feeling. The shore is bare +and stolid. Black cliffs rise from the water; they +are forever white at the base with the fret of the +sea. Inland, the blue-black hills lift their heads; +they are unknown to the folk—hills of fear, remote +and cruel. Seaward, fogs and winds are +bred; the misty distances are vast and mysterious, +wherein are the great cliffs of the world’s edge. +Winds and fogs and ice are loose and passionate +upon the waters. Overhead is the high, wide +sky, its appalling immensity revealed from the +rim to the rim. Clouds, white and black, crimson +and gold, fluffy, torn to shreds, wing restlessly +from nowhere to nowhere. It is a vast, silent, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_12'></a>12</span> +restless place. At night its infinite spaces are +alight with the dread marvel of stars. The universe +is voiceless and indifferent. It has no purpose—save +to follow its inscrutable will. Sea +and wind are aimless. The land is dumb, self-centred; +it has neither message nor care for its +children. And from dawn to dark the punts of +Jug Cove float in the midst of these terrors. +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +“Eh?” Tumm resumed. “<em>You</em> knows what +it is, lads. ’Tis bad enough t’ think in company, +when a man can peep into a human eye an’ steady +his old hulk; but t’ think alone—an’ at the fishin’! +I ’low Botch ought to have knowed better; for +they’s too many men gone t’ the mad-house t’ +St. John’s already from this here coast along o’ +thinkin’. But Botch thinked at will. ‘Tumm,’ +says he, ‘I done a power o’ thinkin’ in my life—out +there on the grounds, between Breakheart +Head an’ the Tombstone, that breakin’ rock t’ +the east’ard. I’ve thunk o’ wind an’ sea, o’ sky +an’ soil, o’ tears an’ laughter an’ crooked backs, +o’ love an’ death, rags an’ robbery, of all the +things of earth an’ in the hearts o’ men; an’ I +don’t know nothin’! My God! after all, I don’t +know nothin’! The more I’ve thunk, the less +I’ve knowed. ’Tis all come down t’ this, now, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_13'></a>13</span> +Tumm: that I <em>is</em>. An’ if I <em>is</em>, I <em>was</em> an’ <em>will be</em>. +But sometimes I misdoubt the <em>was</em>; an’ if I loses +my grip on the <em>was</em>, Tumm, my God! what’ll +become o’ the <em>will be</em>? Can you tell me that, +Tumm? Is I got t’ come down t’ the <em>is</em>? Can’t +I build nothin’ on that? Can’t I go no further +than the <em>is</em>? An’ will I lose even that? Is I got +t’ come down t’ knowin’ nothin’ at all?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Look you! Botch,’ says I, ‘don’t you know +the price o’ fish?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘No,’ says he. ‘But it ain’t nothin’ t’ know. +It ain’t worth knowin’. It—it—it don’t matter!’ +</p> +<p> +“‘I ’low,’ says I, ‘your wife don’t think likewise. +You got a wife, isn’t you?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Ay,’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“‘An’ a kid?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘I don’t know,’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“‘You <em>what</em>!’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘I don’t know,’ says he. ‘She was engaged +at it when I come up on the Head. They was a +lot o’ women in the house, an’ a wonderful lot o’ +fuss an’ muss. You’d be <em>s’prised</em>, Tumm,’ says +he, ’t’ know how much fuss a thing like this can +<em>make</em>. So,’ says he, ‘I ’lowed I’d come up on the +Pillar o’ Cloud an’ think a spell in peace.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘An’ what?’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘Have a little spurt at thinkin’.’ +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_14'></a>14</span> +</p> +<p> +“‘O’ she?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Oh no, Tumm,’ says he; ‘<em>that</em> ain’t nothin’ +t’ <em>think</em> about. But,’ says he, ‘I s’pose I might +as well go down now, an’ see what’s happened. +I hopes ’tis a boy,’ says he, ‘for somehow girls +don’t seem t’ have much show.’ +</p> +<p> +“An’ with that,” drawled Tumm, “down the +Pillar o’ Cloud goes Abraham Botch.” +</p> +<p> +He paused to laugh; and ’twas a soft, sad little +laugh—dwelling upon things long past. +</p> +<p> +“An’ by-and-by,” he continued, “I took the +goat-path t’ the water-side; an’ I went aboard the +<em>Quick as Wink</em> in a fog o’ dreams an’ questions. +The crew was weighin’ anchor, then; an’ ’twas +good for the soul t’ feel the deck-planks underfoot, +an’ t’ hear the clank o’ solid iron, an’ t’ join +the work-song o’ men that had muscles an’ bowels. +‘Skipper Zeb,’ says I, when we had the old craft +coaxed out o’ the Tickle, ‘leave me have a spell +at the wheel. For the love o’ man,’ says I, ‘let +me get a grip of it! I wants t’ get hold o’ something +with my hands—something real an’ solid; +something I knows about; something that <em>means</em> +something!’ For all this talk o’ the <em>is</em> an’ <em>was</em>, +an’ all these thoughts o’ the <em>why</em>, an’ all the crybaby +‘My Gods!’ o’ Abraham Botch, an’ the +mystery o’ the wee new soul, had made me dizzy +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_15'></a>15</span> +in the head an’ a bit sick at the stomach. So I +took the wheel, an’ felt the leap an’ quiver o’ the +ship, an’ got my eye screwed on the old Giant’s +Thumb, loomin’ out o’ the east’ard fog, an’ kep’ +her wilful head up, an’ wheedled her along in +the white tumble, with the spray o’ the sea cool +an’ wet on my face; an’ I was better t’ oncet. +The Boilin’-Pot Shallows was dead ahead; below +the fog I could see the manes o’ the big white +horses flung t’ the gale. An’ I ’lowed that oncet +I got the <em>Quick as Wink</em> in them waters, deep +with fish as she was, I’d have enough of a real +man’s troubles t’ sink the woes o’ the soul out o’ +all remembrance. +</p> +<p> +“‘I won’t care a squid,’ thinks I, ‘for the <em>why</em> +nor the <em>wherefore</em> o’ nothin’!’ +</p> +<p> +“‘N neither I did.” +</p> +<p> +The skipper of the <em>Good Samaritan</em> yawned. +“Isn’t they nothin’ about fish in this here yarn?” +he asked. +</p> +<p> +“Nor tradin’,” snapped Tumm. +</p> +<p> +“Nothin’ about love?” +</p> +<p> +“Botch never <em>knowed</em> about love.” +</p> +<p> +“If you’ll ’scuse me,” said the skipper, “I’ll +turn in. I got enough.” +</p> +<p> +But the clammy, red-eyed lad from the Cove +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_16'></a>16</span> +o’ First Cousins hitched closer to the table, and +put his chin in his hands. He was now in a +shower of yellow light from the forecastle lamp. +His nostrils were working; his eyes were wide +and restless and hot. He had bitten at a chapped +underlip until the blood came. +</p> +<p> +“About that <em>will be</em>” he whispered, timidly. +“Did Botch never say—<em>where</em>?” +</p> +<p> +“You better turn in,” Tumm answered. +</p> +<p> +“But I wants t’ know!” +</p> +<p> +Tumm averted his face. “Ill,” he commanded, +quietly, “you better turn in.” +</p> +<p> +The boy was obedient. +</p> +<p> +“In March, ’long about two year after,” Tumm +resumed, “I shipped for the ice aboard the +<em>Neptune</em>. We got a scattered swile [seal] off +the Horse Islands; but ol’ Cap’n Lane ’lowed +the killin’ was so mean that he’d move t’ sea an’ +come up with the ice on the outside, for the wind +had been in the nor’west for a likely spell. We +cotched the body o’ ice t’ the nor’east o’ the +Funks; an’ the swiles was sure there—hoods an’ +harps an’ whitecoats an’ all. They was three +St. John’s steamers there, an’ they’d been killin’ +for a day an’ a half; so the ol’ man turned our +crew loose on the ice without waitin’ t’ wink, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_17'></a>17</span> +though ’twas afternoon, with a wicked gray look +t’ the sky in the west, which was where the +wind was jumpin’ from. An’ we had a red time—ay, +now, believe me: a soppy red time of it +among the swiles that day! They was men from +Green Bay, an’ Bonavist’, an’ the Exploits, an’ +the South Coast, an’ a swarm o’ Irish from St. +John’s; they was so many men on the pack, +ecod! that you couldn’t call their names. An’ +we killed an’ sculped till dusk. An’ then the +weather broke with snow; an’ afore we knowed +it we was lost from the ships in the cloud an’ +wind—three hundred men, ecod! smothered an’ +blinded by snow: howlin’ for salvation like souls +in a frozen hell. +</p> +<p> +“‘Tumm,’ thinks I, ‘you better get aboard +o’ something the sea won’t break over. This +pack,’ thinks I, ‘will certain go abroad when the +big wind gets at it.” +</p> +<p> +“So I got aboard a bit of a berg; an’ when I +found the lee side I sot down in the dark an’ +thunk hard about different things—sunshine an’ +supper an’ the like o’ that; for they wasn’t no +use thinkin’ about what was goin’ for’ard on the +pack near by. An’ there, on the side o’ the little +berg, sits I till mornin’; an’ in the mornin’, out +o’ the blizzard t’ win’ward, along comes Abraham +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_18'></a>18</span> +Botch o’ Jug Cove, marooned on a flat pan o’ +ice. ’Twas comin’ down the wind—clippin’ it +toward my overgrown lump of a craft like a +racin’ yacht. When I sighted Botch, roundin’ +a point o’ the berg, I ’lowed I’d have no more’n +twenty minutes t’ yarn with un afore he was out +o’ hail an’ sight in the snow t’ leeward. He was +squatted on his haunches, with his chin on his +knees, white with thin ice, an’ fringed an’ decked +with icicles; an’ it ’peared t’ me, from the way +he was took up with the nothin’ about un, that he +was still thinkin’. The pack was gone abroad, +then—scattered t’ the four winds: they wasn’t +another pan t’ be seed on the black water. An’ +the sea was runnin’ high—a fussy wind-lop over +a swell that broke in big whitecaps, which went +swishin’ away with the wind. A scattered sea +broke over Botch’s pan; ’twould fall aboard, an’ +break, an’ curl past un, risin’ to his waist. But +the poor devil didn’t seem t’ take much notice. +He’d shake the water off, an’ cough it out of his +throat; an’ then he’d go on takin’ observations in +the nothin’ dead ahead. +</p> +<p> +“‘Ahoy, Botch!’ sings I. +</p> +<p> +“He knowed me t’ oncet. ‘Tumm!’ he sings +out. ‘Well, well! That <em>you</em>?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘The same,’ says I. ‘You got a bad berth +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_19'></a>19</span> +there, Botch. I wish you was aboard the berg +with me.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Oh,’ says he, ‘the pan’ll <em>do</em>. I gets a bit +choked with spray when I opens my mouth; but +they isn’t no good reason why I shouldn’t keep +it shut. A man ought t’ breathe through his +nose, anyhow. That’s what it’s <em>for</em>.’ +</p> +<p> +“’Twas a bad day—a late dawn in a hellish +temper. They wasn’t much of it t’ see—just a +space o’ troubled water, an’ the big unfeelin’’ +cloud. An’, God! how cold it was! The wind +was thick with dry snow, an’ it come whirlin’’ +out o’ the west as if it wanted t’ do damage, an’ +meant t’ have its way. ’Twould grab the crests +o’ the seas an’ fling un off like handfuls o’ white +dust. An’ in the midst o’ this was poor Botch +o’ Jug Cove! +</p> +<p> +“‘This wind,’ says I, ‘will work up a wonderful +big sea, Botch. You’ll be swep’ off afore +nightfall.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘No,’ says he; ‘for by good luck, Tumm, I’m +froze tight t’ the pan.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘But the seas’ll drown you.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘I don’t know,’ says he. ‘I keeps breakin’ +the ice ’round my neck,’ says he, ‘an’ if I can +on’y keep my neck clear an’ limber I’ll be able +t’ duck most o’ the big seas.’ +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_20'></a>20</span> +</p> +<p> +“It wasn’t nice t’ see the gentle wretch squattin’ +there on his haunches. It made me feel bad. +I wisht he was home t’ Jug Cove thinkin’ of his +soul. +</p> +<p> +“‘Botch,’ says I, ‘I <em>wisht</em> you was somewheres +else!’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Now, don’t you trouble about that, Tumm,’ +says he. ‘Please don’t! The ice is all on the +outside. I’m perfeckly comfortable inside.’ +</p> +<p> +“He took it all so gracious that somehow or +other I begun t’ forget that he was froze t’ the +pan an’ bound out t’ sea. He was ’longside, now; +an’ I seed un smile. So I sort o’ got his feelin’; +an’ I didn’t fret for un no more. +</p> +<p> +“‘An’, Tumm,’ says he, ‘I’ve had a wonderful +grand night. I’ll never forget it so long as I +lives.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘A what?’ says I. ‘Wasn’t you cold?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘I—I—I don’t know,’ says he, puzzled. ‘I +was too busy t’ notice much.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Isn’t you hungry?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Why, Tumm,’ says he, in s’prise, ‘I believes +I is, now that you mentions it. I believes I’d +<em>like</em> a biscuit.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘I wisht I had one t’ shy,’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘Don’t you be troubled,’ says he. ‘My arms +is stuck. I couldn’t cotch it, anyhow.’ +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_21'></a>21</span> +</p> +<p> +“‘Anyhow,’ says I, ‘I wisht I had one.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘A grand night!’ says he. ‘For I got a idea, +Tumm. They wasn’t nothin’ t’ disturb me all +night long. I been all alone—an’ I been quiet. +An’ I got a idea. I’ve gone an’ found out, +Tumm,’ says he, ‘a law o’ life! Look you! +Tumm,’ says he, ‘what you aboard that berg for? +’Tis because you had sense enough t’ get there. +An’ why isn’t I aboard that berg? ’Tis because +I didn’t have none o’ the on’y kind o’ sense that +was needed in the mess last night. You’ll be +picked up by the fleet,’ says he, ‘when the weather +clears; an’ I’m bound out t’ sea on a speck o’ +flat ice. This coast ain’t kind,’ says he. ‘No +coast is kind. Men lives because they’re able for +it; not because they’re coaxed to. An’ the on’y +kind o’ men this coast lets live an’ breed is the +kind she wants. The kind o’ men this coast puts +up with ain’t weak, an’ they ain’t timid, an’ +they don’t think. Them kind dies—just the way +I ’low <em>I</em> got t’ die. They don’t live, Tumm, an’ +they don’t breed.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘What about you?’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘About me?’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“‘Ay—that day on the Pillar o’ Cloud.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Oh!’ says he. ‘You mean about <em>she</em>. Well, +it didn’t come t’ nothin’, Tumm. The women +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_22'></a>22</span> +folk wasn’t able t’ find me, an’ they didn’t know +which I wanted sove, the mother or the child; +so, somehow or other, both went an’ died afore I +got there. But that isn’t got nothin’ t’ do with +<em>this</em>.’ +</p> +<p> +“He was drifted a few fathoms past. Just +then a big sea fell atop of un. He ducked real +skilful, an’ come out of it smilin’, if sputterin’. +</p> +<p> +“‘Now, Tumm,’ says he, ‘if we was t’ the +s’uth’ard, where they says ’tis warm an’ different, +an’ lives isn’t lived the same, maybe you’d be +on the pan o’ ice, an’ I’d be aboard the berg; +maybe you’d be like t’ starve, an’ I’d get so much +as forty cents a day the year round. They’s a +great waste in life,’ says he; ‘I don’t know why, +but there ’tis. An’ I ’low I’m gone t’ waste on +this here coast. I been born out o’ place, that’s +all. But they’s a place somewheres for such as +me—somewheres for the likes o’ me. T’ the +s’uth’ard, now, maybe, they’d <em>be</em> a place; t’ the +s’uth’ard, maybe, the folk would want t’ know +about the things I thinks out—ay, maybe they’d +even <em>pay</em> for the labor I’m put to! But <em>here</em>, +you lives, an’ I dies. Don’t you see, Tumm? +’Tis the law! ’Tis why a Newf’un’lander ain’t +a nigger. More’n that, ’tis why a dog’s a dog +on land an’ a swile in the water; ’tis why a dog +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_23'></a>23</span> +haves legs an’ a swile haves flippers. Don’t you +see? ’Tis the law!’ +</p> +<p> +“‘I don’t quite find you,’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“Poor Botch shook his head. ‘They isn’t +enough words in langwitch,’ says he, ‘t’ ’splain +things. Men ought t’ get t’ work an’ make more.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘But tell me,’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“Then, by Botch’s regular ill luck, under he +went, an’ it took un quite a spell t’ cough his voice +into workin’ order. +</p> +<p> +“‘Excuse me,’ says he. ‘I’m sorry. It come +too suddent t’ be ducked.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Sure!’ says I. ‘<em>I</em> don’t mind.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Tumm,’ says he, ‘it all comes down t’ this: +<em>The thing that lives is the kind o’ thing that’s best +fit t’ live in the place it lives in</em>. That’s a law +o’ life! An’ nobody but <em>me</em>, Tumm,’ says he, +‘ever knowed it afore!’ +</p> +<p> +“‘It don’t amount t’ nothin’,’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘Tis a law o’ life!’ +</p> +<p> +“‘But it don’t <em>mean</em> nothin’.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Tumm,’ says he, discouraged, ‘I can’t talk +t’ you no more. I’m too busy. I ’lowed when +I seed you there on the berg that you’d tell somebody +what I thunk out last night if you got clear +o’ this mess. An’ I <em>wanted</em> everybody t’ know. +I did so <em>want</em> un t’ know—an’t’ know that Abraham +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_24'></a>24</span> +Botch o’ Jug Cove did the thinkin’ all by +hisself! But you don’t seem able. An’, anyhow,’ +says he, ‘I’m too busy t’ talk no more. +They’s a deal more hangin’ on that law ’n I told +you. The beasts o’ the field is born under it, an’ +the trees o’ the forest, an’ all that lives. They’s a +bigger law behind; an’ I got t’ think that out afore +the sea works up. I’m sorry, Tumm; but if you +don’t mind, I’ll just go on thinkin’. You <em>won’t</em> +mind, will you, Tumm? I wouldn’t like you t’ +feel bad.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Lord, no!’ says I. ‘<em>I</em> won’t mind.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Thank you, Tumm,’ says he. ‘For I’m +greatly took by thinkin’.’ +</p> +<p> +“An’ so Botch sputtered an’ thunk an’ kep’ his +neck limber ’til he drifted out o’ sight in the +snow.” +</p> +<p> +But that was not the last of the Jug Cove +philosopher. +</p> +<p> +“Next time I seed Botch,” Tumm resumed, +“we was both shipped by chance for the Labrador +from Twillingate. ’Twas aboard the dirty little +<em>Three Sisters</em>—a thirty-ton, fore-an’-aft green-fish +catcher, skippered by Mad Bill Likely o’ +Yellow Tail Tickle. An’ poor Botch didn’t look +healthful. He was blue an’ wan an’ wonderful +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_25'></a>25</span> +thin. An’ he didn’t look at all <em>right</em>. Poor +Botch—ah, poor old Botch! They wasn’t no +more o’ them fuddlin’ questions; they wasn’t no +more o’ that cock-sure, tickled little cackle. Them +big, deep eyes o’ his, which used t’ be clean an’ +fearless an’ sad an’ nice, was all misty an’ red, +like a nasty sunset, an’ most unpleasant shifty. +I ’lowed I’d take a look in, an’ sort o’ fathom +what was up; but they was too quick for me—they got +away every time; an’ I never seed +more’n a shadow. An’ he kep’ lookin’ over his +shoulder, an’ cockin’ his ears, an’ givin’ suddent +starts, like a poor wee child on a dark road. +They wasn’t no more o’ that sinful gettin’ into +nothin’—no more o’ that puttin’ away o’ the rock +an’ sea an’ the great big sky. I ’lowed, by the +Lord! that he couldn’t <em>do</em> it no more. All them +big things had un scared t’ death. He didn’t +dast forget they was there. He couldn’t get into +nothin’ no more. An’ so I knowed he wouldn’t +be happy aboard the <em>Three Sisters</em> with that devil +of a Mad Bill Likely o’ Yellow Tail Tickle for +skipper. +</p> +<p> +“‘Botch,’ says I, when we was off Mother +Burke, ‘how is you, b’y?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Oh, farin’ along,’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“‘Ay,’ says I; ‘but how <em>is</em> you, b’y?’ +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_26'></a>26</span> +</p> +<p> +“‘Farin’ along,’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“‘It ain’t a answer,’ says I. ‘I’m askin’ a plain +question, Botch.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Well, Tumm,’ says he, ‘the fac’ is, Tumm, +I’m—sort o’—jus’—farin’ along.’ +</p> +<p> +“We crossed the Straits of a moonlight night. +The wind was fair an’ light. Mad Bill was t’ +the wheel: for he ’lowed he wasn’t goin’ t’ have +no chances took with a Lally Line steamer, +havin’ been sunk oncet by the same. ’Twas a +kind an’ peaceful night. I’ve never knowed the +world t’ be more t’ rest an’ kinder t’ the sons o’ +men. The wind was from the s’uth’ard, a point +or two east: a soft wind an’ sort o’ dawdlin’ careless +an’ happy toward the Labrador. The sea +was sound asleep; an’ the schooner cuddled up, +an’ dreamed, an’ snored, an’ sighed, an’ rolled +along, as easy as a ship could be. Moonlight +was over all the world—so soft an’ sweet an’ playful +an’ white; it said, ‘Hush!’ an’, ‘Go t’ sleep!’ +All the stars that ever shone was wide awake +an’ winkin’. A playful crew—them little stars! +Wink! wink! ‘Go t’sleep!’ says they. ‘’Tis our +watch,’ says they. ‘<em>We’ll</em> take care o’ <em>you</em>.’ +An’ t’ win’ward—far off—black an’ low—was +Cape Norman o’ Newf’un’land. Newf’un’land! +Ah, we’re all mad with love o’ she! Good-night!’ says +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_27'></a>27</span> +she. ‘Fair v’y’ge,’ says she; ‘an’ +may you come home loaded!’ Sleep? Ay; men +could sleep that night. They wasn’t no fear at +sea. Sleep? Ay; they wasn’t no fear in all the +moonlit world. +</p> +<p> +“An’ then up from the forecastle comes Botch +o’ Jug Cove. +</p> +<p> +“‘Tumm,’ says he, ‘you isn’t turned in.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘No, Botch,’ says I. ‘It isn’t my watch; +but I ’lowed I’d lie here on this cod-trap an’ +wink back at the stars.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘I can’t sleep,’ says he. ‘Oh, Tumm, I +<em>can’t</em>!’ +</p> +<p> +“‘’Tis a wonderful fine night,’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘Ay,’ says he; ‘but—’ +</p> +<p> +“‘But what?’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘You never can tell,’ says he +</p> +<p> +“‘Never can tell what?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘What’s goin’ t’ happen.’ +</p> +<p> +“I took one look—just one look into them +shiverin’ eyes—an’ shook my head. ‘Do you +’low,’ says I, ‘that we can hit that berg off the +port bow?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘You never can tell,’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“‘Good Lord!’ says I. ‘With Mad Bill +Likely o’ Yellow Tail Tickle at the wheel? +Botch,’ says I, ‘you’re gone mad. What’s <em>come</em> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_28'></a>28</span> +along o’ you? Where’s the <em>is</em> an’ the <em>was</em> an’ +the <em>will be</em>? What’s come o’ that law o’ life?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Hist!’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“‘Not me!’ says I. ‘I’ll hush for no man. +What’s come o’ the law o’ life? What’s come o’ +all the thinkin’?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘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.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘You isn’t had a fever, Botch?’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘Well,’ says he, ‘I got religion.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Oh!’ says I. ‘What kind?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Vi’lent,’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“‘I see,’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘I isn’t converted just this minute,’ says he. +‘I ’low you might say, an’ be near the truth, that +I’m a damned backslider. But I <em>been</em> 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.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Botch, b’y,’ says I, for it made me feel awful +bad, ‘don’t you go an’ trouble about that.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘You don’t know about hell,’ says he. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_29'></a>29</span> +</p> +<p> +“‘I <em>does</em> know about hell,’ says I. ‘My mother +told me.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Ay,’ says he; ‘she told you. But you doesn’t +<em>know</em>.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Botch,’ says I, ‘twould s’prise me if she left +anything out.’ +</p> +<p> +“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. +</p> +<p> +“‘You got a soul, Tumm,’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“‘I knows that,’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘How?’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“‘My mother told me.’ +</p> +<p> +“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’ perfeckly solemn an’ knowin’, +that I ’lowed I didn’t know much about heaven +an’ hell, after all, an’ begun t’ feel shaky. +</p> +<p> +“‘I got converted,’ says Botch, ‘by means of a +red-headed parson from the Cove o’ the Easterly +Winds. <em>He</em> knowed everything. They wasn’t +no <em>why</em> he wasn’t able t’ answer. “The glory o’ +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_30'></a>30</span> +God,” 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 <em>that</em>. The +fac’ is, he <em>told</em> me so. “Whatever,” thinks I, +“the glory o’ God does well enough, if a man only +<em>will</em> 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 <em>use</em> 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 <em>mind</em> 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 +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_31'></a>31</span> +about laws o’ life. ’Tis a sin t’ pry into the +mysteries o’ God; 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! <em>An I +wants t’ save it now</em>!’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Well,’ says I, ‘ain’t it sove?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘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 +<em>had</em> t’ believe if I wanted t’ save my soul from +hell.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Botch,’ says I, ‘leave your soul be.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘I can’t,’ says he. ‘I can’t! I got a immortal +soul, Tumm. What’s t’ become o’ that +there soul?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘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’.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘But ’tis <em>mine</em>—<em>my</em> soul!’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Leave it be,’ says I. ‘It’ll get t’ heaven.’ +</p> +<p> +“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 <em>Three Sisters</em>, which was built by the hands +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_32'></a>32</span> +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! +</p> +<p> +“‘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’ hell, peepin’ in,’ says he; ‘an’ +if the devils suffered in the fire—if they moaned +an’ begged for the mercy o’ God—I’d be wantin’ +t’ go in, Tumm, with a jug o’ water an’ a pa’m-leaf +fan!’ +</p> +<p> +“‘You’d get pretty well singed, Botch,’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘I’d <em>want</em> t’ be singed!’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“‘Well, Botch,’ says I, ‘I don’t know where +you’d best lay your course for, heaven or hell. +But I knows, my b’y,’ says I, ‘that you better +give your soul a rest, or you’ll be sorry.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘I can’t,’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“‘It’ll get t’ one place or t’other,’ says I, ‘if +you on’y bides your time.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘How do you know?’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“‘Why,’ says I, ‘any parson’ll <em>tell</em> you so!’ +</p> +<p> +“‘But how do <em>you</em> know?’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“‘Damme, Botch!’ says I, ‘my mother told +me so.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘That’s it!’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“‘What’s it?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Your mother,’ says he. ‘’Tis all hearsay +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_33'></a>33</span> +with you an’ me. But I wants t’ know for myself. +Heaven or hell, damnation or salvation, +God or nothin’!’ says he. ‘I wouldn’t care if I +on’y <em>knowed</em>. But I don’t know, an’ can’t find +out. I’m tired o’ hearsay an’ guessin’, Tumm. +I wants t’ know. Dear God of all men,’ says he, +with his fists in the air, ‘I <em>wants t’ know</em>!’ +</p> +<p> +“‘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.’ +</p> +<p> +“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—<em>an’ I looked</em>! Then I closed the +Book. They wasn’t much of a message; it +<em>done</em>, 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 +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_34'></a>34</span> +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 shore 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’ <em>they</em> +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!’ +</p> +<p> +“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!” +</p> +<p> +He sighed again. +</p> +<p> +“We fished the Farm Yard,” Tumm continued, +“an’ Indian Harbor, an’ beat south into +Domino Run; but we didn’t get no chance t’ use +a pound o’ salt for all that. They didn’t seem t’ +be no sign o’ fish anywheres on the s’uth’ard or +middle coast o’ the Labrador. We run here,’ +an’ we beat there, an’ we fluttered around like +a half-shot gull; but we didn’t come up with no +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_35'></a>35</span> +fish. Down went the trap, an’ up she come: +not even a lumpfish or a lobser t’ grace the labor. +Winds in the east, lop on the sea, fog in the sky, +ice in the water, colds on the chest, boils on the +wrists; but nar’ a fish in the hold! It drove +Mad Bill Likely stark. ‘Lads,’ says he, ‘the +fish is north o’ Mugford. I’m goin’ down,’ says +he, ‘if we haves t’ winter at Chidley on swile-fat +an’ sea-weed. For,’ says he, ‘Butt o’ Twillingate, +which owns this craft, an’ has outfitted every +man o’ this crew, is on his last legs, an’ I’d rather +face the Lord in a black shroud o’ sin than tie up +t’ the old man’s wharf with a empty hold. For +the Lord is used to it,’ says he, ‘an’ wouldn’t +mind; but Old Man Butt would <em>cry</em>.’ So we +’lowed we’d stand by, whatever come of it; an’ +down north we went, late in the season, with +a rippin’ wind astern. An’ we found the fish +’long about Kidalick; an’ we went at it, night an’ +day, an’ loaded in a fortnight. ‘An’ now, lads,’ +says Mad Bill Likely, when the decks was awash, +‘you can all go t’ sleep, an’ be jiggered t’ you!’ +An’ down I dropped on the last stack o’ green +cod, an’ slep’ for more hours than I dast tell you. +</p> +<p> +“Then we started south. +</p> +<p> +“‘Tumm,’ says Botch, when we was well +underway, ‘we’re deep. We’re awful deep.’ +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_36'></a>36</span> +</p> +<p> +“‘But it ain’t salt,’ says I; ‘’tis fish.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Ay,’ says he; ‘but ’tis all the same t’ the +schooner. We’ll have wind, an’ she’ll complain.’ +</p> +<p> +“We coaxed her from harbor t’ harbor so far +as Indian Tickle. Then we got a fair wind, an’ +Mad Bill Likely ’lowed he’d make a run for it t’ +the northern ports o’ the French Shore. We was +well out an’ doin’ well when the wind switched t’ +the sou’east. ’Twas a beat, then; an’ the poor +old <em>Three Sisters</em> didn’t like it, an’ got tired, an’ +wanted t’ give up. By dawn the seas was comin’ +over the bow at will. The old girl simply couldn’t +keep her head up. She’d dive, an’ nose in, an’ +get smothered; an’ she shook her head so pitiful +that Mad Bill Likely ’lowed he’d ease her for’ard, +an’ see how she’d like it. ’Twas broad day when +he sent me an’ Abraham Botch o’ Jug Cove +out t’ stow the stays’l. They wasn’t no fog on +the face o’ the sea; but the sky was gray an’ +troubled, an’ the sea was a wrathful black-an’-white, +an’ the rain, whippin’ past, stung what it +touched, an’ froze t’ the deck an’ riggin’. I +knowed she’d put her nose into the big white seas, +an’ I knowed Botch an’ me would go under, +an’ I knowed the foothold was slippery with ice; +so I called the fac’s t’ Botch’s attention, an’ +asked un not t’ think too much. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_37'></a>37</span> +</p> +<p> +“‘I’ve give that up,’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“‘Well,’ says I, ‘you might get another attackt.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘No fear,’ says he; ‘’tis foolishness t’ think. +It don’t come t’ nothin’.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘But you <em>might</em>,’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘Not in a moment o’ grace,’ says he. ‘An’, +Tumm,’ says he, ‘at this instant, my condition,’ +says he, ‘is one o’ salvation.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Then,’ says I, ‘you follow me, an’ we’ll do +a tidy job with that there stays’l.’ +</p> +<p> +“An’ out on the jib-boom we went. We’d +pretty near finished the job when the <em>Three +Sisters</em> stuck her nose into a thundering sea. +When she shook that off, I yelled t’ Botch t’ look +out for two more. If he heard, he didn’t say so; +he was too busy spittin’ salt water. We was still +there when the second sea broke. But when the +third fell, an’ my eyes was shut, an’ I was grippin’ +the boom for dear life, I felt a clutch on my +ankle; an’ the next thing I knowed I was draggin’ +in the water, with a grip on the bobstay, an’ +something tuggin’ at my leg like a whale on a +fish-line. I knowed ’twas Botch, without lookin’, +for it couldn’t be nothin’ else. An’ when I looked, +I seed un lyin’ in the foam at the schooner’s +bow, bobbin’ under an’ up. His head was on a +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_38'></a>38</span> +pillow o’ froth, an’ his legs was swingin’ in a green, +bubblish swirl beyond. +</p> +<p> +“‘Hold fast!’ I yelled. +</p> +<p> +“The hiss an’ swish o’ the seas was hellish. +Botch spat water an’ spoke, but I couldn’t hear. +I ’lowed, though, that ’twas whether I could keep +my grip a bit longer. +</p> +<p> +“‘Hold fast!’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“He nodded a most agreeable thank you. ‘I +wants t’ think a minute,’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“‘Take both hands!’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“On deck they hadn’t missed us yet. The +rain was thick an’ sharp-edged, an’ the schooner’s +bow was forever in a mist o’ spray. +</p> +<p> +“‘Tumm!’ says Botch. +</p> +<p> +“‘Hold fast!’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“He’d hauled his head out o’ the froth. They +wasn’t no trouble in his eyes no more. His eyes +was clear an’ deep—with a little laugh lyin’ far +down in the depths. +</p> +<p> +“‘Tumm,’ says he, ‘I——’ +</p> +<p> +“‘I don’t hear,’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘I can’t wait no longer,’ says he. ‘I wants t’ +know. An’ I’m so near, now,’ says he, ‘that I +’low I’ll just find out.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Hold fast, you fool!’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“I swear by the God that made me,” Tumm +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_39'></a>39</span> +declared, “that he was smilin’ the last I seed of +his face in the foam! He wanted t’ know—an’ +he found out! But I wasn’t quite so curious,” +Tumm added, “an’ I hauled my hulk out o’ the +water, an’ climbed aboard. An’ I run aft; but +they wasn’t nothin’ t’ be seed but the big, black +sea, an’ the froth o’ the schooner’s wake and o’ +the wild white horses.” +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +The story was ended. +</p> +<p> +A tense silence was broken by a gentle snore +from the skipper of the <em>Good Samaritan</em>. I turned. +The head of the lad from the Cove o’ First +Cousins protruded from his bunk. It was withdrawn +on the instant. But I had caught sight +of the drooping eyes and of the wide, flaring +nostrils. +</p> +<p> +“See that, sir?” Tumm asked, with a backward +nod toward the boy’s bunk. +</p> +<p> +I nodded. +</p> +<p> +“Same old thing,” he laughed, sadly. “Goes +on t’ the end o’ the world.” +</p> +<p> +We all know that. +</p> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_40'></a>40</span><a name='chII' id='chII'></a>II—A MATTER OF EXPEDIENCY</h2> +<p> +Sure enough, old man Jowl came aboard +the <em>Good Samaritan</em> at Mad Tom’s Harbor +to trade his fish—a lean, leathery old fellow in +white moleskin, with skin boots, tied below the +knees, and a cloth cap set decorously on a bushy +head. The whole was as clean as a clothes-pin; +and the punt was well kept, and the fish white +and dry and sweet to smell, as all Newfoundland +cod should be. Tumm’s prediction that he +would not smile came true; his long countenance +had no variation of expression—tough, brown, +delicately wrinkled skin lying upon immobile +flesh. His face was glum of cast—drawn at the +brows, thin-lipped, still; but yet with an abundant +and incongruously benignant white beard +which might have adorned a prophet. For +Jim Bull’s widow he made way; she, said he, +must have his turn at the scales and in the cabin, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_41'></a>41</span> +for she had a baby to nurse, and was pressed for +opportunity. This was tenderness beyond example—generous +and acute. A clean, pious, +gentle old fellow: he was all that, it may be; but +he had eyes to disquiet the sanctified, who are not +easily disturbed. They were not blue, but black +with a blue film, like the eyes of an old wolf—cold, +bold, patient, watchful—calculating; having +no sympathy, but a large intent to profit, ultimately, +whatever the cost. Tumm had bade +me look Jowl in the eye; and to this day I have +not forgotten.... +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +The <em>Good Samaritan</em> was out of Mad Tom’s +Harbor, bound across the bay, after dark, to +trade the ports of the shore. It was a quiet night—starlit: +the wind light and fair. The clerk +and the skipper and I had the forecastle of the +schooner to ourselves. +</p> +<p> +“I ’low,” Tumm mused, “<em>I</em> wouldn’t want t’ +grow old.” +</p> +<p> +The skipper grinned. +</p> +<p> +“Not,” Tumm added, “on this coast.” +</p> +<p> +“Ah, well, Tumm,” the skipper jeered, “maybe +you won’t!” +</p> +<p> +“I’d be ashamed,” said Tumm. +</p> +<p> +“You dunderhead!” snapped the skipper, who +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_42'></a>42</span> +was old, “on this coast an old man’s a man! +He’ve lived through enough,” he growled, “t’ +show it.” +</p> +<p> +“’Tis accordin’,” said Tumm. +</p> +<p> +“To what?” I asked. +</p> +<p> +“T’ how you looks at it. In a mess, now—you +take it in a nasty mess, when ’tis every man +for hisself an’ the devil take the hindmost—in a +mess like that, I ’low, the devil often gets the +<em>man</em> o’ the party, an’ the swine goes free. But +’tis all just accordin’ t’ how you looks at it; an’ +as for <em>my</em> taste, I’d be ashamed t’ come through +fifty year o’ life on this coast alive.” +</p> +<p> +“Ay, b’y?” the skipper inquired, with a curl +of the lip. +</p> +<p> +“It wouldn’t <em>look</em> right,” drawled Tumm. +</p> +<p> +The skipper laughed good-naturedly. +</p> +<p> +“Now,” said Tumm, “you take the case o’ old +man Jowl o’ Mad Tom’s Harbor—” +</p> +<p> +“Excuse me, Tumm b’y,” the skipper interrupted. +“If you’re goin’ t’ crack off, just bide +a spell till I gets on deck.” +</p> +<p> +Presently we heard his footsteps going aft.... +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +“A wonderful long time ago, sir,” Tumm began, +“when Jowl was in his prime an’ I was a +lad, we was shipped for the Labrador aboard the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_43'></a>43</span> +<em>Wings o’ the Mornin’</em>. She was a thirty-ton fore-an’-after, +o’ Tuggleby’s build—Tuggleby o’ Dog +Harbor—hailin’ from Witch Cove, an’ bound +down t’ the Wayward Tickles, with a fair intention +o’ takin’ a look-in at Run-by-Guess an’ +Ships’ Graveyard, t’ the nor’ard o’ Mugford, if +the Tickles was bare. Two days out from Witch +Cove, somewheres off Gull Island, an’ a bit t’ the +sou’west, we was cotched in a switch o’ weather. +’Twas a nor’east blow, mixed with rain an’ hail; +an’ in the brewin’ it kep’ us guessin’ what ’twould +accomplish afore it got tired, it looked so lusty +an’ devilish. The skipper ’lowed ’twould trouble +some stomachs, whatever else, afore we got out +of it, for ’twas the first v’y’ge o’ that season for +every man Jack o’ the crew. An’ she blowed, +an’ afore mornin’ she’d tear your hair out by the +roots if you took off your cap, an’ the sea was +white an’ the day was black. The <em>Wings o’ +the Mornin’</em> done well enough for forty-eight +hours, an’ then she lost her grit an’ quit. Three +seas an’ a gust o’ wind crumpled her up. She +come out of it a wreck—topmast gone, spars +shivered, gear in a tangle, an’ deck swep’ clean. +Still an’ all, she behaved like a lady; she kep’ +her head up, so well as she was able, till a big +sea snatched her rudder; an’ then she breathed +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_44'></a>44</span> +her last, an’ begun t’ roll under our feet, dead as +a log. So we went below t’ have a cup o’ tea. +</p> +<p> +“‘Don’t spare the rations, cook,’ says the +skipper. ‘Might as well go with full bellies.’ +</p> +<p> +“The cook got sick t’ oncet. +</p> +<p> +“‘You lie down, cook,’ says the skipper, ‘an’ +leave me do the cookin’. Will you drown where +you is, cook,’ says he, ‘or on deck?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘On deck, sir,’ says the cook. +</p> +<p> +“I’ll call you, b’y,’ says the skipper. +</p> +<p> +“Afore long the first hand give up an’ got in +his berth. He was wonderful sad when he got +tucked away. ’Lowed somebody might hear of it. +</p> +<p> +“‘You want t’ be called, Billy?’ says the +skipper. +</p> +<p> +“‘Ay, sir; please, sir,’ says the first hand. +</p> +<p> +“‘All right, Billy,’ says the skipper. ‘But +you won’t care enough t’ get out.’ +</p> +<p> +“The skipper was next. +</p> +<p> +“‘<em>You goin’, too!</em>’ says Jowl. +</p> +<p> +“‘You’ll have t’ eat it raw, lads,’ says the +skipper, with a white little grin at hisself. ‘An’ +don’t rouse me,’ says he, ‘for I’m as good as +dead already.’ +</p> +<p> +“The second hand come down an’ ’lowed we’d +better get the pumps goin’. +</p> +<p> +“‘She’s sprung a leak somewheres aft,’ says he. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_45'></a>45</span> +</p> +<p> +Jowl an’ me an’ the second hand went on +deck t’ keep her afloat. The second hand ’lowed +she’d founder, anyhow, if she was give time, but +he’d like t’ see what would come o’ pumpin’, just +for devilment. So we lashed ourselves handy an’ +pumped away—me an’ the second hand on one +side an’ Jowl on the other. The <em>Wings o’ the +Mornin’</em> wobbled an’ dived an’ shook herself like +a wet dog; all she wanted was a little more water +in her hold an’ then she’d make an end of it, +whenever she happened t’ take the notion. +</p> +<p> +“‘I’m give out,’ says the second hand, afore +night. +</p> +<p> +“‘Them men in the forecastle isn’t treatin’ +us right,’ says Jowl. ‘They ought t’ lend a +hand.’ +</p> +<p> +“The second hand bawled down t’ the crew; +but nar a man would come on deck. +</p> +<p> +“‘Jowl,’ says he, ‘you have a try.’ +</p> +<p> +“Jowl went down an’ complained; but it didn’t +do no good. They was all so sick they wouldn’t +answer. So the second hand ’lowed he’d go +down an’ argue, which he foolishly done—an’ +never come back. An’ when I went below t’ +rout un out of it, he was stowed away in his bunk, +all out o’ sorts an’ wonderful melancholy. ‘Isn’t +no use, Tumm,’ says he. ‘<em>It</em> isn’t no use.’ +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_46'></a>46</span> +</p> +<p> +“‘Get out o’ this!’ says the cook. ‘You woke +me up!’ +</p> +<p> +“I ’lowed the forecastle air wouldn’t be long +about persuadin’ me to the first hand’s sinful way +o’ thinkin’. An’ when I got on deck the gale +tasted sweet. +</p> +<p> +“‘They isn’t <em>treatin’</em> us right,’ says Jowl. +</p> +<p> +“‘I ’low you’re right,’ says I, ‘but what you +goin’ t’ do?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘What you think?’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“‘Pump,’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘Might’s well,’ says he. ‘She’s fillin’ up.’ +</p> +<p> +“We kep’ pumpin’ away, steady enough, till +dawn, which fagged us wonderful. The way +she rolled an’ pitched, an’ the way the big white, +sticky, frosty seas broke over us, an’ the way the +wind pelted us with rain an’ hail, an’ the blackness +o’ the sky, was <em>mean</em>—just almighty careless +an’ mean. An’ pumpin’ didn’t seem t’ do no +good; for why? <em>we</em> couldn’t save the hulk—not us +two. As it turned out, if the crew had been fitted +out with men’s stomachs we might have weathered +it out, an’ gone down the Labrador, an’ got +a load; for every vessel that got there that season +come home fished t’ the gunwales. But we didn’t +know it then. Jowl growled all night to hisself +about the way we was treated. The wind carried +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_47'></a>47</span> +most o’ the blasphemy out t’ sea, where they +wasn’t no lad t’ corrupt, an’ at scattered times a +big sea would make Jowl splutter, but I heared +enough t’ make me smell the devil, an’ when I +seed Jowl’s face by the first light I ’lowed his +angry feelin’s had riz to a ridiculous extent, so +that they was something more’n the weather gone +wild in my whereabouts. +</p> +<p> +“‘What’s gone along o’ you?’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘The swine!’ says he. ‘Come below, Tumm,’ +says he, ‘an’ we’ll give un a dose o’ fists an’ feet.’ +</p> +<p> +“So down we went, an’ we had the whole crew +in a heap on the forecastle floor afore they woke +up. Ecod! what a mess o’ green faces! A +per-feck-ly limp job lot o’ humanity! Not a backbone +among un. An’ all on account o’ their +stomachs! It made me sick an’ mad t’ see un. +The cook was the worst of un; said we’d gone an’ +woke un up, just when he’d got t’ sleep an’ forgot +it all. Good Lord! ‘You gone an’ made me +remember!’ says he. At that, Jowl let un have +it; but the cook only yelped an’ crawled back in +his bunk, wipin’ the blood from his chin. For +twenty minutes an’ more we labored with them +sea-sick sailors, with fists an’ feet, as Jowl had +prescribed. They wasn’t no mercy begged nor +showed. We hit what we seen, pickin’ the tender +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_48'></a>48</span> +places with care, an’ they grunted an’ crawled back +like rats; an’ out they come again, head foremost +or feet, as happened. I never seed the like of it. +You could treat un most scandalous, an’ they’d +do nothin’ but whine an’ crawl away. ’Twas +enough t’ disgust you with your own flesh an’ +bones! Jowl ’lowed he’d cure the skipper, whatever +come of it, an’ laid his head open with a birch +billet. The skipper didn’t whimper no more, but +just fell back in the bunk, an’ lied still. Jowl +said he’d be cured when he come to. Maybe he +was; but ’tis my own opinion that Jowl killed un, +then an’ there, an’ that he never <em>did</em> come to. +Whatever, ’twas all lost labor; we didn’t work a +single cure, an’ we had t’ make a run for the deck, +all of a sudden, t’ make peace with our own +stomachs. +</p> +<p> +“‘The swine!’ says Jowl. ‘Let un drown!’ +</p> +<p> +“I ’lowed we’d better pump; but Jowl wouldn’t +hear to it. Not he! No sir! He’d see the +whole herd o’ pigs sunk afore he’d turn a finger! +</p> +<p> +“‘<em>Me</em> pump!’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“‘You better,’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘For what?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘For your life,’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘An’ save them swine in the forecastle?’ says +he. ‘Not <em>me</em>!’ +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_49'></a>49</span> +</p> +<p> +“I ’lowed it didn’t matter, anyhow, for ’twas +only a question o’ keepin’ the <em>Wings o’ the +Mornin’</em> out o’ the grave for a spell longer than +she might have stayed of her own notion. But, +thinks I, I’ll pump, whatever, t’ pass time; an’ +so I set to, an’ kep’ at it. The wind was real +vicious, an’ the seas was breakin’ over us, fore an’ +aft an’ port an’ starboard, t’ suit their fancy, an’ +the wreck o’ the <em>Wings o’ the Mornin’</em> wriggled +an’ bounced in a way t’ s’prise the righteous, an’ +the black sky was pourin’ buckets o’ rain an’ +hail on all the world, an’ the wind was makin’ +knotted whips o’ both. It wasn’t agreeable, an’ +by-an’-by my poor brains was fair riled t’ see the +able-bodied Jowl with nothin’ t’ do but dodge +the seas an’ keep hisself from bein’ pitched over-board. +’Twas a easy berth <em>he</em> had! But <em>I</em> was +busy. +</p> +<p> +“‘Look you, Jowl,’ sings I, ‘you better take +a spell at the pump.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Me?’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“‘Yes, <em>you</em>!’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Oh no!’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“‘You think I’m goin’ t’ do all this labor single-handed?’ +says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘’Tis your own notion,’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“‘I’ll see you sunk, Jowl!’ says I, ‘afore I +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_50'></a>50</span> +pumps another stroke. If you wants t’ drown +afore night I’ll not hinder. Oh no, Mister Jowl!’ +says I. ‘I’ll not be standin’ in your light.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Tumm,’ says he, ‘I got a idea.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Dear man!’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘The wind’s moderatin’,’ says he, ‘an’ it +won’t be long afore the sea gets civil. But +the <em>Wings o’ the Mornin’</em> won’t float overlong. +She’ve been settlin’ hasty for the last hour. Still +an’ all, I ’low I got time t’ make a raft, which +I’ll do.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Look!’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“Off near where the sun was settin’ the clouds +broke. ’Twas but a slit, but it let loose a flood +o’ red light. ’Twas a bloody sky an’ sea—red +as shed blood, but full o’ the promise o’ peace +which follows storm, as the good God directs. +</p> +<p> +“‘I ’low,’ says he, ‘the wind will go down +with the sun.’ +</p> +<p> +“The vessel was makin’ heavy labor of it. +‘I bets you,’ says I, ‘the <em>Wings o’ the Mornin’</em> +beats un both.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Time’ll tell,’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“I give un a hand with the raft. An’ hard +work ’twas; never knowed no harder, before nor +since, with the seas comin’ overside, an’ the deck +pitchin’ like mad, an’ the night droppin’ down. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_51'></a>51</span> +Ecod! but I isn’t able t’ tell you. I forgets what +we done in the red light o’ that day. ’Twas +labor for giants an’ devils! But we had the raft +in the water afore dark, ridin’ in the lee, off the +hulk. It didn’t look healthy, an’ was by no +means invitin’; but the <em>Wings o’ the Mornin’</em> was +about t’ bow an’ retire, if the signs spoke true, +an’ the raft was the only hope in all the brutal +world. I took kindly t’ the crazy thing—I ’low I +did! +</p> +<p> +“‘Tumm,’ says Jowl, ‘I ’low you thinks you +got some rights in that raft.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘I do,’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘But you isn’t,’ says he. ‘You isn’t, Tumm, +because I’m a sight bigger ’n you, an’ could put +you off. It isn’t in my mind t’ do it—but I +<em>could</em>. I wants company, Tumm, for it looks +like a long v’y’ge, an’ I’m ’lowin’ t’ have you.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘What about the crew?’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘They isn’t room for more’n two on that raft,’ +says he. +</p> +<p> +“‘Dear God! Jowl,’ says I, ‘what you goin’ +t’ do?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘I’m goin’ t’ try my level best,’ says he, ‘t’ +get home t’ my wife an’ kid; for they’d be wonderful +disappointed if I didn’t turn up.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘But the crew’s got wives an’ kids!’ says I. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_52'></a>52</span> +</p> +<p> +“‘An’ bad stomachs,’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“‘Jowl,’ says I, ‘she’s sinkin’ fast.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Then I ’low we better make haste.’ +</p> +<p> +“I started for’ard. +</p> +<p> +“‘Tumm,’ says he, ‘don’t you go another step. +If them swine in the forecastle knowed they was +a raft ’longside, they’d steal it. It won’t <em>hold</em> un, +Tumm. It won’t hold more’n two, an’, ecod!’ +says he, with a look at the raft, ‘I’m doubtin’ +that she’s able for <em>that</em>!’ +</p> +<p> +“It made me shiver. +</p> +<p> +“‘No, sir!’ says he. ‘I ’low she won’t hold +more’n one.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Oh yes, she will, Jowl!’ says I. ‘Dear man! +yes; she’s able for two.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Maybe,’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“‘Handy!’ says I. ‘Oh, handy, man!’ +</p> +<p> +“‘We’ll try,’ says he, ‘whatever comes of it. +An’ if she makes bad weather, why, you can—’ +</p> +<p> +“He stopped. +</p> +<p> +“‘Why don’t you say the rest?’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘I hates to.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘What do you mean?’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘Why, damme! Tumm,’ says he, ‘I mean +that you can get <em>off</em>. What <em>else</em> would I mean?’ +</p> +<p> +“Lord! I didn’t know! +</p> +<p> +“‘Well?’ says he. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_53'></a>53</span> +</p> +<p> +“‘It ain’t very kind,’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘What would <em>you</em> do,’ says he, ‘if <em>you</em> was +me?’ +</p> +<p> +“I give un a look that told un, an’ ’twas against +my will I done it. +</p> +<p> +“‘Well,’ says he, ‘you can’t blame me, then.’ +</p> +<p> +“No more I could. +</p> +<p> +“‘Now I’ll get the grub from the forecastle, +lad,’ says he, ‘an’ we’ll cast off. The <em>Wings o’ +the Mornin’</em> isn’t good for more’n half an hour +more. You bide on deck, Tumm, an’ leave the +swine t’ me.’ +</p> +<p> +Then he went below. +</p> +<p> +“‘All right,’ says he, when he come on deck. +‘Haul in the line.’ We lashed a water-cask an’ +a grub-box t’ the raft. ‘Now, Tumm,’ says he, +‘we can take it easy. We won’t be in no haste +t’ leave, for I ’low ’tis more comfortable here. +Looks t’ me like more moderate weather. I +feels pretty good, Tumm, with all the work done, +an’ nothin’ t’ do but get aboard.’ He sung the +long-metre doxology. ‘Look how the wind’s +dropped!’ says he. ‘Why, lad, we might have +saved the <em>Wings o’ the Mornin’</em> if them pigs had +done their dooty last night. But ’tis too late +now—an’ it’s <em>been</em> too late all day long. We’ll +have a spell o’ quiet,’ says he, ‘when the sea goes +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_54'></a>54</span> +down. Looks t’ me like the v’y’ge might be +pleasant, once we gets through the night. I ’low +the stars’ll be peepin’ afore mornin’. It’ll be a +comfort t’ see the little mites. I loves t’ know +they’re winkin’ overhead. They makes me think +o’ God. You isn’t got a top-coat, is you, lad?’ +says he. ‘Well, you better get it, then. I’ll +trust you in the forecastle, Tumm, for I knows +you wouldn’t wrong me, an’ you’ll need that top-coat +bad afore we’re picked up. An’ if you got +your mother’s Bible in your nunny-bag, or anything +like that you wants t’ save, you better fetch +it,’ says he. ‘I ’low we’ll get out o’ this mess, +an’ we don’t want t’ have anything t’ regret.’ +</p> +<p> +“I got my mother’s Bible. +</p> +<p> +“‘Think we better cast off?’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“I did. The <em>Wings o’ the Mornin’</em> was ridin’ +too low an’ easy for me t’ rest; an’ the wind had +fell to a soft breeze, an’ they wasn’t no more rain, +an’ no more dusty spray, an’ no more breakin’ +waves. They was a shade on the sea—the first +shadow o’ the night—t’ hide what we’d leave behind. +</p> +<p> +“‘We better leave her,’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘Then all aboard!’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“An’ we got aboard, an’ cut the cable, an’ +slipped away on a soft, black sea, far into the +night.... An’ no man ever seed the <em>Wings o’ the Mornin’</em> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_55'></a>55</span> +again.... An’ me an Jowl was picked +up, half dead o’ thirst an’ starvation, twelve +days later, by ol’ Cap’n Loop, o’ the Black +Bay mail-boat, as she come around Toad Point, +bound t’ Burnt Harbor.... +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +“Jowl an’ me,” Tumm resumed, “fished the +Holy Terror Tickles o’ the Labrador in the <em>Got +It</em> nex’ season. He was a wonderful kind man, +Jowl was—so pious, an’ soft t’ speak, an’ honest, +an’ willin’ for his labor. At midsummer I got a +bad hand, along of a cut with the splittin’-knife, +an’ nothin’ would do Jowl but he’d lance it, an’ +wash it, an’ bind it, like a woman, an’ do so much +o’ my labor as he was able for, like a man. I +fair got t’ <em>like</em> that lad o’ his—though ’twas but a +young feller t’ home, at the time—for Jowl was +forever talkin’ o’ Toby this an’ Toby that—not +boastful gabble, but just tender an’ nice t’ hear. +An’ a fine lad, by all accounts: a dutiful lad, brave +an’ strong, if given overmuch t’ yieldin’ the road +t’ save trouble, as Jowl said. I ’lowed, one +night, when the <em>Got It</em> was bound home, with all +the load the salt would give her, that I’d sort o’ +like t’ know the lad that Jowl had. +</p> +<p> +“‘Why don’t you fetch un down the Labrador?’ +says I. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_56'></a>56</span> +</p> +<p> +“‘His schoolin’,’ says Jowl. +</p> +<p> +“‘Oh!’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘Ay,’ says he; ‘his mother’s wonderful particular +about the schoolin’.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Anyhow,’ says I, ‘the schoolin’ won’t go on +for all time.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘No,’ says Jowl, ‘it won’t. An’ I’m ’lowin’ +t’ harden Toby up a bit nex’ spring.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘T’ the ice?’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘Ay,’ says he; ‘if I can overcome his mother.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘’Tis a rough way t’ break a lad,’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘So much the better,’ says he. ‘It don’t take +so long. Nothin’ like a sealin’ v’y’ge,’ says he, +‘t’ harden a lad. An’ if you comes along, +Tumm,’ says he, ‘why, I won’t complain. I’m +’lowin’ t’ ship with Skipper Tommy Jump o’ the +<em>Second t’ None</em>. She’s a tight schooner, o’ the +Tiddle build, an’ I ’low Tommy Jump will get a +load o’ fat, whatever comes of it. You better +join, Tumm,’ says he, ‘an’ we’ll all be t’gether. +I’m wantin’ you t’ get acquainted with Toby, an’ +lend a hand with his education, which you can do +t’ the queen’s taste, bein’ near of his age.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘I’ll do it, Jowl,’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“An’ I done it; an’ afore we was through, I +wisht I hadn’t.” +</p> +<p> +Tumm paused. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_57'></a>57</span> +</p> +<p> +“An’ I done it—nex’ March—shipped along +o’ Tommy Jump o’ the <em>Second t’ None</em>, with +Jowl an’ his lad aboard,” he proceeded. +</p> +<p> +“‘You overcame the wife,’ says I, ‘didn’t +you?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘’Twas a tough job,’ says he. ‘She ’lowed +the boy might come t’ harm, an’ wouldn’t give un +up; but me an’ Toby pulled t’gether, an’ managed +her, the day afore sailin’. She cried a wonderful +lot; but, Lord! that’s only the way o’ women.’ +</p> +<p> +“A likely lad o’ sixteen, this Toby—blue-eyed +an’ fair, with curly hair an’ a face full o’ blushes. +Polite as a girl, which is much too polite for +safety at the ice. He’d make way for them that +blustered; but he done it with such an air that we +wasn’t no more’n off the Goggles afore the whole +crew was all makin’ way for he. So I ’lowed he’d +<em>do</em>—that he’d be took care of, just for love. But +Jowl wasn’t o’ my mind. +</p> +<p> +“‘No,’ says he; ‘the lad’s too soft. He’ve got +t’ be hardened.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Maybe,’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘If anything happened,’ says he, ‘Toby +wouldn’t stand a show. The men is kind to un +now,’ says he, ‘for they doesn’t lose nothin’ by +it. If they stood t’ lose their lives, Tumm, they’d +push un out o’ the way, an’ he’d go ’ithout a +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_58'></a>58</span> +whimper. I got t’ talk t’ that lad for his own +good.’ +</p> +<p> +“Which he done. +</p> +<p> +“‘Toby,’ says he, ‘you is much too soft. Don’t +you go an’ feel bad, now, lad, just because your +father tells you so; for ’tis not much more’n a +child you are, an’ your father’s old, an’ knows +all about life. You got t’ get hard if you wants t’ +hold your own. You’re too polite. You gives +way too easy. <em>Don’t</em> give way—don’t give way +under no circumstances. In this life,’ says he, +‘’tis every man for hisself. I don’t know why +God made it that way,’ says he, ‘but He done it, +an’ we got t’ stand by. You’re young,’ says he, +‘an’ thinks the world is what you’d have it be if +you made it; but I’m old, an’ I knows that a man +can’t be polite an’ live to his prime on this coast. +Now, lad,’ says he, ‘we isn’t struck the ice yet, +but I ’low I smell it; an’ once we gets the <em>Second +t’ None</em> in the midst, ’most anything is likely t’ +happen. If so be that Tommy Jump gets the +schooner in a mess you look out for yourself; +don’t think o’ nobody else, for you can’t <em>afford</em> to.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Yes, sir,’ says the boy. +</p> +<p> +“‘Mark me well, lad! I’m tellin’ you this for +your own good. You won’t get no mercy showed +you; so don’t you show mercy t’ nobody else. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_59'></a>59</span> +If it comes t’ your life or the other man’s, you put +<em>him</em> out o’ the way afore he has time t’ put <em>you</em>. +Don’t let un give battle. Hit un so quick as +you’re able. It’ll be harder if you waits. You +don’t have t’ be <em>fair</em>. ’Tisn’t expected. Nobody’s +fair. An’—ah, now, Toby!’ says he, +puttin’ his arm over the boy’s shoulder, ‘if you +feels like givin’ way, an’ lettin’ the other man +have your chance, an’ if you <em>can’t</em> think o’ yourself, +just you think o’ your mother. Ah, lad,’ +says he, ‘she’d go an’ cry her eyes out if anything +happened t’ you. Why, Toby—oh, my! now, +lad—why, <em>think</em> o’ the way she’d sit in her rockin’-chair, +an’ put her pinny to her eyes, an’ cry, an’ +cry! You’re the only one she’ve got, an’ she +couldn’t, lad, she <em>couldn’t</em> get along ’ithout you! +Ah, she’d cry, an’ cry, an’ cry; an’ they wouldn’t +be nothin’ in all the world t’ give her comfort! +So don’t you go an’ grieve her, Toby,’ says he, +‘by bein’ tender-hearted. Ah, now, Toby!’ says +he, ‘don’t you go an’ make your poor mother +cry!’ +</p> +<p> +“‘No, sir,’ says the lad. ‘I’ll not, sir!’ +</p> +<p> +“‘That’s a good boy, Toby,’ says Jowl. ‘I +’low you’ll be a man when you grow up, if your +mother doesn’t make a parson o’ you.’” +</p> +<p> +Tumm made a wry face. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_60'></a>60</span> +</p> +<p> +“Well,” he continued, “Tommy Jump kep’ +the <em>Second t’ None</em> beatin’ hither an’ yon off the +Horse Islands for two days, expectin’ ice with +the nor’east wind. ’Twas in the days afore the +sealin’ was done in steamships from St. John’s, +an’ they was a cloud o’ sail at the selsame thing. +An’ we all put into White Bay, in the mornin’ +in chase o’ the floe, an’ done a day’s work on the +swiles [seals] afore night. But nex’ day we was +jammed by the ice—the fleet o’ seventeen +schooners, cotched in the bottom o’ the bay, an’ +like t’ crack our hulls if the wind held. Whatever, +the wind fell, an’ there come a time o’ calm +an’ cold, an’ we was all froze in, beyond help, +an’ could do nothin’ but wait for the ice t’ drive +out an’ go abroad, an’ leave us t’ sink or sail, as +might chance. Tommy Jump ’lowed the <em>Second +t’ None</em> would sink; said her timbers was sprung, +an’ she’d leak like a basket, an’ crush like a eggshell, +once the ice begun t’ drive an’ grind an’ +rafter—leastwise, he <em>thunk</em> so, admittin’ ’twas +open t’ argument; an’ he wouldn’t go so far as t’ +pledge the word of a gentleman that she <em>would</em> +sink. +</p> +<p> +“‘Whatever,’ says he, ‘we’ll stick to her an’ +find out.’ +</p> +<p> +“The change o’ wind come at dusk—a big +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_61'></a>61</span> +blow from the sou’west. ’Twas beyond doubt +the ice would go t’ sea; so I tipped the wink t’ +young Toby Jowl an’ told un the time was come. +</p> +<p> +“‘I’ll save my life, Tumm,’ says he, ‘if I’m able.’ +</p> +<p> +“’Twas a pity! Ecod! t’ this day I ’low ’twas +a pity; ’Twas a fine, sweet lad, that Toby; but +he looked like a wolf, that night, in the light o’ +the forecastle lamp, when his eyes flashed an +his upper lip stretched thin over his teeth! +</p> +<p> +“‘You better get some grub in your pocket,’ +says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘I got it,’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“‘Well,’ says I, ‘I ’low <em>you’ve</em> learned! +Where’d you get it?” +</p> +<p> +“‘Stole it from the cook,’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“‘Any chance for me?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘If you’re lively,’ says he. ‘The cook’s a +fool.... Will it come soon, Tumm?’ says he, +with a grip on my wrist. ‘How long will it be, +eh, Tumm, afore ’tis every man for hisself?’ +</p> +<p> +“Soon enough, God knowed! By midnight +the edge o’ the floe was rubbin’ Pa’tridge P’int, +an’ the ice was troubled an’ angry. In an hour +the pack had the bottom scrunched out o’ the +<em>Second t’ None</em>; an’ she was kep’ above water—listed +an’ dead—only by the jam o’ little pans +’longside. Tommy Jump ’lowed we’d strike +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_62'></a>62</span> +the big billows o’ the open afore dawn an’ the +pack would go abroad an’ leave us t’ fill an’ +sink; said <em>he</em> couldn’t do no more, an’ the crew +could take care o’ their own lives, which was +what <em>he</em> would do, whatever come of it. ’Twas +blowin’ big guns then—rippin’ in straight lines +right off from Sop’s Arm an’ all them harbors for +starved bodies an’ souls t’ the foot o’ the bay. +An’ snow come with the wind; the heavens +emptied theirselves; the air was thick an’ heavy. +Seemed t’ me the wrath o’ sea an’ sky broke loose +upon us—wind an’ ice an’ snow an’ big waves +an’ cold—all the earth contains o’ hate for men! +Skipper Tommy Jump ’lowed we’d better stick +t’ the ship so long as we was able; which was +merely his opinion, an’ if the hands had a mind +t’ choose their pans while they was plenty, they +was welcome t’ do it, an’ he wouldn’t see no man +called a fool if his fists was big enough t’ stop +it. But no man took t’ the ice at that time. +An’ the <em>Second t’ None</em> ran on with the floe, out +t’ sea, with the wind an’ snow playin’ the devil +for their own amusement, an’ the ice groanin’ +its own complaint.... +</p> +<p> +“Then we struck the open.” +</p> +<div><a name='i062' id='i062'></a></div> +<div class='figcenter' style='padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em'> +<a name='i003' id='i003'></a> +<img src="images/illus-062.jpg" alt="“I SEED THE SHAPE OF A MAN LEAP FOR MY PLACE”" title=""/><br /> +<span class='caption'>“I SEED THE SHAPE OF A MAN LEAP FOR MY PLACE”</span> +</div> +<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_63'></a>63</span></div> +<p> +“‘Now, lads,’ yells Tommy Jump, when he got +all hands amidships, ‘you better quit the ship. +The best time,’ says he, ‘will be when you sees +<em>me</em> go overside. But don’t get in my way. You +get your own pans. God help the man that gets +in my way!’ +</p> +<p> +“Tommy Jump went overside when the ice +opened an’ the <em>Second t’ None</em> begun t’ go down +an’ the sea was spread with small pans, floatin’ +free. ’Twas near dawn then. Things was gray; +an’ the shapes o’ things was strange an’ big—out +o’ size, fearsome. Dawn shot over the +sea, a wide, flat beam from the east, an’ the +shadows was big, an’ the light dim, an’ the air +full o’ whirlin’ snow; an’ men’s eyes was too +wide an’ red an’ frightened t’ look with sure +sight upon the world. An’ all the ice was in a +tumble o’ black water.... An’ the <em>Second t’ +None</em> went down.... An’ I ’lowed they wasn’t +no room on my pan for nobody but me. But +I seed the shape of a man leap for my place. +An’ I cursed un, an’ bade un go farther, or I’d +drown un. An’ he leaped for the pan that lied +next, where Jowl was afloat, with no room t’ +spare. An’ Jowl hit quick an’ hard. He was +waitin’, with his fists closed, when the black +shape landed; an’ he hit quick an’ hard without +lookin’.... An’ I seed the face in the water.... +An’, oh, I knowed who ’twas! +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_64'></a>64</span> +</p> +<p> +“‘Dear God!’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“Jowl was now but a shape in the snow. +‘That you, Tumm?’ says he. ‘What you sayin’?’ +</p> +<p> +“’ Why didn’t you take time t’ <em>look</em>?’ says I. +‘Oh, Jowl! <em>why</em> didn’t you take time?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘T’ look?’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“‘Dear God!’ +</p> +<p> +“‘What you sayin’ that for, Tumm?’ says he. +‘What you mean, Tumm? ... My God!’ says he, +‘what is I gone an’ done? Who <em>was</em> that, Tumm? +My God! Tell me! What is I done?’ +</p> +<p> +“I couldn’t find no words t’ tell un. +</p> +<p> +“‘Oh, make haste,’ says he, ‘afore I drifts +away!’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Dear God!’ says I, ‘’twas Toby!’ +</p> +<p> +“An’ he fell flat on the ice....An’ I didn’t see +Jowl no more for four year. He was settled at +Mad Tom’s Harbor then, where you seed un +t’-day; an’ his wife was dead, an’ he didn’t go +no more t’ the Labrador, nor t’ the ice, but fished +the Mad Tom grounds with hook-an’-line on +quiet days, an’ was turned timid, they said, with +fear o’ the sea....” +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +The <em>Good Samaritan</em> ran softly through the +slow, sleepy sea, bound across the bay to trade +the ports of the shore. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_65'></a>65</span> +</p> +<p> +“I tells you, sir,” Tumm burst out, “’tis hell. +<em>Life</em> is! Maybe not where you hails from, sir; +but ’tis on this coast. I ’low where you comes +from they don’t take lives t’ save their own?” +</p> +<p> +“Not to save their own,” said I. +</p> +<p> +He did not understand. +</p> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_66'></a>66</span><a name='chIII' id='chIII'></a>III—THE MINSTREL</h2> +<p> +Salim Awad, poet, was the son of Tanous—that +orator. Having now lost at love, +he lay disconsolate on his pallet in the tenement +overlooking the soap factory. He would not +answer any voice; nor would he heed the gentle +tap and call of old Khalil Khayyat, the tutor of +his muse; nor would he yield his sorrow to the +music of Nageeb Fiani, called the greatest player +in all the world. For three hours Fiani, in the +wail and sigh of his violin, had expressed the woe +of love through the key-hole; but Salim Awad +was not moved. No; the poet continued in +desolation through the darkness of that night, +and through the slow, grimy, unfeeling hours of +day. He dwelt upon Haleema, Khouri’s daughter—she +(as he thought) of the tresses of night, +the beautiful one. Salim was in despair because +this Haleema had chosen to wed Jimmie Brady, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_67'></a>67</span> +the truckman. She loved strength more than +the uplifted spirit; and this maidens may do, as +Salim knew, without reproach or injury. +</p> +<p> +When the dusk of the second day was gathered +in his room, Salim looked up, eased by the tender +obscurity. In the cobble-stoned street below the +clatter of traffic had subsided; there were the +shuffle and patter of feet of the low-born of his +people, the murmur of voices, soft laughter, the +plaintive cries of children—the dolorous medley +of a summer night. Beyond the fire-escape, far +past the roof of the soap factory, lifted high above +the restless Western world, was the starlit sky; +and Salim Awad, searching its uttermost depths, +remembered the words of Antar, crying in his +heart: “<em>I pass the night regarding the stars of +night in my distraction. Ask the night of me, and +it will tell thee that I am the ally of sorrow and of +anguish. I live desolate; there is no one like me. +I am the friend of grief and of desire.</em>” +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +The band was playing in Battery Park; the +weird music of it, harsh, incomprehensible, an +alien love-song— +</p> +<p> + “Hello, mah baby,<br /> + Hello, mah honey,<br /> + Hello, mah rag-time girl!”<br /> +</p> +<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_68'></a>68</span></div> +<p> +drifted in at the open window with a breeze from +the sea. But by this unmeaning tumult the +soul of Salim Awad, being far removed, was not +troubled; he remembered, again, the words of +Antar, addressed to his beloved, repeating: “<em>In +thy forehead is my guide to truth; and in the night +of thy tresses I wander astray. Thy bosom is +created as an enchantment. O may God protect it +ever in that perfection! Will fortune ever, O +daughter of Malik, ever bless me with thy embrace? +That would cure my heart of the sorrows +of love.</em>” +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +And again the music of the band in Battery +Park drifted up the murmuring street, +</p> +<p> + “<em>Just</em> one girl,<br /> + Only <em>just</em> one girl!<br /> + There are others, I know, but they’re <em>not</em> my pearl.<br /> + <em>Just</em> one girl,<br /> + Only just one girl!<br /> + I’d be happy forever with <em>just</em> one girl!”<br /> +</p> +<p> +and came in at the open window with the idle +breeze; and Salim heard nothing of the noise, +but was grateful for the cool fingers of the wind +softly lifting the hair from his damp brow. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_69'></a>69</span> +</p> +<p> +It must be told—and herein is a mystery—that +this same Salim, who had lost at love, now from +the darkness of his tenement room contemplating +the familiar stars, wise, remote, set in the uttermost +heights of heaven beyond the soap factory, +was by the magic of this great passion inspired +to extol the graces of his beloved Haleema, +Khouri’s daughter, star of the world, and to +celebrate his own despair, the love-woe of Salim, +the noble-born, the poet, the lover, the brokenhearted. +Without meditation, as he has said, +without brooding or design, as should occur, but +rather, taking from the starlit infinitude beyond +the soap factory, seizing from the mist of his +vision and from the blood of agony dripping from +his lacerated heart, he fashioned a love-song so +exquisite and frail, so shy of contact with unfeeling +souls, that he trembled in the presence +of this beauty, for the moment forgetting +his desolation, and conceived himself an instrument +made of men, wrought of mortal +hands, unworthy, which the fingers of angels +had touched in alleviation of the sorrows of +love. +</p> +<p> +Thereupon Salim Awad arose, and he made +haste to Khalil Khayyat to tell him of this +thing.... +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_70'></a>70</span> +</p> +<p> +This same Khalil Khayyat, lover of children, +that poet and mighty editor, the tutor of the young +muse of this Salim—this patient gardener of the +souls of men, wherein he sowed seeds of the +flowers of the spirit—this same Khalil, poet, +whose delight was in the tender bloom of sorrow +and despair—this old Khayyat, friend of Salim, +the youth, the noble-born, sat alone in the little +back room of Nageeb Fiani, the pastry-cook and +greatest player in all the world. And his narghile +was glowing; the coal was live and red, showing +as yet no gray ash, and the water bubbled +by fits and starts, and the alien room, tawdry in +its imitation of the Eastern splendor, dirty, +flaring and sputtering with gas, was clouded with +the sweet-smelling smoke. To the coffee, perfume +rising with the steam from the delicate +vessel, nor to the rattle of dice and boisterous +shouts from the outer room, was this Khalil attending; +for he had the evening dejection to +nurse. He leaned over the green baize table, +one long, lean brown hand lying upon <em>Kawkab +Elhorriah</em> of that day, as if in affectionate pity, +and his lean brown face was lifted in a rapture of +anguish to the grimy ceiling; for the dream of the +writing had failed, as all visions of beauty must +fail in the reality of them, and there had been +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_71'></a>71</span> +no divine spark in the labor of the day to set +the world aflame against Abdul-Hamid, Sultan, +slaughterer. +</p> +<p> +To him, then, at this moment of inevitable reaction, +the love-lorn Salim, entering in haste. +</p> +<p> +“Once more, Salim,” said Khalil Khayyat, +sadly, “I have failed.” +</p> +<p> +Salim softly closed the door. +</p> +<p> +“I am yet young, Salim,” the editor added, +with an absent smile, in which was no bitterness +at all, but the sweetness of long suffering. “I +am yet young,” he repeated, “for in the beginning +of my labor I hope.” +</p> +<p> +Salim turned the key. +</p> +<p> +“I am but a child,” Khalil Khayyat declared, +his voice, now lifted, betraying despair. “I +dream in letters of fire: I write in shadows. In +my heart is a flame: from the point of my pen +flows darkness. I proclaim a revolution: I hear +loud laughter and the noise of dice. Salim,” he +cried, “I am but a little child: when night falls +upon the labor of my day I remember the +morning!” +</p> +<p> +“Khalil!” +</p> +<p> +Khalil Khayyat was thrilled by the quality of +this invocation. +</p> +<p> +“Khalil of the exalted mission, friend, poet, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_72'></a>72</span> +teacher of the aspiring,” Salim Awad whispered, +leaning close to the ear of Khalil Khayyat, “a +great thing has come to pass.” +</p> +<p> +Khayyat commanded his ecstatic perturbation. +</p> +<p> +“Hist!” Salim ejaculated. “Is there not one +listening at the door?” +</p> +<p> +“There is no one, Salim; it is the feet of Nageeb +the coffee-boy, passing to the table of Abosamara, +the merchant.” +</p> +<p> +Salim hearkened. +</p> +<p> +“There is no one, Salim.” +</p> +<p> +“There is a breathing at the key-hole, Khalil,” +Salim protested. “This great thing must not +be known.” +</p> +<p> +“There is no one, Salim,” said Khalil Khayyat. +“I have heard Abosamara call these seven times. +Being rich, he is brutal to such as serve. The +sound is of the feet of the little Intelligent One. +He bears coffee to the impatient merchant. His +feet are soft, by my training; they pass like a +whisper.... Salim, what is this great thing?” +</p> +<p> +“Nay, but, Khalil, I hesitate: the thing must +not be heard.” +</p> +<p> +“Even so,” said Khalil Khayyat, contemptuously, +being still a poet; “the people are of the muck +of the world; they are common, they are not of +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_73'></a>73</span> +our blood and learning. How shall they understand +that which they hear?” +</p> +<p> +“Khalil,” Salim Awad answered, reassured, +“I have known a great moment!” +</p> +<p> +“A great moment?” said Khalil Khayyat, being +both old and wise. “Then it is because of +agony. There has issued from this great pain,” +said he, edging, in his artistic excitement, toward +the victim of the muse, “a divine poem of love?” +</p> +<p> +Salim Awad sighed. +</p> +<p> +“Is it not so, Salim?” +</p> +<p> +Salim Awad flung himself upon the green +baize table; and so great was his despair that the +coffee-cup of Khalil Khayyat jumped in its saucer. +“I have suffered: I have lost at love,” he answered. +“I have been wounded; I bleed copiously. +I lie alone in a desert. My passion is hunger and +thirst and a gaping wound. From fever and the +night I cry out. Whence is my healing and satisfaction? +Nay, but, Khalil, devoted friend,” +he groaned, looking up, “I have known the ultimate +sorrow. Haleema!” cried he, rising, hands +clasped and uplifted, eyes looking far beyond the +alien, cobwebbed, blackened ceiling of the little +back room of Nageeb Fiani, the pastry-cook and +greatest player in all the world. “Haleema!” he +cried, as it may meanly be translated. “Haleema—my +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_74'></a>74</span> +sleep and waking, night and day of my +desiring soul, my thought and heart-throb! Haleema—gone +forever from me, the poet, the unworthy, +fled to the arms of the strong, the knowing, +the manager of horses, the one powerful and +controlling! Haleema—beautiful one, fashioned +of God, star of the night of the sons of men, glory +of the universe, appealing, of the soft arms, of +the bosom of sleep! Haleema—of the finger-tips +of healing, of the warm touch of solace, of the +bed of rest! Haleema, beautiful one, beloved, +lost to me!... Haleema!... Haleema!...” +</p> +<p> +“God!” Khalil Khayyat ejaculated; “but this +is indeed great poetry!” +</p> +<p> +Salim Awad collapsed. +</p> +<p> +“And from this,” asked Khalil Khayyat, cruel +servant of art, being hopeful concerning the issue, +“there has come a great poem? There <em>must</em>,” +he muttered, “have come a love-song, a heart’s +cry in comfort of such as have lost at love.” +</p> +<p> +Salim Awad looked up from the table. +</p> +<p> +“A cry of patient anguish,” said Khalil Khayyat. +</p> +<p> +“Khalil,” said Salim Awad, solemnly, “the +strings of my soul have been touched by the hand +of the Spirit.” +</p> +<p> +“By the Spirit?” +</p> +<p> +“The fingers of Infinite Woe.” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_75'></a>75</span> +</p> +<p> +To this Khalil Khayyat made no reply, nor +moved one muscle—save that his hand trembled +a little, and his eyes, which had been steadfastly +averted, suddenly searched the soul of Salim +Awad. It was very still in the little back room. +There was the sputtering of the gas, the tread +of soft feet passing in haste to the kitchen, the +clamor from the outer room, where common +folk were gathered for their pleasure, but no +sound, not so much as the drawing of breath, in +the little room where these poets sat, and continued +in this silence, until presently Khalil Khayyat +drew very close to Salim Awad. +</p> +<p> +“Salim,” he whispered, “reveal this poem.” +</p> +<p> +“It cannot be uttered,” said Salim Awad. +</p> +<p> +Khalil Khayyat was by this amazed. “Is it +then so great?” he asked. “Then, Salim,” said +he, “let it be as a jewel held in common by us +of all the world.” +</p> +<p> +“I am tempted!” +</p> +<p> +“I plead, Salim—I, Khalil Khayyat, the poet, +the philosopher—I plead!” +</p> +<p> +“I may not share this great poem, Khalil,” +said Salim Awad, commanding himself, “save +with such as have suffered as I have suffered.” +</p> +<p> +“Then,” answered Khalil Khayyat, triumphantly, +“the half is mine!” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_76'></a>76</span> +</p> +<p> +“Is yours, Khalil?” +</p> +<p> +“The very half, Salim, is the inheritance of +my woe!” +</p> +<p> +“Khalil,” answered Salim Awad, rising, “attend!” +He smiled, in the way of youth upon the +aged, and put an affectionate hand on the old +man’s shoulder. “My song,” said he, passionately, +“may not be uttered; for in all the world—since +of these accidents God first made grief—there +has been no love-sorrow like my despair!” +</p> +<p> +Then, indeed, Khalil Khayyat knew that this +same Salim Awad was a worthy poet. And he +was content; for he had known a young man to +take of the woe from his own heart and fashion +a love-song too sublime for revelation to the unfeeling +world—which was surely poetry sufficient +to the day. He asked no more concerning +the song, but took counsel with Salim Awad +upon his journey to Newfoundland, whither the +young poet was going, there in trade and travel +to ease the sorrows of love. And he told him +many things about money and a pack, and how +that, though engaged in trade, a man might still +journey with poetry; the one being of place and +time and necessity, and the other of the free +and infinite soul. Concerning the words spoken +that night in farewell by these poets, not so much +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_77'></a>77</span> +as one word is known, though many men have +greatly desired to know, believing the moment +to have been propitious for high speaking; but +not a word is to be written, not so much as a +sigh to be described, for the door was closed, and, +as it strangely chanced, there was no ear at the +key-hole. But Nageeb Fiani, the greatest player +in all the world, entering upon the departure of +Salim Awad, was addressed by Khalil Khayyat. +</p> +<p> +“Nageeb,” said this great poet, “I have seen +a minstrel go forth upon his wandering.” +</p> +<p> +“Upon what journey does the singer go, Khalil?” +</p> +<p> +“To the north, Nageeb.” +</p> +<p> +“What song, Khalil, does the man sing by the +way?” +</p> +<p> +“The song is in his heart,“ said Khalil Khayyat. +</p> +<p> +Abosamara, the merchant, being only rich, +had intruded from his own province. “Come!” +cried he, in the way of the rich who are only rich. +“Come!” cried he, “how shall a man sing with +his heart?” +</p> +<p> +Khalil Khayyat was indignant. +</p> +<p> +“Come!” Abosamara demanded, “how shall +this folly be accomplished?” +</p> +<p> +“How shall the deaf understand these things?” +answered Khalil Khayyat. +</p> +<p> +And this became a saying.... +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_78'></a>78</span> +</p> +<p> +Hapless Harbor, of the Newfoundland French +shore, gray, dispirited, chilled to its ribs of rock—circumscribed +by black sea and impenetrable +walls of mist. There was a raw wind swaggering +out of the northeast upon it: a mean, cold, wet +wind—swaggering down the complaining sea +through the fog. It had the grounds in a frothy +turmoil, the shore rocks smothered in broken +water, the spruce of the heads shivering, the +world of bleak hill and wooded valley all clammy +to the touch; and—chiefest triumph of its heartlessness—it +had the little children of the place +driven into the kitchens to restore their blue +noses and warm their cracked hands. Hapless +Harbor, then, in a nor’east blow, and a dirty day—uncivil +weather; an ugly sea, a high wind, fog +as thick as cheese, and, to top off with, a scowling +glass. Still early spring—snow in the gullies, +dripping in rivulets to the harbor water; ice at +sea, driving with the variable, evil-spirited winds; +perilous sailing and a wretched voyage of it upon +that coast. A mean season, a dirty day—a time +to be in harbor. A time most foul in feeling and +intention, an hour to lie snug in the lee of some +great rock. +</p> +<p> +The punt of Salim Awad, double-reefed in unwilling +deference to the weather, had rounded +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_79'></a>79</span> +Greedy Head soon after dawn, blown like a +brown leaf, Salim being bound in from Catch-as-Catch-Can +with the favoring wind. It was the +third year of his wandering in quest of that ease +of the sorrows of love; and as he came into quiet +water from the toss and spray of the open, rather +than a hymn in praise of the Almighty who had +delivered him from the grasping reach of the +sea, from its cold fingers, its green, dark, swaying +grave—rather than this weakness—rather than +this Newfoundland habit of worship, he muttered, +as Antar, that great lover and warrior, had long +ago cried from his soul: “<em>Under thy veil is the +rosebud of my life, and thine eyes are guarded with +a multitude of arrows; round thy tent is a lion-warrior, +the sword’s edge, and the spear’s point</em>”—which +had nothing to do, indeed, with a nor’east +gale and the flying, biting, salty spray of a northern +sea. But this Salim had come in, having put +out from Catch-as-Catch-Can when gray light +first broke upon the black, tumultuous world, +being anxious to make Hapless Harbor as soon as +might be, as he had promised a child in the fall +of the year. +</p> +<p> +This Salim, poet, maker of the song that could +not be uttered, tied up at the stage-head of +Sam Swuth, who knew the sail of that small +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_80'></a>80</span> +craft, and had lumbered down the hill to meet +him. +</p> +<p> +“Pup of a day,” says Sam Swuth. +</p> +<p> +By this vulgarity Salim was appalled. +</p> +<p> +“Eh?” says Sam Swuth. +</p> +<p> +Salim’s pack, stowed amidships, was neatly +and efficiently bound with tarpaulin, the infinite +mystery of which he had mastered; but his punt, +from stem to stern, swam deeply with water +gathered on the way from Catch-as-Catch-Can. +</p> +<p> +“Pup of a day,” says Sam Swuth. +</p> +<p> +“Oh my, no!” cried Salim Awad, shocked by +this inharmony with his mood. “Ver’ bad +weather.” +</p> +<p> +“Pup of a day,” Sam Swuth insisted. +</p> +<p> +“Ver’ bad day,” said Salim Awad. “Ver’ +beeg wind for thee punt.” +</p> +<p> +The pack was hoisted from the boat. +</p> +<p> +“An the glass don’t lie,” Sam Swuth promised, +“they’s a sight dirtier comin’.” +</p> +<p> +Salim lifted the pack to his back. “Ver’ beeg +sea,” said he. “Ver’ bad blow.” +</p> +<p> +“Ghost Rock breakin’?” +</p> +<p> +“Ver’ bad in thee Parlor of thee Devil,” Salim +answered. “Ver’ long, black hands thee sea have. +Ver’ white finger-nail,” he laughed. “Eh? Ver’ +hong-ree hands. They reach for thee punt. But +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_81'></a>81</span> +I am have escape,” he added, with a proud little +grin. “I am have escape. I—Salim! Ver’ good +sailor. Thee sea have not cotch <em>me</em>, you bet!” +</p> +<p> +“Ye’ll be lyin’ the night in Hapless?” +</p> +<p> +“Oh my, no! Ver’ poor business. I am mus’ +go to thee Chain Teekle.” +</p> +<p> +Salim Awad went the round of mean white +houses, exerting himself in trade, according to +the cure prescribed for the mortal malady of +which he suffered; but as he passed from door to +door, light-hearted, dreaming of Haleema, she +of the tresses of night, wherein the souls of men +wandered astray, he still kept sharp lookout for +Jamie Tuft, the young son of Skipper Jim, whom +he had come through the wind to serve. Salim +was shy—shy as a child; more shy than ever +when bent upon some gentle deed; and Jamie +was shy, shy as lads are shy; thus no meeting +chanced until, when in the afternoon the wind +had freshened, these two blundered together in the +lee of Bishop’s Rock, where Jamie was hiding +his humiliation, grief, and small body, but devoutly +hoping, all the while, to be discovered and +relieved. It was dry in that place, and sheltered +from the wind; but between the Tickle heads, +whence the harbor opened to the sea, the gale +was to be observed at work upon the run. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_82'></a>82</span> +</p> +<p> +Salim stopped dead. Jamie grinned painfully +and kicked at the road. +</p> +<p> +“Hello!” cried Salim. +</p> +<p> +“’Lo, Joe!” growled Jamie. +</p> +<p> +Salim sighed. He wondered concerning the +amount Jamie had managed to gather. Would +it be sufficient to ease his conscience through the +transaction? The sum was fixed. Jamie must +have the money or go wanting. Salim feared +to ask the question. +</p> +<p> +“I isn’t got it, Joe,” said Jamie. +</p> +<p> +“Oh my! Too bad!” Salim groaned. +</p> +<p> +“Not all of un,” added Jamie. +</p> +<p> +Salim took heart; he leaned close, whispering, +in suspense: “How much have you thee got?” +</p> +<p> +“Two twenty—an’ a penny.” +</p> +<p> +“Ver’ good!” cried Salim Awad, radiant. +“Ver’, ver’ good! Look!” said he: “you have +wait three year for thee watch. Ver’ much you +have want thee watch. ‘Ha!’ I theenk; ’ver’ +good boy, this—I mus’ geeve thee watch to heem. +No, no!’ I theenk; ’ver’ bad for thee boy. I mus’ +not spoil thee ver’ good boy. Make thee mon-ee,’ +I say; ’catch thee feesh, catch thee swile, then +thee watch have be to you!’ Ver’ good. What +happen? Second year, I have ask about the +mon-ee. Ver’ good. ‘I have got one eighteen,’ +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_83'></a>83</span> +you say. Oh my—no good! The watch have be +three dollar. Oh my! Then I theenk: ‘I have +geeve the good boy thee watch for one eighteen. +Oh no, I mus’ not!’ I theenk; ‘ver’ bad for thee +boy, an’ mos’ ver’ awful bad trade.’ Then I say, +‘I keep thee watch for one year more.’ Ver’ +good. Thee third year I am have come. Ver’ +good. What you say?‘ ‘I have thee two twenty-one,’ +you say. Ver’, ver’ good. Thee price of +thee watch have be three dollar? No! Not +this year. Thee price have <em>not</em> be three dollar.” +</p> +<p> +Jamie looked up in hope. +</p> +<p> +“Why not?” Salim Awad continued, in delight. +“Have thee watch be spoil? No, thee watch +have be ver’ good watch. Have thee price go +down? No; thee price have not.” +</p> +<p> +Jamie waited in intense anxiety, while Salim +paused to enjoy the mystery. +</p> +<p> +“Have I then become to spoil thee boy?” +Salim demanded. “No? Ver’ good. How +then can thee price of thee watch have be two +twenty?” +</p> +<p> +Jamie could not answer. +</p> +<p> +“Ver’ good!” cried the delighted Salim. “Ver’, +ver’ good! I am have tell you. Hist!” he +whispered. +</p> +<p> +Jamie cocked his ear. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_84'></a>84</span> +</p> +<p> +“Hist!” said Salim Awad again. +</p> +<p> +They were alone—upon a bleak hill-side, in a +wet, driving wind. +</p> +<p> +“I have be to New York,” Salim whispered, +in a vast excitement of secrecy and delight. “I +am theenk: ‘Thee boy want thee watch. How +thee boy have thee watch? Thee good boy <em>mus’</em> +have thee watch. Oh, mygod! how?’ I theenk. +I theenk, an’ I theenk, an’ I theenk. Thee boy +mus’ pay fair price for thee watch. Ha! Thee +Salim ver’ clever. He feex thee price of thee +watch, you bet! Eh! Ver’ good. How?” +</p> +<p> +Jamie was tapped on the breast; he looked +into the Syrian’s wide, delighted, mocking brown +eyes—but could not fathom the mystery. +</p> +<p> +“How?” cried Salim. “Eh? How can the +price come down?” +</p> +<p> +Jamie shook his head. +</p> +<p> +“<em>I have smuggle thee watch!</em>” Salim whispered. +</p> +<p> +“Whew!” Jamie whistled. “That’s sinful!” +</p> +<p> +“Thee watch it have be to you,” answered +Salim, gently. “Thee sin,” he added, bowing +courteously, a hand on his heart, “it have be all +my own!” +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +For a long time after Salim Awad’s departure, +Jamie Tuft sat in the lee of Bishop’s Rock—until +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_85'></a>85</span> +indeed, the dark alien’s punt had fluttered +out to sea on the perilous run to Chain Tickle. +It began to rain in great drops; the sullen mood +of the day was about to break in some wrathful +outrage upon the coast. Gusts of wind swung +in and down upon the boy—a cold rain, a bitter, +rising wind. But Jamie still sat oblivious in the +lee of the rock. It was hard for him, unused +to gifts, through all his days unknown to favorable +changes of fortune, to overcome his astonishment—to +enter into the reality of this possession. +The like had never happened before: never before +had joy followed all in a flash upon months +of mournful expectation. He sat as still as the +passionless rock lifted behind him. It was a +tragedy of delight. Two dirty, cracked, toil-distorted +hands—two young hands, aged and +stained and malformed by labor beyond their +measure of strength and years to do—two hands +and the shining treasure within them: to these his +world was, for the time, reduced—the rest, the +harsh world of rock and rising sea and harsher +toil and deprivation, was turned to mist; it was +like a circle of fog. +</p> +<p> +Jamie looked up. +</p> +<p> +“By damn!” he thought, savagely, “’tis—’tis—<em>mine</em>!” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_86'></a>86</span> +</p> +<p> +The character of the exclamation is to be condoned; +this sense of ownership had come like +a vision. +</p> +<p> +“Why, I <em>got</em> she!” thought Jamie. +</p> +<p> +Herein was expressed more of agonized dread, +more of the terror that accompanies great possessions, +than of delight. +</p> +<p> +“Ecod!” he muttered, ecstatically; “she’s mine—she’s mine!” +</p> +<p> +The watch was clutched in a capable fist. It +was not to be dropped, you may be sure! Jamie +looked up and down the road. There was no +highwayman, no menacing apparition of any +sort, but the fear of some ghostly ravager had +been real enough. Presently the boy laughed, +arose, moved into the path, stood close to the +verge of the steep, which fell abruptly to the +harbor water. +</p> +<p> +“I got t’ tell mamma,” he thought. +</p> +<p> +On the way to Jamie’s pocket went the watch. +</p> +<p> +“She’ll be that glad,” the boy thought, gleefully, +“that she—she—she’ll jus’ fair <em>cry</em>!” +</p> +<p> +There was some difficulty with the pocket. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, sir,” thought Jamie, grinning; “mamma’ll +jus’ cry!” +</p> +<p> +The watch slipped from Jamie’s overcautious +hand, struck the rock at his feet, bounded down +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_87'></a>87</span> +the steep, splashed into the harbor water, and +vanished forever.... +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +A bad time at sea: a rising wind, spray on the +wing, sheets of cold rain—and the gray light of +day departing. Salim Awad looked back upon +the coast; he saw no waste of restless water between, +no weight and frown of cloud above, but +only the great black gates of Hapless Harbor, +beyond which, by the favor of God, he had been +privileged to leave a pearl of delight. With the +wind abeam he ran on through the sudsy sea, +muttering, within his heart, as that great Antar +long ago had cried: “<em>Were I to say thy face is +like the full moon of heaven, wherein that full +moon is the eye of the antelope? Were I to say +thy shape is like the branch of the erak tree, oh, +thou shamest it in the grace of thy form! In thy +forehead is my guide to truth, and in the night of +thy tresses I wander astray!</em>” +</p> +<p> +And presently, having won Chain Tickle, he +pulled slowly to Aunt Amelia’s wharf, where he +moored the punt, dreaming all the while of +Haleema, Khouri’s daughter, star of the world. +Before he climbed the hill to the little cottage, +ghostly in the dusk and rain, he turned again to +Hapless Harbor. The fog had been blown +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_88'></a>88</span> +away; beyond the heads of the Tickle—far across +the angry run—the lights of Hapless were shining +cheerily. +</p> +<p> +“Ver’ good sailor—me!” thought Salim. “Ver’ +good hand, you bet!” +</p> +<p> +A gust of wind swept down the Tickle and went +bounding up the hill. +</p> +<p> +“He not get me!” muttered Salim between +bared teeth. +</p> +<p> +A second gust showered the peddler with +water snatched from the harbor. +</p> +<p> +“Ver’ glad to be in,” thought Salim, with a +shudder, turning now from the black, tumultuous +prospect. “Ver’ mos’ awful glad to be in!” +</p> +<div><a name='i088' id='i088'></a></div> +<div class='figcenter' style='padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em'> +<a name='i004' id='i004'></a> +<img src="images/illus-088.jpg" alt="THE DARK, SMILING SALIM, WITH HIS MAGIC PACK, WAS WELCOME" title=""/><br /> +<span class='caption'>THE DARK, SMILING SALIM, WITH HIS MAGIC PACK, WAS WELCOME</span> +</div> +<p> +It was cosey in Aunt Amelia’s hospitable +kitchen. The dark, smiling Salim, with his magic +pack, was welcome. The wares displayed—no +more for purchase than for the delight of inspection—Salim +stowed them away, sat himself +by the fire, gave himself to ease and comfort, to +the delight of a cigarette, and to the pleasure of +Aunt Amelia’s genial chattering. The wind beat +upon the cottage—went on, wailing, sighing, calling—and +in the lulls the breaking of the sea +interrupted the silence. An hour—two hours, +it may be—and there was the tramp of late-comers +stumbling up the hill. A loud knocking, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_89'></a>89</span> +then entered for entertainment three gigantic +dripping figures—men of Catch-as-Catch-Can, +bound down to Wreckers’ Cove for a doctor, but +now put in for shelter, having abandoned hope +of winning farther through the gale that night. +Need o’ haste? Ay; but what could men do? +No time t’ take a skiff t’ Wreckers’ Cove in a +wind like this! ’Twould blow your hair off +beyond the Tickle heads. Hard enough crossin’ +the run from Hapless Harbor. An’ was there a +cup o’ tea an’ a bed for the crew o’ them? They’d +be under way by dawn if the wind fell. Ol’ +Tom Luther had t’ have a doctor <em>somehow</em>, whatever +come of it! +</p> +<p> +“Hello, Joe!” cried the one. +</p> +<p> +Salim rose and bowed. +</p> +<p> +“Heared tell ’t Hapless Harbor you was here-abouts.” +</p> +<p> +“Much ’bliged,” Salim responded, courteously, +bowing again. “Ver’ much ’bliged.” +</p> +<p> +“Heared tell you sold a watch t’ Jim Tuft’s +young one?” +</p> +<p> +“Ver’ good watch,” said Salim. +</p> +<p> +“Maybe,” was the response. +</p> +<p> +Salim blew a puff of smoke with light grace +toward the white rafters. He was quite serene; +he anticipated, now, a compliment, and was +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_90'></a>90</span> +fashioning, of his inadequate English, a dignified +sentence of acknowledgment. +</p> +<p> +“Anyhow,” drawled the man from Catch-as-Catch-Can, +“she won’t go no more.” +</p> +<p> +Salim looked up bewildered. +</p> +<p> +“Overboard,” the big man explained. +</p> +<p> +“W’at!” cried Salim. +</p> +<p> +“Dropped her.” +</p> +<p> +Salim trembled. “He have—drop thee—watch?” +he demanded. “No, no!” he cried. +“The boy have not drop thee watch!” +</p> +<p> +“Twelve fathoms o’ water.” +</p> +<p> +“Oh, mygod! Oh, dear me!” groaned Salim +Awad. He began to pace the floor, wringing his +hands. They watched him in amazement. “Oh, +mygod! Oh, gracious! He have drop thee +watch!” he continued. “Oh, thee poor broke +heart of thee boy! Oh, my! He have work +three year for thee watch. He have want thee +watch so ver’ much. Oh, thee great grief of thee +poor boy! I am mus’ go,” said he, with resolution. +“I am mus’ go to thee Hapless at thee once. +I am mus’ cure thee broke heart of thee poor boy. +Oh, mygod! Oh, dear!” They scorned the intention, +for the recklessness of it; they bade him +listen to the wind, the rain on the roof, the growl +and thud of the breakers; they called him a loon +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_91'></a>91</span> +for his folly. “Oh, mygod!” he replied; “you +have not understand. Thee broke heart of thee +child! Eh? W’at you know? Oh, thee ver’ +awful pain of thee broke heart. Eh? I know. +I am have thee broke heart. I am have bear thee +ver’ awful bad pain.” +</p> +<p> +Aunt Amelia put a hand on Salim’s arm. +</p> +<p> +“I am mus’ go,” said the Syrian, defiantly. +</p> +<p> +“Ye’ll not!” the woman declared. +</p> +<p> +“I am mus’ go to thee child.” +</p> +<p> +“Ye’ll not lose your life, will ye?” +</p> +<p> +The men of Catch-as-Catch-Can were incapable +of a word; they were amazed beyond +speech. ’Twas a new thing in their experience. +They had put out in a gale to fetch the doctor, +all as a matter of course; but this risk to ease +mere woe—and that of a child! They were +astounded. +</p> +<p> +“Oh yes!” Salim answered. “For thee child.” +</p> +<p> +“Ye fool!” +</p> +<p> +Salim looked helplessly about. He was nonplussed. +There was no encouragement anywhere +to be descried. Moreover, he was bewildered +that they should not understand! +</p> +<p> +“For thee child—yes,” he repeated. +</p> +<p> +They did but stare. +</p> +<p> +“Thee broke heart,” he cried, “of thee li’l child!” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_92'></a>92</span> +</p> +<p> +No response was elicited. +</p> +<p> +“Oh, dear me!” groaned the poet. “You <em>mus’</em> +see. It is a child!” +</p> +<p> +A gust was the only answer. +</p> +<p> +“Oh, mygod!” cried Salim Awad, poet, who +had wandered astray in the tresses of night. +“Oh, dear me! Oh, gee!” +</p> +<p> +Without more persuasion, he prepared himself +for this high mission in salvation of the heart of +a child; and being no longer deterred, he put out +upon it—having no fear of the seething water, +but a great pity for the incomprehension of such +as knew it best. It was a wild night; the wind +was a vicious wind, the rain a blinding mist, the +night thick and unkind, the sea such in turmoil +as no punt could live through save by grace. +Beyond Chain Tickle, Salim Awad entered the +thick of that gale, but was not perturbed; for +he remembered, rather than recognized the +menace of the water, the words of that great +lover, Antar, warrior and lover, who, from the +sands of isolation, sang to Abla, his beloved: +“<em>The sun as it sets turns toward her and says, +Darkness obscures the land, do thou arise in my +absence. And the brilliant moon calls out to her, +Come forth, for thy face is like me when I am at +the full and in all my glory.</em>” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_93'></a>93</span> +</p> +<p> +The hand upon the steering-oar of this punt, +cast into an ill-tempered, cold, dreary, evil-intentioned +northern sea, was without agitation, +the hand upon the halyard was perceiving and +sure, the eye of intelligence was detached from +romance; but still the heart remembered: “<em>The +tamarisk-trees complain of her in the morn +and in the eve, and say, Away, thou waning +beauty, thou form of the laurel! She turns away +abashed, and throws aside her veil, and the roses +are scattered from her soft, fresh cheeks. Graceful +is every limb, slender her waist, love-beaming are +her glances, waving is her form. The lustre of +day sparkles from her forehead, and by the dark +shades of her curling ringlets night itself is driven +away.</em>” +</p> +<p> +The lights of Hapless Harbor dwindled; one +by one they went out, a last message of wariness; +but still there shone, bright and promising continuance, +a lamp of Greedy Head, whereon the +cottage of Skipper Jim Tuft, the father of Jamie, +was builded. +</p> +<p> +“I will have come safe,” thought Salim, “if +thee light of Jamie have burn on.” +</p> +<p> +It continued to burn. +</p> +<p> +“It is because of thee broke heart,” thought +Salim. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_94'></a>94</span> +</p> +<p> +The light was not put out: Salim Awad—this +child of sand and heat and poetry—made harbor +in the rocky north; and he was delighted with the +achievement. But how? I do not know. ’Twas +a marvellous thing—thus to flaunt through three +miles of wind-swept, grasping sea. A gale of +wind was blowing—a gale to compel schooners +to reef—ay, and to double reef, and to hunt +shelter like a rabbit pursued: this I have been +told, and for myself know, because I was abroad, +Cape Norman way. No Newfoundlander could +have crossed the run from Chain Tickle to Hapless +Harbor at that time; the thing is beyond dispute; +’twas a feat impossible—with wind and lop +and rain and pelting spray to fight. But this +poet, desert born and bred, won through, despite +the antagonism of all alien enemies, cold and wet +and vigorous wind: this poet won through, led +by Antar, who said: “<em>Thy bosom is created as an +enchantment. Oh, may God protect it ever in +that perfection</em>,” and by his great wish to ease +the pain of a child, and by his knowledge of +wind and sea, gained by three years of seeking +for the relief of the sorrows of love. +</p> +<p> +“Ver’ good sailor,” thought Salim Awad, as +he tied up at Sam Swuth’s wharf. +</p> +<p> +’Twas a proper estimate. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_95'></a>95</span> +“Ver’ good,” he repeated. “Ver’ beeg good.” +</p> +<p> +Then this Salim, who had lost at love, made +haste to the cottage of Skipper Jim Tuft, wherein +was the child Jamie, who had lost the watch. He +entered abruptly from the gale—recognizing no +ceremony of knocking, as why should he? There +was discovered to him a dismal group: Skipper +Jim, Jamie’s mother, Jamie—all in the uttermost +depths. “I am come!” cried he. “I—Salim +Awad—I am come from thee sea! I am come +from thee black night—I am come wet from thee +rain—I am escape thee hands of thee sea! I am +come—I, Salim Awad, broke of thee heart!” +’Twas a surprising thing to the inmates of that +mean, hopeless place. “I am come,” Salim repeated, +posing dramatically—“I, Salim—I am +come!” ’Twas no more than amazement he +confronted. “To thee help of thee child,” he +repeated. “Eh? To thee cure of thee broke +heart.” There was no instant response. Salim +drew a new watch from his pocket. “I have +come from thee ver’ mos’ awful sea with thee new +watch. Eh? Ver’ good. I am fetch thee cure +of thee broke heart to thee poor child.” There +was no doubt about the efficacy of the cure. +’Twas a thing evident and delightful. Salim was +wet, cold, disheartened by the night and weather; +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_96'></a>96</span> +but the response restored him. “Thee watch +an’ thee li’l’ chain, Jamie,” said he, with a bow +most polite, “it is to you.” +</p> +<p> +Jamie grabbed the watch. +</p> +<p> +“Ver’ much ’bliged,” said Salim. +</p> +<p> +“Thanks,” said Jamie. +</p> +<p> +And in this cheap and simple way Salim Awad +restored the soul of Jamie Tuft and brought happiness +to all that household. +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +And now, when the news of this feat came to +the ears of Khalil Khayyat, the editor, as all news +must come, he sought the little back room of +Nageeb Fiani, the greatest player in all the world, +with the letter in his hand. Presently he got his +narghile going, and a cup of perfumed coffee before +him on the round, green baize table; and +he was very happy—what with the narghile and +the coffee and the letter from the north. There +was hot weather, the sweat and complaint of the +tenements; there was the intermittent roar and +shriek of the Elevated trains rounding the curve +to South Ferry; there was the street murmur and +gasp, the noise of boisterous voices and the click +of dice in the outer room; but by these Khalil +Khayyat was not disturbed. Indeed not; there +was a matter of the poetry of reality occupying +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_97'></a>97</span> +his attention. He called Nageeb, the little Intelligent +One, who came with soft feet; and he +bade the little one summon to his presence +Nageeb Fiani, the artist, the greatest player in +all the world, who came, deferentially, wondering +concerning this important message from the poet. +</p> +<p> +“Nageeb,” said Khalil Khayyat, “there has +come a letter from the north.” +</p> +<p> +Nageeb assented. +</p> +<p> +“It concerns Salim,” said Khayyat. +</p> +<p> +“What has this Salim accomplished,” asked Nageeb +Fiani, “in alleviation of the sorrows of love?” +</p> +<p> +Khayyat would not answer. +</p> +<p> +“Tell me,” Nageeb pleaded. +</p> +<p> +“This Salim,” said Khalil Khayyat, “made a +song that could not be uttered. It is well,” said +Khalil Khayyat. “You remember?” +</p> +<p> +Nageeb remembered. +</p> +<p> +“Then know this,” said Khalil Khayyat, abruptly, +“the song he could not utter he sings in +gentle deeds. It is a great song; it is too great for +singing—it must be lived. This Salim,” he added, +“is the greatest poet that ever lived. He expresses +his sublime and perfect compositions in +dear deeds. He is, indeed, a great poet.” +</p> +<p> +Nageeb Fiani thought it great argument for +poetry; so, too, Khalil Khayyat. +</p> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_98'></a>98</span><a name='chIV' id='chIV'></a>IV—THE SQUALL</h2> +<p> +TUMM of the <em>Good Samaritan</em> kicked the +cabin stove into a sputter and roar of flame +so lusty that the black weather of Jump Harbor +was instantly reduced from arrogant and +disquieting menace to an impression of contrast +grateful to the heart. “Not bein’ a parson,” +said he, roused now from a brooding silence by +this radiant inspiration, “I isn’t much of a hand +at accountin’ for the mysteries o’ God; an’ never +havin’ made a world, I isn’t no critic o’ creation. +Still an’ all,” he persisted, in a flash of complaint, +“it did seem t’ me, somehow, accordin’ t’ my +lights, which wasn’t trimmed at no theological +college, that the Maker o’ Archibald Shott o’ +Jump Harbor hadn’t been quite kind t’ Arch.” +The man shifted his feet in impatient disdain, +then laughed—a gently contemptuous shaft, +directed at his insolence: perhaps, too, at his +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_99'></a>99</span> +ignorance. It fell to a sigh, however, which +continued expression, presently, in a glance of +poignant bewilderment. “Take un by an’ all,” +he pursued, “I was wonderful sorry for Arch. +Seemed t’ me, sir, though he bore the sign o’ +the Lord’s own hand, as do us all, that he’d +but a mean lookout for gracious livin’, after +all. +</p> +<p> +“Poor Archibald Shott! +</p> +<p> +“‘Arch, b’y,’ says I, ‘you got the disposition +of a snake.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Is I?’ says he. ‘Maybe you’re right, Tumm. +I never knowed a snake in a intimate way.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘You got the soul,’ said I, ‘of a ill-born +squid.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Don’t know,’ said he; ‘never <em>seed</em> a squid’s +soul.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Your tongue,’ says I, ‘is a flame o’ fire; ’tis +a wonder t’ me she haven’t blistered your lips +long afore this.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Isn’t <em>my</em> fault,’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“‘No?’ says I. ‘Then who’s t’ blame?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Well,’ says he, ‘God made me.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Anyhow,’ said I, ‘you’ve took t’ the devil’s +alterations an’ improvements like a imp t’ hell +fire.’” +</p> +<p> +Tumm dropped into an angry muse.... +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_100'></a>100</span> +</p> +<p> +We had put in from the sea off the Harborless +Shore, balked by a screaming Newfoundland +northwester, allied with fog and falling night, +from rounding Taunt Head, beyond which lay +the snug harbor and waiting fish of Candlestick +Cove. It had been labor enough, enough of +cold, of sleety wind and anxious watching, to send +the crew to berth in sleepy confusion when the +teacups were emptied. Tumm and I sat in the +companionable seclusion of the trader’s cabin, +the schooner lying at ease in the shelter of Jump +Harbor. In the pause, led by the wind from +this warmth and peace and light to the reaches of +frothy coast, I recalled the cliffs of Black Bight, +upon which, as I had been told in the gray gale +of that day, the inevitable had overtaken Archibald +Shott. They sprang clear from the breakers, +an expanse of black rock, barren as a bone, as it +seemed in the sullen light, rising to a veil of fog, +which, floating higher than our foremast, kept +their topmost places in forbidding mystery. We +had come about within stone’s-throw, so that the +bleak walls, echoing upon us, doubled the thunder +of the sea. They inclined from the water: I bore +this impression away as the schooner darted from +their proximity—an impression, too, of ledges, +crevices, broken surfaces. In that tumultuous +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_101'></a>101</span> +commotion, perhaps, flung then against my senses, +I had small power to observe; but I fancied, I recall, +that a nimble man, pursued by fear, might +scale the Black Bight cliffs. There was imperative +need, however, of knowing the way, else there +might be neither advance nor turning back.... +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +“Seemed t’ be made jus’ o’ leavin’s, Arch did,” +Tumm resumed, with a little twitch of scorn: +“jus’ knocked t’gether,” said he, “with scraps +an’ odds an’ ends from the loft an’ floor. But +whatever, an a man had no harsh feelin’ again’ a +body patched up out o’ the shavin’s o’ bigger folk, +a lean, long-legged, rickety sort o’ carcass, like +t’ break in the grip of a real man,” he continued, +“nor bore no grudge again’ high cheek-bones, +skimped lips, a ape’s forehead, an’ pale-green +eyes, sot close to a nose like a axe an’ pushed a +bit too far back, why, then,” he concluded, with +a largely generous wave, “they wasn’t a deal o’ +fault t’ be found with the looks o’ Archibald +Shott. Wasn’t no reason ever <em>I</em> seed why Arch +shouldn’t o’ wed any maid o’ nineteen harbors +an’ lived a sober, righteous, an’ fatherly life till +the sea cotched un. But it seemed, somehow, +that Arch must fall in love with the maid o’ +Jump Harbor that was promised t’ Slow Jim +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_102'></a>102</span> +Tool—a lovely lass, sir, believe <em>me</em>: a dimpled, +rosy, towheaded, ripplin’ sort o’ maid, as soft as +feathers an’ as plump as a oyster, with a disposition +like sunshine an’—an’—well, <em>flowers</em>. +She was a wonderful dear an’ tender lass, quick +t’ smile, sir, quick as the sea in a sunlit southerly +wind, an’ quick t’ cry, too, God bless her! in +sympathy with the woes o’ folk. +</p> +<p> +“‘Arch,’ says I, wind-bound in the <em>Curly Head</em> +at Jump Harbor, ‘don’t you <em>do</em> it.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Love,’ says he, ‘is queer.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Maybe,’ says I; ‘but keep off. You go,’ says +I, ‘an’ get a maid o’ your own.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘<em>Wonderful</em> queer,’ says he. ‘’Twouldn’t +s’prise me, Tumm,’ says he, ‘if a man failed in +love with a fish-hook.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Well,’ says I, ‘’Lizabeth All isn’t no fish-hook. +She’ve red cheeks an’ blue eyes an’ as +soft an’ round a body as a man ever clapped eyes +on. Her hair,’ says I, ‘is a glory; an’, Arch,’ +says I, ‘why, she <em>pities</em>!’ +</p> +<p> +“‘True,’ says he; ‘but it falls far short.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘How far?’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘Well,’ says he, ‘you left out her muscles.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Look you, Arch!’ says I; ‘you isn’t nothin’ +but a mean man. They isn’t nothin’ that’s low +an’ cruel an’ irreligious that you can’t be comfortable +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_103'></a>103</span> +shipmates with. Understand me? They +isn’t nothin’ that can’t be spoke of in the presence +o’ women an’ children that isn’t as good as a +Sunday-school treat t’ you. It doesn’t scare you +t’ know that the things o’ your delight would +ruin God’s own world an they had their way. +Understand me?’ says I, bein’ bound, now, to +make it plain. ‘An’ now,’ says I, ‘what you +got t’ give, anyhow, for the heart an’ sweet looks +o’ this maid? Is you thinkin’,’ says I, ‘that +she’ve a hankerin’ after your dried beef body an’ +pill of a soul?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Never you mind,’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“‘Speak up!’ says I. ‘What you got t’ <em>trade</em>?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Well,’ says he, ‘I’m clever.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘’Tis small cleverness t’ think,’ says I, ‘that +in these parts a ounce o’ brains is as good as a +hundredweight o’ chest an’ shoulders.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘You jus’ wait an’ see,’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“Seems that Jim Tool was a big man with a +curly head an’ a maid’s gray eyes. He was +wonderful solemn an’ soft an’ slow—so slow, +believe <em>me</em>, sir, that he wouldn’t quite know till +to-morrow what he found out yesterday. If +you spat in his face to-day, sir, he might drop in +any time toward the end o’ next week an’ knock +you down; but if he put it off for a fortnight, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_104'></a>104</span> +why, ’twouldn’t be so wonderful s’prisin’. I +’low he was troubled a deal by the world. ’Twas +all a mystery to un. He went about, sir, with +his brows drawed down an’ a look o’ wonder an’ +s’prise an’ pity on his big, kind, pink-an’-white +face. He was <em>always</em> s’prised; never seemed t’ +<em>expect</em> nothin’—never seemed t’ be ready. I +’low it shocked un t’ pull a fish over the side. +‘Dear man!’ says he. ‘Well, well!’ What he +done when ’Lizabeth All first kissed un ’tis past +me t’ tell. I ’low that shootin’ wouldn’t o’ +shocked un more. An’ how long it took un t’ +wake up an’ really feel that kiss—how many days +o’ wonder an’ s’prise an’ doubt—’twould take a +parson t’ reckon. Anyhow, she loved un: I +knows she did—she loved un, sir, because he +was big an’ kind an’ curly-headed, which was +enough for ’Lizabeth All, I ’low, an’ might be +enough for any likely maid o’ Newf’un’land.” +</p> +<p> +I dropped a birch billet in the stove. +</p> +<p> +“Anyhow,” said Tumm, moodily, “it didn’t +last long.” +</p> +<p> +The fire crackled a genial accompaniment to +the tale of Slow Jim Tool.... +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +“Well, now,” Tumm continued, “Slow Jim +Tool an’ Archibald Shott o’ Jump Harbor was +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_105'></a>105</span> +cast away in the <em>Dimple</em> at Creep Head o’ the +Labrador. Bein’ wrecked seamen, they come +up in the mail-boat; an’ it so happened, sir, that +’long about Run-by-Guess, with the fog thick, +an’ dusk near come, Archibald Short managed +t’ steal a Yankee’s gold watch an’ sink un in the +pocket o’ Slow Jim Tool. ’Twas s’prisin’ t’ +Jim. Fact is, when they cotched un with the +prope’ty, sir, Jim ’lowed he never knowed when +he done it—never knowed he <em>could</em> do it. +‘Ecod!’ says he; ‘now that s’prises <em>me</em>. I mus’ +o’ stole that there watch in my sleep. Well, +well!’ S’prised un a deal more, they says, when +a brass-buttoned constable come aboard at Tilt +Cove’ an’ took un in charge in the Queen’s name. +‘<em>In the Queen’s name!</em>’ says Jim. ‘What’s that? +In the Queen’s name? Dear man!’ says he; +‘but this is awful! An’ I never knows when I +done it!’ ’Twas more s’prisin’ still when they +haled un past Jump Harbor. ‘Why,’ says he, ‘I +wants t’ go home an’ see ’Lizabeth All. Why,’ +says he, ‘I got t’ talk it over with ‘Lizabeth!’ +‘You can’t,’ says the constable. ‘But,’ says +Jim, ‘I <em>got</em> t’. Why,’ says he, ‘I always <em>have</em>.’ +‘Now,’ says the constable, ‘don’t you make no +trouble.’ So Jim was s’prised again; but when +the judge give un a year t’ repent an’ make brooms +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_106'></a>106</span> +in chokee t’ St. John’s he was <em>so</em> s’prised, they +says, that he never come to his senses till he landed +back at Jump Harbor an’ was kissed seven +times by ’Lizabeth All in the sight o’ the folk o’ +that place. An’ even after that, I’m told—ay, +through a season’s fishin’—he pondered a deal +more’n was good for un. Ashore an’ afloat, +’twas all the same. ‘Well, well!’ says he. ‘Dear +man! I wonders how I done it. Arch,’ says he, +‘you was aboard; can’t <em>you</em> throw no light?’ +Arch ’lowed he might an he but tried, but +wouldn’t. ‘Might interfere,’ says he, ‘atween +you an’ ’Lizabeth.’ ‘But,’ says Jim, ‘as a +friend?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Well,’ says Arch, ‘’riginal sin.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘’Riginal sin!’ says Jim. ‘Dear man! but +I mus’ have got my share!’ +</p> +<p> +“‘You is,’ says Arch. ‘’Tis plain in your face. +You looks low and vicious. ‘Riginal sin, Jim,’ +says he, ‘marks a man.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Think so?’ says Jim. ‘I’m sorry I got it.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘An’ look you!’ says Arch; ‘you better be +wonderful careful about unshippin’ wickedness +on ’Lizabeth.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘On ‘Lizabeth?’ says Jim. ‘What you mean? +God knows,’ says he, ‘I’d not hurt ’Lizabeth.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Then ponder,’ says Arch. ‘’Riginal sin is +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_107'></a>107</span> +made you a thief an’ a jailbird. Ponder, Jim—ponder!’ +</p> +<p> +“Now,” cries Tumm, in an outburst of feeling, +“what you think ’Lizabeth All done?” +</p> +<p> +I was confused by the question. +</p> +<p> +“Why,” Tumm answered, “it didn’t make no +difference t’ she!” +</p> +<p> +I was not surprised. +</p> +<p> +“Not s’prised!” cries Tumm. “No,” he +snapped, indignantly, “nor neither was Slow +Jim Tool.” +</p> +<p> +Of course not! +</p> +<p> +“Nobody knows nothin’ about a woman,” +said Tumm; “least of all, the woman. An’, +anyhow,” he resumed, “’Lizabeth All didn’t +care. Why, God save you, sir!” he burst out, +“she loved the shoulders an’ soul o’ Slow Jim +Tool too much t’ care. ’Tis a woman’s way; an’ +a woman’s true love so passes the knowledge o’ +men that faith in God is a lesson in A B C beside +it. Well,” he continued, “sailin’ the <em>Give an’ +Take</em> that fall, I was cotched in the early freeze-up, +an’ us put the winter in at Jump Harbor, with +a hold full o’ fish an’ every married man o’ the +crew in a righteous rage. An’ as for ’Lizabeth, +why, when us cleared the school-room, when ol’ +Bill Bump fiddled up with the accordion ‘’Money Musk’ +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_108'></a>108</span> +an’ ‘<em>Pop</em> Goes the Weasel,’ when he +sung out, ‘Balance!’ an’ ‘H’ist her, lad!’ when +the jackets was throwed aside an’ the boots +was cast off, why, ’Lizabeth All jus’ fair <em>clinged</em> +t’ that there big, gray-eyed, pink-an’-white Slow +Jim Tool! ’Twas a pretty sight t’ watch her, +sir, plump an’ winsome an’ yellow-haired, float +like a sea-gull over the school-room floor—t’ see +her blushes an’ smiles an’ eyes o’ love. It done +me good. I ’lowed I wished I was young again—an’ +big an’ slow an’ kind an’ curly-headed. +But lookin’ about, sir, it seemed t’ me, as best I +could understand, that a regiment o’ little devils +was stickin’ red-hot fish-forks into the vitals o’ +Archibald Shott; an’ then I ’lowed, somehow, +that maybe I was jus’ as well off as I was. I got +a look in his eyes, sir, afore the night was done; +an’ it jus’ seemed t’ me that the Lord had give +me a peep into hell. +</p> +<p> +“’Twas more’n Archibald Shott could carry. +‘Tumm,’ says he, nex’ day, ‘I ’low I’ll move.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Where to?’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘’Low I’ll jack my house down t’ the ice,’ says +he, ‘an’ haul she over t’ Deep Cove. I’ve growed +tired,’ says he, ‘o’ fishin’ Jump Harbor.’ +</p> +<p> +“Well, now, they wasn’t no prayer-meetin’ +held t’ keep Archibald Shott t’ Jump Harbor. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_109'></a>109</span> +The lads o’ the place an’ the crew o’ the <em>Give +an’ Take</em> turned to an’ jerked that house across +the bay t’ Deep Cove like a gale o’ wind. They +wasn’t nothin’ left o’ Archibald Shott at Jump +Harbor but the bare spot on the rocks where the +house used t’ be. When ’twas all over with, Arch +come back t’ say good-bye; an’ he took Slow Jim +Tool t’ the hills, an’, ‘Jim,’ says he, ‘you knows +where my house used t’ be? Hist!’ says he, ‘I +wants t’ tell you: is you able t’ hold a secret? +Well,’ says he, ‘I wouldn’t go pokin’ ’round in +the dirt there. You leave that place be. They +isn’t nothin’ there that you’d like t’ have. Understand? +<em>Don’t go pokin’ ’round in the dirt +where my ol’ house was.</em> But if you does,’ says +he, ‘an’ if you finds anything you wants, why, +you can keep it, and not be obliged t’ me.’ So +Jim begun pokin’ ’round; being human, he jus’ +couldn’t help it. He poked an’ poked, till they +wasn’t no sense in pokin’ no more; an’ then he +’lowed he’d give ’Lizabeth a wonderful s’prise in +the spring, no matter what it cost. ‘Archibald +Shott,’ says he, ‘is a kind man. You jus’ wait, +’Lizabeth, an’ <em>see</em>.’ And in the spring, sure +enough, off he sot for Chain Tickle, where ol’ +Jonas Williams have a shop an’ a store, t’ fetch +’Lizabeth a pink ostrich feather she’d seed in +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_110'></a>110</span> +Jonas’s trader two year afore. She ’lowed that +’twas a wonderful sight o’ money t’ lay out on a +feather, when he got back; but he says: ‘Oh no, +’Lizabeth; the money wasn’t no trouble t’ get.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘No trouble?’ says she. +</p> +<p> +“‘Why, no,’ says he; ‘no trouble t’ speak of. +I jus’ sort o’ poked around an’ picked it up.’ +</p> +<p> +“About a week after ’Lizabeth All had first +wore that pink feather t’ meetin’ a constable +come ashore from the mail-boat an’ tapped Slow +Jim Tool on the shoulder. +</p> +<p> +“‘What you do that for?’ says Jim. +</p> +<p> +“‘In the Queen’s name!’ says the constable. +</p> +<p> +“‘My God!’ says Jim. ‘What is I been +doin’?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Counterfeitin’,’ says the constable. +</p> +<p> +“‘Counter-fittin’!’ says Jim. ‘What’s that?’ +</p> +<p> +“They says,” Tumm sighed, “that poor Jim +Tool was wonderful s’prised t’ be give two year +in chokee t’ St. John’s for passin’ lead shillin’s; +for look you! Jim didn’t <em>know</em> they was lead.” +</p> +<p> +“And Elizabeth?” I ventured. +</p> +<p> +“Up an’ died,” he drawled.... +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +“Well, now,” Tumm proceeded, “’twas three +year later that Jim Tool an’ Archibald Shott an’ +me was shipped from Twillingate aboard the <em>Billy</em> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_111'></a>111</span> +<em>Boy</em> t’ fish the Labrador below Mugford along +o’ Skipper Alex Tuttle. Jim Tool was more +slow an’ solemn an’ puzzled ’n ever I knowed +un t’ be afore; an’ he was so wonderful shy o’ +Archibald Shott that Arch ’lowed he’d have the +superstitious shudders if it kep’ up much longer. +‘If he’d only talk,’ says Arch, ‘an’ not creep about +this here schooner like a deaf an’ dumb ghost!’ +But Jim said nar a word; he just’ kep’ a gray eye +on Arch till Arch lost a deal more sleep ’n he got. +‘He <em>irks</em> me!’ says Arch. ‘’Tisn’t a thing a religious +man would practise; an’ I’ll <em>do</em> something,’ +says he, ‘t’ stop it!’ Howbeit, things was easy +till the <em>Billy Boy</em> slipped past Mother Burke in +fair weather an’ run into a dirty gale from the +north off the upper French shore. The wind +jus’ seemed t’ sweep up all the ice they was on +the Labrador an’ jam it again’ the coast at Black +Bight. There’s where we was, sir, when things +cleaned up; gripped in the ice a hundred fathom +off the Black Bight cliffs. An’ there we stayed, +lifted from the pack, lyin’ at fearsome list, till +the wind turned westerly an’ began t’ loosen up +the ice. +</p> +<p> +“’Twas after noon of a gray day when the +<em>Billy Boy</em> dropped back in the water. They was +a bank o’ blue-black cloud hangin’ high beyond +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_112'></a>112</span> +the cliffs; an’ I ’lowed t’ the skipper, when I seed +it, that ’twould blow with snow afore the day +was out. +</p> +<p> +“‘Ay,’ says the skipper; ‘an’ ’twon’t be long +about it.’ +</p> +<p> +“Jus’ then Slow Jim Tool knocked Archibald +Shott flat on his back. Lord, what a thump! +Looked t’ me as if Archibald Shott might be +damaged. +</p> +<p> +“‘Ecod! Jim,’ says I, ‘what you go an’ do that +for?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Why,’ says Jim, ‘he said a bad word again’ +the name o’ ’Lizabeth.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Never done nothin’ o’ the kind,’ says Arch. +‘I was jus’ ’bidin’ here amidships lookin’ at the +weather.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Yes, you did, Arch,’ says Jim; ‘you done it +in the forecastle—las’ Wednesday. I heared +you as I come down the ladder.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Don’t you knock me down again,’ says Arch. +‘That <em>hurt</em>!’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Well,’ says Jim, ‘you keep your tongue off +poor ’Lizabeth.’ +</p> +<div><a name='i112' id='i112'></a></div> +<div class='figcenter' style='padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em'> +<a name='i005' id='i005'></a> +<img src="images/illus-112.jpg" alt="“YOU KEEP YOUR TONGUE OFF POOR ’LIZABETH”" title=""/><br /> +<span class='caption'>“YOU KEEP YOUR TONGUE OFF POOR ’LIZABETH”</span> +</div> +<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_113'></a>113</span></div> +<p> +“By this time, sir, the lads was all come up +from the forecastle. We wasn’t much hands at +fightin’, in them days, on the Labrador craft, +bein’ all friends t’gether; an’ a little turn up on +deck sort o’ scared the crew. Made un shy, too; +they hanged about, backin’ an’ shufflin’, like +kids in a parlor, fair itchin’ along o’ awkwardness, +grinnin’ a deal wider’n was called for, but sayin’ +nothin’ for fear o’ drawin’ more attention ’n +they could well dodge. Skipper Alex he laughed; +then I cackled a bit—an’ then off went the crew +in a big he-haw. I seed Archibald Shott turn +white an’ twitch-lipped, an’ I minds me now, sir, +that he fidgeted somewhat about his hip; but +bein’ all friends aboard, sir, shipped from near-by +harbors, why, it jus’ didn’t jump into my mind +that he was up t’ anything more deadly than +givin’ a hitch to his trousers. How should it? +We wasn’t <em>used</em> t’ brawls aboard the <em>Billy Boy</em>. +But whatever, Archibald Shott crep’ for’ard a +bit, till he was close ’longside, an’ then bended +down t’ do up the lashin’ of his shoe: which he +kep’ at, sir, fumblin’ like a baby, till Jim looked +off t’ the clouds risin’ over the Black Bight cliffs +an’ ’lowed ’twould snow like wool afore the hour +was over. Then, ‘Will she?’ says Arch; an’ +with that he drawed his splittin’-knife an’ leaped +like a lynx on Slow Jim Tool. I seed the knife in +the air, sir—seed un come down point foremost +on Jim’s big chest—an’ heared a frosty tinkle +when the broken blade struck the deck. It +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_114'></a>114</span> +didn’t seem natural, sir; not on the deck o’ the +<em>Billy Boy</em>, where we was all friends aboard, raised +in near-by harbors. +</p> +<p> +“Anyhow, Slow Jim squealed like a pig an’ +clapped a hand to his heart; an’ Arch jumped +back t’ the rail, where he stood with muscles +drawed an’ arms open for a grapple, fair drillin’ +holes in Jim with his little green eyes. +</p> +<p> +“‘Ouch!’ says Jim; ‘that wasn’t <em>fair</em>, Arch!’ +</p> +<p> +“Arch’s lips jus’ lifted away from his teeth in a +ghastly sort o’ grin. +</p> +<p> +“‘Eh?’ says Jim. ‘What you want t’ do a +dirty trick like that for?’ +</p> +<p> +“Arch didn’t seem t’ have no answer ready: +jus’ stood there eyin’ Jim, stock still as a wooden +figger-head, ’cept that he shivered an’ gulped an’ +licked his blue lips with a tongue that I ’lowed +t’ be as dry as sand-paper. Seemed t’ me, sir, +when his muscles begun t’ slack an’ his eyes t’ +shift, that he was more scared ’n any decent man +ought ever t’ get. But he didn’t say nothin’; nor +no more did nobody else. Wasn’t nothin’ t’ <em>say</em>. +There we was, all friends aboard, reared in near-by +harbors. Didn’t seem natural t’ be stewin’ +in a mess o’ hate like that. Look you! we <em>knowed</em> +Archibald Shott an’ Slow Jim Tool: knowed un, +stripped an’ clothed, body an’ soul, an’ <em>had</em>, sir, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_115'></a>115</span> +since they begun t’ toddle the roads o’ Jump +Harbor. Knowed un? Why, down along afore +the <em>Lads’ Hope</em> went ashore on the Barnyard +Islands, I slep’ along o’ Jim Tool an’ <em>poulticed +Archibald Shaft’s boils</em>! Didn’t seem t’ me, sir, +when Jim took off his jacket an’ opened his shirt +that they was anything more’n sorrow for Arch’s +temper brewin’ in his heart. Murder? Never +thunk o’ murder; wasn’t used enough t’ murder. +I ’lowed, though, that Jim didn’t like the sight +o’ the cut where the knife had broke on a rib; an’ +I ’lowed he liked the feel of his blood still less, for +he got white an’ stupid an’ disgusted when his +fingers touched it, jus’ as if he might be sea-sick +any minute, an’ he shook hisself an’ coughed, sir, +jus’ like a dog eatin’ grass. +</p> +<p> +“‘Tumm,’ says he, ‘you got a knife?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Don’t ’low no one,’ says I, ‘t’ clean a pipe +’ith my knife.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘No,’ says he; ‘a sheath-knife?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Left un below,’ says I. ‘What you want un +for?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Jus’ a little job,’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“‘What <em>kind</em> of a job?’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘Oh,’ says he, ‘jus’ a little job I got t’ do!’ +</p> +<p> +“Seemed nobody had a knife, so Jim Tool +fetched his own from below. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_116'></a>116</span> +</p> +<p> +“‘Find un?’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘Not my bes’ one,’ says he. ‘Jus’ my second +bes’.’ +</p> +<p> +“Skipper Alex ’lowed ’twould snow like goose +feathers afore half an hour was out, but, somehow, +sir, nobody cared, though the wind was +breakin’ off shore in saucy puff’s an’ the ice pack +was goin’ abroad. +</p> +<p> +“Jim Tool feeled the edge of his knife. ‘Isn’t +my bes’ one,’ says he. ‘I got a new one somewheres.’ +</p> +<p> +“I ’lowed he was a bit out o’ temper with the +knife; an’ it <em>did</em> look sort o’ foul sir, along o’ +overuse an’ neglect. +</p> +<p> +“‘Greasy,’ says he, wipin’ the blade on his +boot; ‘wonderful greasy! Isn’t much use no +more. Wisht I had my bes’ one. This here,’ +says he, ‘is got three big nicks. But, anyhow, +Arch,’ says he, ‘I won’t hurt you no more’n I can +help!’ +</p> +<p> +“Then, sir, knife in hand an’ murder hot in +his heart, he bore down on Archibald Shott. +’Twas all over in a flash: Arch, lean an’ nimble as +a imp, leaped the rail an’ put off over the ice +toward the Black Bight cliffs, with Slow Jim +in chase. Skipper Alex whistled ‘Whew!’ an’ +looked perfeckly stupid along o’ s’prise; whereon, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_117'></a>117</span> +sir, havin’ come to his senses of a sudden, he let +out a whoop like a siren whistle an’ vaulted overside. +Then me, sir; then the whole bally crew! +In jus’ a wink ’twas follow my leader over the +pans t’ save Archibald Shott from slaughter: +scramble an’ leap, sir, slip an’ splash—across the +pans an’ over the pools an’ lanes o’ water. +</p> +<p> +“I ’low the skipper might o’ overhauled Jim +an he hadn’t missed his leap an’ gone overhead +’longside. As for me, sir, wind an’ legs denied +me. +</p> +<p> +“‘Hol’ on, Jim!’ sings I. ‘Wait for <em>me</em>!’ +</p> +<p> +“But Jim wasn’t heedin’ what was behind; +I ’low, sir, what with hate an’ the rage o’ years, +he wasn’t thinkin’ o’ nothin’ ’cept t’ get a knife in +the vitals o’ Archibald Shott so deep an’ soon as +he was able. Seemed he’d do it, too, in quick +time, for jus’ that minute Archibald slipped; his +legs sailed up in the air, an’ he landed on his +shoulders an’ rolled off into the water. But God +bein’ on the watch jus’ then, sir, Jim leaped +short hisself from the pan he was on, an’ afore he +could crawl from the sea Arch was out an’ lopin’ +like a hare over better goin’. Jim was too quick +for me t’ nab; I was fetched up all standin’ by +the lane he’d leaped—while he sailed on in chase +o’ Arch. An’ meantime the crew was scattered +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_118'></a>118</span> +north an’ south, every man Jack makin’ over the +ice for the Black Bight cliffs by the course that +looked best, so that Arch was drove in on the +rocks. I ’lowed ’twould be over in a trice if +somebody didn’t leap on the back o’ Slow Jim +Tool; but in this I was mistook: for Archibald +Shott, bein’ hunted an’ scared an’ nimble, didn’t +wait at the foot o’ the cliff for Jim Tool’s greasy +knife. He shinned on up—up an’ up an’ up—higher +an’ higher—with his legs an’ arms sprawled +out an’ workin’ like a spider. Nor neither did +Jim stop short. No, sir! He slipped his knife +in his belt—an’ up shinned <em>he</em>! +</p> +<p> +“‘<em>Jim</em>, you fool!’ sings I, when I come below, +‘you come down out o’ that!’ +</p> +<p> +“But Jim jus’ kep’ mountin’. +</p> +<p> +“‘Jim!’ says I. ‘You want t’ fall an’ get +hurted?’ +</p> +<p> +“Up comes the skipper in a proper state o’ +wrath an’ salt water. ‘Look you, Jim Tool!’ +sings he; ‘you want t’ break your neck?’ +</p> +<p> +“I ’lowed maybe Jim was too high up t’ hear. +</p> +<p> +“‘Tumm,’ says the skipper, ‘that fool will +split Archibald Shott once he gets un. You go +’round by Tatter Brook,’ says he, ‘an’ climb the +hill from behind. This foolishness is got t’ be +stopped. Goin’ easy,’ says he, ‘you’ll beat Shott +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_119'></a>119</span> +t’ the top o’ the cliff. He’ll be over first; let un +go. But when Tool comes,’ says he, ‘why, you +got a pair o’ arms there that can clinch a argument.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Ay,’ says I; ‘but what’ll come o’ Archibald?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Well,’ says the skipper, ‘it looks t’ me as if +he’d be content jus’ t’ keep on goin’.’ +</p> +<p> +“In this way, sir, I come t’ the top o’ the cliff. +They <em>was</em> signs o’ weather—a black sky, puffs o’ +wind jumpin’ out, scattered flakes o’ snow—but +they wasn’t no sign o’ Archibald Shott. They +was quite a reach o’ brink, sir, high enough from +the shore ice t’ make a stomach squirm; an’ it +took a deal o’ peepin’ an’ stretchin’ t’ spy out +Arch an’ Jim. Then I ’lowed that Arch never +<em>would</em> get over; for I seed, sir—lyin’ there on the +edge o’ the cliff, with more head an’ shoulders +stickin’ out in space than I cares t’ dream about +o’ these quiet nights—I seed that Archibald +Shott was cotched an’ could get no further. +There he was, sir, stickin’ like plaster t’ the face +o’ the cliff, some thirty feet below, finger-nails an’ +feet dug into the rock, his face like a year-old +corpse. I sung out a hearty word—though, +God knows! my heart was empty o’ cheer—an’ +I heard some words rattle in Shott’s dry throat, +but couldn’t understand; an’ then, sir, overcome +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_120'></a>120</span> +by space an’ that face o’ fear, I rolled back on +the frozen moss, sick an’ limp. When I looked +again I seed, so far below that they looked like +fat swile on the ice, the skipper an’ the crew o’ +the <em>Billy Boy</em>, starin’ up, with the floe an’ black +sea beyond, lyin’ like a steep hill under the gray +sky. Midway, swarmin’ up with cautious hands +an’ feet, come Slow Jim Tool, his face as white +an’ cold as the ice below, thin-lipped, wolf-eyed, +his heart as cruel now, sir, his slow mind as keen, +his muscles as tense an’ eager, as a brute’s on +the hunt. +</p> +<p> +“‘Jim!’ says I. ‘Oh, Jim!’ +</p> +<p> +“Jim jus’ come on up. +</p> +<p> +“‘Jim!’ says I. ‘Is that <em>you</em>?’ +</p> +<p> +“Seemed, sir, it jus’ <em>couldn’t</em> be. Not <em>Jim</em>! +Why, I <em>nursed</em> Jim! I tossed Jimmie Tool t’ +the ceilin’ when he was a mushy infant too young +t’ do any more’n jus’ gurgle. Why, at that +minute, sir, like a dream in the gray space below, +I could see Jimmie Tool’s yellow head an’ fat +white legs an’ calico dresses, jus’ as they used +t’ be. +</p> +<p> +“‘Jim,’ says I, ‘it can’t be you. Not you, +Jim,’ says I; ‘not <em>you</em>!’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Tumm,’ says he, ‘is he stuck? Can’t he +get no farther?’ +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_121'></a>121</span> +</p> +<p> +“Jim! +</p> +<p> +“‘If he can’t,’ says he, ‘I got un! I’ll knife +un, Tumm,’ says he, ‘jus’ in a minute.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Don’t try it,’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘Don’t you fret, Tumm,’ says he. ‘Isn’t +no fear o’ <em>me</em> fallin’. <em>I’m</em> all right.’ +</p> +<p> +“An’ this was Jimmie Tool! Why, sir, I +knowed Jimmie Tool when he was a lad o’ +twelve. A hearty lad, sir, towheaded an’ stout +an’ strong an’ lively, with freckles on his nose, an’ +a warm, kind, white-toothed little grin for such +as put a hand on his shoulder. Wasn’t nobody +ever, man, woman, or child, that touched Jimmie +Tool in kindness ’ithout bein’ loved. He jus’ +couldn’t help it. You jus’ be good t’ Jimmie +Tool, you jus’ put a hand on his head an’ smile, +an’ Jimmie ’lowed they was no man like you. +‘You got a awful kind heart, lad,’ says I, when he +was twelve; ‘an’ when you grows up,’ says I, +‘I ’low the folk o’ this coast will be glad you was +born.’ An’ here was Jimmie Tool, swarmin’ up +the Black Bight cliffs, bent on the splittin’ o’ +Archibald Shott, which same Archibald I had +took t’ Sunday-school, by the wee, soft hand of +un, many a time, when he was a flabby-fleshed, +chatterin’ rollypolly o’ four! Bein’ jus’ a ol’ fool, +sir—bein’ jus’ a soft ol’ fool hangin’ over the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_122'></a>122</span> +Black Bight cliffs—I wisht, somehow, that little +Jimmie Tool had never needed t’ grow up. +</p> +<p> +“‘Jimmie,” says I, ‘what you <em>really</em> goin’ t’ +do?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Well,’ says he, ‘jus’ a minute.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Very well,’ says I; ‘but you better leave poor +Arch alone.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘How’s his grip?’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“‘None too good,’ says I; ‘a touch would dislodge +un.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘If I cotched un by the ankle, then,’ says he, +‘I ’low I could jerk un loose.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘You hadn’t better <em>try</em>,’ says Arch. +</p> +<p> +“‘Jim,’ says I, ‘does you know how high up +you really is?’ +</p> +<p> +“Jim jus’ reached as quick as a snake for +Archibald Shott’s foot, but come somewhat short +of a grip. ‘Shoot it!’ says he, ‘I can on’y touch +un with my finger. I’ll have t’ climb higher.’ +</p> +<p> +“Up he come a inch or so. +</p> +<p> +“‘You try that again, Jim,’ says Arch, ‘an’ +I’ll kick you in the head.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘You can’t,’ says Jim; ‘you dassn’t move a +foot from that ledge.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Try an’ see,’ says Arch. +</p> +<p> +“‘I can see very well, Arch, b’y,’ says Jim. +‘If you wriggles a toe, you’ll fall.’ +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_123'></a>123</span> +</p> +<p> +“Then, sir, I cotched ear o’ the skipper singin’ +out from below. Seemed so far down when my +eyes dropped that my fingers digged theirselves +deep in the moss and clawed around for better +grip. They isn’t no beach below, sir, nor broken +rock, as you knows; the cliffs rise from deep +water. Skipper and crew was on the ice; an’ I +seed that the wind had blowed the pans off shore. +Wind was up now: blowin’ clean t’ sea, with +flakes o’ snow swirlin’ in the lee o’ the cliff. It +fair scraped the moss I was lyin’ on. Seemed t’ +me, sir, that if it blowed much higher I’d need +my toes for hangin’ on. A gust cotched off my +cap an’ swep’ it over the sea. Lord! it made me +shiver t’ watch the course o’ that ol’ cloth cap! +Blow? Oh, ay—blowin’‘! An’ I ’lowed that the +skipper was nervous in the wind. He sung out +again, waved his arms, pointed t’ the sea, an’ +then ducked his head, tucked in his elbows, an’ +put off for the schooner, with the crew scurryin’ +like weak-flippered swile in his wake. Sort o’ +made me laugh, sir; they looked so round an’ +squat an’ short-legged, ’way down below, sprawlin’ +over the ice in mad haste t’ board the <em>Billy +Boy</em> afore she drifted off in the gale. Laugh? +Ay, sir! I laughed. Didn’t seem t’ me, sir, that +Jim Tool really <em>meant</em> t’ kill Archibald Shott. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_124'></a>124</span> +Jus’ seemed, somehow, like a rough game, with +somebody like t’ get hurted if they kep’ it up. +So I laughed; but I gulped that laugh back t’ +my stomach, sir, when I slapped eyes again on +Archibald Shott! +</p> +<p> +“‘Don’t do that, Arch,’ says I. ‘You’ll <em>fall</em>!’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Well,’ says he, ‘Jim says I can’t kick un in +the head.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘No more you can,’ says Jim; ‘an’ you dassn’t +try.’ +</p> +<p> +“Arch was belly foremost t’ the cliff—toes on +a ledge an’ hands gripped aloft. He was able +t’ look up, but made poor work o’ lookin’ down +over his shoulder; an’ I ’lowed, him not bein’ +able t’ see Jim, that the minute he reached out a +foot he’d be cotched an’ ripped from his hold, if +Jim really wanted t’ do it. Anyhow, he got his +fingers in a lower crack. ’Twas a wonderful +strain t’ put on any man’s hands an’ arms: I +could see his forearms shake along of it. But +safe at this, he loosed one foot from the ledge, let +his body sink, an’ begun t’ kick out after Jim, +jus’ feelin’ about like a blind man, with his face +jammed again’ the rock. Jus’ in a minute Jim +reached for that foot. Cotched it, too; but no +sooner did Arch feel them fingers closin’ in than +he kicked out for life an’ got loose. The wrench +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_125'></a>125</span> +near overset Jim. He made a quick grab for the +rock an’ got a hand there jus’ in time. Jim +laughed. It may be that he thunk Arch would +be satisfied an’ draw up t’ rest. But Arch ’lowed +for one more kick; an’ this, sir, cotched Slow Jim +Tool fair on the cheek when poor Jim wasn’t +lookin’. Must o’ hurt Jim. When his head +fell back, his face was all screwed up, jus’ like a +child’s in pain. I seed, too, that his muscles was +slack, his knees givin’ way, an’ that his right hand, +with the fingers spread out crooked, was clawin’ +for a hold, ecod! out in the air, where they wasn’t +nothin’ but thin wind t’ grasp. Then I didn’t +see no more, but jus’ lied flat on the moss, my +eyes fallen shut, limp an’ sweaty o’ body, waitin’ +t’ come to, as from the grip o’ the Old Hag. +</p> +<p> +“When I looked again, sir, Archibald Shott +had both feet toed back on the ledge, an’ Slow +Jim Tool, below, was still stickin’ like a barnacle +t’ the cliff. +</p> +<p> +“‘Jim,’ says I, ‘if you don’t stop this foolishness +I’ll drop a rock on you.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘This won’t do,’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“‘No,’ says I; ‘it <em>won’t</em>!’ +</p> +<p> +“‘I ’low, Tumm,’ says he, ‘that I better swarm +above an’ come down.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘What for?’ says I. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_126'></a>126</span> +</p> +<p> +“‘Step on his fingers,’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“Then, sir, the squall broke; a rush an’ howl +o’ northerly wind! Come like a pack o’ mad +ghosts: a break from the spruce forest—a flight +over the barren—a great leap into space. Blue-black +clouds, low an’ thick, rushin’ over the cliff, +spilt dusk an’ snow below. ’Twas as though the +Lord had cast a black blanket o’ night in haste an’ +anger upon the sea. An’ I never knowed the +snow so thick afore; ’twas jus’ emptied out on the +world like bags o’ flour. Dusty, frosty snow; it +got in my eyes an’ nose an’ throat. ’Twasn’t a +minute afore sea an’ shore was wiped from sight +an’ Jim Tool an’ Archibald Shott was turned t’ +black splotches in a mist. I crabbed away from +the brink. Wasn’t no sense, sir, in lyin’ there in +the push an’ tug o’ the wind. An’ I sot me down +t’ wait; an’ by-an’-by I heard a cry, a dog’s bark +o’ terror, from deep in the throat, sir, that wasn’t +no scream o’ the gale. So I crawled for’ard, on +hands an’ knees that bore me ill, t’ peer below, but +seed no form o’ flesh an’ blood, nor got a human +answer t’ my hail. I turned again t’ wait; an’ +I faced inland, where was the solemn forest, far +off an’ hid in a swirl o’ snow, with but the passion +of a gale t’ bear. An’ there I stood, sir, turned +away from the rage o’ hearts that beat in breasts +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_127'></a>127</span> +like ours, until the squall failed, an’ the snow +thinned t’ playful flakes, an’ the gray clouds, +broken above the wilderness, soaked crimson +from the sun like blood. +</p> +<p> +“’Twas Jim Tool that roused me. +</p> +<p> +“‘That you, Jim?’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘Ay,’ says he; ‘you been waitin’ here for me, +Tumm?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Ay,’ says I; ‘been waitin’.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Tired?’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“‘No,’ says I; ‘not tired.’ +</p> +<p> +“There come then, sir, a sort o’ smile upon +him—fond an’ grateful an’ childlike. I seed it +glow in the pits where his eyes was. ‘It was +kind,’ says he, ‘t’ wait. You always <em>was</em> kind +t’ me, Tumm.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Oh no,’ says I; ‘not kind.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Tumm,’ says he, kickin’ at a rock in the +snow, ‘I done it,’ says he, ‘by the ankle.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Then,’ says I, ‘God help you, Jim!’ +</p> +<p> +“He come close t’ me, sir, jus’ like he used t’ +do, when he was a lad, in trouble. +</p> +<p> +“‘Keep off, Jim!’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘Why so?’ says he. ‘Isn’t you goin’ t’ be +friends ’ith me any more?’ +</p> +<p> +“I was afraid. ‘Keep clear!’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘Oh, why so?’ says he. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_128'></a>128</span> +</p> +<p> +“‘I—I—don’t know!’ says I. ‘God help us +all, I don’t <em>know</em>!’ +</p> +<p> +“Then he falled prone, sir, an’ rolled over on +his back, with his arms flung out, as if now he +seed the blood on his hands; an’ he squirmed in +the snow, sir, like a worm on a hook. ‘I wisht I +hadn’t done it! Oh, dear God,’ says he, ‘<em>I +wisht I hadn’t done it!</em>’ +</p> +<p> +“Ah, poor little Jimmie Tool! +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +“I looked away, sir, west’ard, t’ where the sky +had broken wide its gates. Ah, the sun had +washed the crimson blood-drip from the clouds! +’Twas a flood o’ golden light. Colors o’ heaven +streamin’ through upon the world! But yet +so far away—beyond the forest, and, ay, beyond +the farther sea! Maybe, sir, while my eyes +searched the far-off sunlit spaces, that my heart +fled back t’ fields o’ time more distant still. I +remembered the lad that was Jimmie Tool. +Warm-hearted, sir, aglow with tender wishes for +the joy o’ folk; towheaded an’ stout an’ strong, +straight o’ body an’ soul, with a heart lifted high, +it seemed t’ me, from the reachin’ fingers o’ sin. +Wasn’t nobody ever, sir, that touched Jimmie +Tool in kindness ’ithout bein’ loved. ‘Ah, +Jimmie,’ says I, when I looked in his clear gray +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_129'></a>129</span> +eyes, ‘the world’ll be glad, some day, that you +was born. Wisht I was a lad like you,’ says I, +‘an’ not a man like me.’ An’ he’d cotch hold o’ +my hand, sir, an’ say: ‘Tumm, you is wonderful +good t’ me. I ’low I’m a lucky lad,’ says he, +‘t’ have a friend like you.’ So now, sir, come +back t’ the bleak cliffs o’ Black Bight, straight +returned from the days of his childhood, with the +golden dust o’ that time fresh upon my feet, the +rosy light of it in my eyes, the breath o’ God in +my heart, I kneeled in the snow beside Jim Tool +an’ put a hand on his shoulder. +</p> +<p> +“‘Jimmie!’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“He would not take his hands from his eyes. +</p> +<p> +“‘Hush!’ says I, for I had forgot that he was +no more a child. ‘Don’t cry!’ +</p> +<p> +“He cotched my hand, sir, jus’ like he used +t’do. +</p> +<p> +“’T’ me,’ says I, ‘you’ll always be the same +little lad you used t’ be.’ +</p> +<p> +“It eased un: poor little Jimmie Tool!” +</p> +<p> +Tumm’s face had not relaxed. ’Twas grim +as ever. But I saw—and turned away—that +tears were upon the seamed, bronzed cheeks. I +listened to the wind blowing over Jump Harbor, +and felt the oppression of the dark night, which +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_130'></a>130</span> +lay thick upon the roads once known to the feet +of this gray-eyed Jimmie Tool. My faith was +turned gray by the tale. “Ecod!” Tumm burst +in upon my musing, misled, perhaps, by this +ancient sorrow, “I’m glad <em>I</em> didn’t make this +damned world! An’, anyhow,” he continued, +with a snap of indignation, “what happened after +that was all done as <em>among men</em>. Wasn’t no +cryin’—least of all by Jim Tool. When the +<em>Billy Boy</em> beat back t’ pick us up, all hands turned +out t’ fish Archibald Shott from the breakers, +an’ then we stowed un away in a little place by +Tatter Brook, jus’ where the water tumbles down +the hill. Jim ’lowed he might as well be took +back an’ hanged in short order. The sooner, he +says, the better it would suit. ’Lizabeth was +dead, an’ Arch was dead, an’ he might as well +go, too. Anyhow, says he, he <em>ought</em> to. But +Skipper Alex wouldn’t hear to it. Wasn’t no +time, says he; the crew couldn’t afford to lose +the v’y’ge; an’, anyhow, says he, Jim wasn’t +in no position t’ ask favors. So ’twas late in the +fall, sir, afore Jim was give into the hands o’ +the Tilt Cove constable. Then Jim an’ me an’ +the skipper an’ some o’ the crew put out for St. +John’s, where Jim had what they called his trial. +An’ Jim ’lowed that if the jury could do so ’ithout +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_131'></a>131</span> +drivin’ theirselves, an’ would jus’ order un hanged +as soon as convenient, why, he’d be ’bliged. +An’—” +</p> +<p> +Tumm paused. +</p> +<p> +“Well?” I interrogated. +</p> +<p> +“The jury,” Tumm answered, “<em>jus’ wouldn’t +do it</em>!” +</p> +<p> +“And Jimmie?” +</p> +<p> +“Jus’ fishin’.” +</p> +<p> +Poor little Jimmie Tool! +</p> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_132'></a>132</span><a name='chV' id='chV'></a>V—THE FOOL OF SKELETON TICKLE</h2> +<p> +When the wheezy little mail-boat rounded +the Liar’s Tombstone—that gray, immobile +head, forever dwelling upon its forgotten tragedy—she +“opened” Skeleton Tickle; and this was +where the fool was born, and where he lived his +life, such as it was, and, in the end, gave it up in +uttermost disgust. It was a wretched Newfoundland +settlement of the remoter parts, isolated +on a stretch of naked coast, itself lying unappreciatively +snug beside sheltered water: being +but a congregation of stark white cottages and +turf huts, builded at haphazard, each aloof from +its despairing neighbor, all sticking like lean incrustations +to the bare brown hills—habitations +of men, to be sure, which elsewhere had surely +relieved the besetting dreariness with the grace +and color of life, but in this place did not move +the gray, unsmiling prospect of rock and water. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_133'></a>133</span> +The day was clammy: a thin, pervasive fog had +drenched the whole world, now damp to the +touch, dripping to the sight; the wind, out of +temper with itself, blew cold and viciously, fretting +the sea to a swishing lop, in which the harbor +punts, anchored for the day’s fishing in the +shallows over Lost Men grounds, were tossed +and flung about in a fashion vastly nauseating +to the beholder.... Poor devils of men and +boys! Toil for them, dawn to dark; with every +reward of labor—love and all the delights of life—changed +by the unhappy lot: turned sordid, +cheerless, bestial.... +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +“Ha!” interrupted my chance acquaintance, +leaning upon the rail with me. “I am ver’ good +business man. Eh? You not theenk?” There +was a saucy challenge in this; it left no escape +by way of bored credulity; no man of proper feeling +could accept the boast of this ingratiating, +frowsy, yellow-eyed Syrian peddler. “Ha!” he +proceeded. “You not theenk, eh? But I have +tell you—I—myself! I am thee bes’ business +man in Newf’un’lan’.” He threw back his head; +regarded me with pride and mystery, eyes half +closed. “No? Come, I tell you! I am thee +<em>mos’</em> bes’ business man in Newf’un’lan’. Eh? +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_134'></a>134</span> +Not so? Ay, I am thee ver’ mos’ bes’ business +man in all thee worl’. I—Tanous Shiva—I—<em>I</em>!” +He struck his breast. “I have be thee man. An’ +thee mos’ fool—thee mos’ beeg fool—thee mos’ +fearful beeg fool in all thee worl’ leeve there. +Ay, zur; he have leeve there—dead ahead—t’ +Skeleton Teekle. You not theenk? Ha! I tell +you—I tell you now—a mos’ won-dair-ful fun-ee +t’ing. You hark? Ver’ well. Ha!” he exclaimed, +clasping his hands in an ecstasy of delight. +“How you will have laugh w’en I tell!” +He sobered. “I am now,” he said, solemnly, +“be-geen. You hark?” +</p> +<p> +I nodded. +</p> +<p> +“First,” he continued, gravely important, as +one who discloses a mystery, “I am tell you thee +name of thee beeg fool. James All—his name. +Ol’ bach. Ver’ ol’ bach. Ver’ rich man. Ho! +mos’ rich. You not theenk? Ver’ well. I am +once hear tell he have seven lobster-tin full of +gold. Mygod! I am mos’ put crazy. Lobster-tin—seven! +An’ he have half-bushel of silver +dollar. How he get it? Ver’ well. His gran’-father +work ver’ hard; his father work ver’ hard; +all thee gold come to this man, an’ <em>he</em> work ver’, +ver’ hard. They work fearful—in thee gale, in +thee cold; they work, work, work, for thee gold. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_135'></a>135</span> +Many, many year ago, long time past, thee gold +be-geen to have save. It be-geen to have save +many year afore I am born. Eh? Fun-ee +t’ing! They work, work, work; but <em>I</em> am not +work. Oh no! I am leetle baby. They save, +save, save; but <em>I</em> am not save. Oh no! I am +foolsh boy, in Damascus. Ver’ well. By-’n’-by +I am thee growed man, an’ they have fill thee +seven lobster-tin with thee gold. For what? +Eh? I am tell you what for. Ha! I am +show you I am ver’ good business man. I am +thee ver’ mos’ bes’ business man in Newf’un’lan’.” +</p> +<p> +My glance, quick, suspicious, was not of the +kindest, and it caught his eye. +</p> +<p> +“You theenk I have get thee gold?” he asked, +archly. “You theenk I have get thee seven +lobster-tin?... Mygod!” he cried, throwing up +his hands in genuine horror. “You theenk I +have <em>steal</em> thee gold? No, no! I am ver’ hones’ +business man. I say my prayer all thee nights. +I geeve nine dollar fifty to thee Orth’dox Church +in Washin’ton Street in one year. I am thee +mos’ hones’ business man in Newf’un’lan’—an’” +(significantly), “I am <em>ver’ good</em> business man.” +</p> +<p> +His eyes were guileless.... +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_136'></a>136</span> +</p> +<p> +A punt slipped past, bound out, staggering +over a rough course to Lost Men grounds. The +spray, rising like white dust, drenched the crew. +An old man held the sheet and steering-oar. In +the bow a scrawny boy bailed the shipped water—both +listless, both misshapen and ill clad. Bitter, +toilsome, precarious work, this, done by folk impoverished +in all things. Seven lobster-tins of +gold coin! Three generations of labor and cruel +adventure, in gales and frosts and famines, had +been consumed in gathering it. How much of +weariness? How much of pain? How much of +evil? How much of peril, despair, deprivation? +And it was true: this alien peddler, the on-looker, +had the while been unborn, a babe, a boy, laboring +not at all; but by chance, in the end, he had +come, covetous and sly, within reach of all the +fruit of this malforming toil.... +</p> +<p> +“Look!” +</p> +<p> +I followed the lean, brown finger to a spot on a +bare hill—a sombre splash of black. +</p> +<p> +“You see? Ver’ well. One time he leeve +there—this grea’ beeg fool. His house it have +be burn down. How? Ver’ well. I tell you. +All people want thee gold. All people—all—all! +‘Ha!’ theenk a boy. ‘I mus’ have thee seven +lobster-tin of gold. I am want buy thee parasol +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_137'></a>137</span> +for ’Liza Hull nex’ time thee trader come. I +<em>mus’</em> have thee gold of ol’ Skip’ Jim. If I not, +then Sam Tom will have buy thee parasol from +Tanous Shiva. ’Liza Hull will have love him +an’ not me. I <em>mus’</em> have ’Liza Hull love me. +Oh,’ theenk he, ‘I <em>mus’</em> have ’Liza Hull love me! +I am not can leeve ’ithout that beeg ’Liza Hull +with thee red cheek an’ blue eye!’ (Ver’ poor +taste thee men have for thee girl in Newf’un’lan’.) +‘Ha!’ theenk he. ‘I mus’ have thee gold. I am +burn thee house an’ get thee gold. Then I have +buy thee peenk parasol from Tom Shiva.’ Fool! +Ver’ beeg fool—that boy. Burn thee house? Ver’ +poor business. Mos’ poor. Burn thee house of +ol’ Skip’ Jim? Pooh!” +</p> +<p> +It seemed to me, too—so did the sly fellow +bristle and puff with contempt—that the wretched +lad’s directness of method was most reprehensible; +but I came to my senses later, and I +have ever since known that the highwayman was +in some sort a worthy fellow. +</p> +<p> +“Ver’ well. For two year I know ’bout thee +seven lobster-tin of gold, an’ for two year I make +thee great frien’ along o’ Skip’ Jim—thee greates’ +frien’; thee ver’ greates’ frien’—for I am want +thee gold. Aie! I am all thee time stop with +Skip’ Jim. I am go thee church with Skip’ Jim. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_138'></a>138</span> +I am kneel thee prayer with Skip’ Jim. (I am +ver’ good man about thee prayer—ver’ good business +man.) Skip’ Jim he theenk me thee Jew. +Pooh! I am not care. I say, ‘Oh yess, Skip’ +Jim; I am mos’ sad about what thee Jews done. +Bad Jew done that.’ ‘You good Jew, Tom,’ +he say; ‘I am not hol’ you to thee ’count. Oh +no, Tom; you good Jew,’ he say. ‘You would +not do what thee bad Jews done.’ ‘Oh no, Skip’ +Jim,’ I say, ‘I am ver’ good man—ver’, ver’ +good man.’” +</p> +<p> +The peddler was gravely silent for a space. +</p> +<p> +“I am hones’ man,” he continued. “I am +thee mos’ hones’ business man in Newf’un’lan’. +So I mus’ have wait for thee gold. Ah,” he +sighed, “it have be <em>mos’</em> hard to wait. I am +almos’ break thee heart. But I am hones’ man—ver’, +ver’ hones’ man—an’ I <em>mus’</em> have wait. +Now I tell you what have happen: I am come +ashore one night, an’ it is thee nex’ night after +thee boy have burn thee house of Skip’ Jim for +the peenk parasol. +</p> +<p> +“‘Where Skip’ Jim house?’ I say. +</p> +<p> +“‘Burn down,’ they say. +</p> +<p> +“‘Burn down!’ I say. ‘Oh, my! ’Tis sad. +Have thee seven lobster-tin of gold be los’?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘All spoil,’ they say. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_139'></a>139</span> +</p> +<p> +“I am not theenk what they mean. ‘Oh, +dear!’ I say. ‘Where Skip’ Jim?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘You fin’ Skip’ Jim at thee Skip’ Bill Tissol’s +house.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Oh, my!’ I say. ‘I am mos’ sad. I am +go geeve thee pit-ee to poor Skip’ Jim.’” +</p> +<p> +The fog was fast thickening. We had come +close to Skeleton Tickle; but the downcast cottages +were more remote than they had been—infinitely +more isolated. +</p> +<p> +“Ver’ well. I am fin’ Skip’ Jim. He sit in +thee bes’ room of thee Skip’ Bill Tissol’s house. +All thee ’lone. God is good! Nobody there. +What have I see? Gold! Gold! The heap of +gold! The beeg, beeg heap of gold! I am not +can tell you!” +</p> +<p> +The man was breathing in gasps; in the pause +his jaw dropped, his yellow eyes were distended. +</p> +<p> +“Ha!” he ejaculated. “So I am thank thee +dear, good God I am not come thee too late. +Gold! Gold! The heap of gold! I am pray +ver’ hard to be good business man. I am close +thee eye an’ pray thee good God I am be ver’ +good business man for one hour. ‘Jus’ one +hour, O my God!’ I pray. ‘Leave me be ver’, +ver’ good business man for jus’ one leet-tle ver’ +small hour. I am geeve one hun’red fifty to +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_140'></a>140</span> +thee Orth’dox Church in Washin’ton Street, O +my God,’ I pray, ‘if I be mos’ ver’ good business +man for thee one hour!’ An’ I shake thee +head an’ look at thee rich ol’ Skip’ Jim with +thee ver’ mos’ awful sad look I am can. +</p> +<p> +“‘Oh, Skip’ Jim!’ I say. ‘Fear-r-ful! How +have your house cotch thee fire?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Thee boy of Skip’ Elisha,’ he say. +</p> +<p> +“‘Oh, Skip’ Jim,’ I say, ‘what have you do +by thee wicked boy?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘What have I do?’ he say. ‘He cannot have +mend thee bad business. What have I do? I +am not wish thee hurt to thee poor, poor boy.’ +</p> +<p> +“There sit thee beeg fool—thee ver’ beeg fool—thee +mos’ fearful fool in all thee worl’. Ol’ +Skip’ Jim All—thee beeg fool! There he sit, +by thee ’lone; an’ the heap of good gold is on +thee table; an’ the candle is burnin’; an’ the beeg +white wheesk-airs is ver’ white an’ mos’ awful +long; an’ thee beeg han’s is on thee gold, an’ thee +salt-sores from thee feeshin’ is on thee han’s; +an’ thee tear is in thee ol’ eyes of ol’ Skip’ Jim +All. So once more I pray thee good God to be +made ver’ good business man for thee one hour; +an’ I close thee door ver’ tight. +</p> +<p> +“‘Oh, Tom Shiva,’ he says, ‘I am ruin’!’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Ver’ sad,’ I say. ‘Oh, dear!’ +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_141'></a>141</span> +</p> +<p> +“‘I am ruin’—ruin’!’ he say. ‘Oh, I am +ruin’! What have I do?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Ver’, ver’ sad,’ I say. ‘Oh, Skip’ Jim,’ I +say, ‘tis ver’ sad!’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Ruin’!’ he say. ‘I am not be rich no more. +I am ver’ poor man, Tom Shiva. I am once be +rich; but I am not be rich no more.’ +</p> +<p> +“I am not know what he mean. ‘Not be +rich no more?’ I say. ‘Not be rich no more?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Look!’ he say. ‘Look, Tom Shiva! Thee +gold! Thee seven lobster-tin of gold!’ +</p> +<p> +“‘I am see, Skip’ Jim,’ I say. +</p> +<p> +“‘Ah,’ he say, in thee mos’ awful, thee ver’ +mos’ awful, speak, ‘it is all spoil’! It is all +spoil’! I am ruin’!’ +</p> +<p> +“Then I am pray mos’ fearful hard to be ver’ +good business man for thee one hour. Ver’ +well. I look at thee gold. Do I know what he +have mean? God is good! I do. Ver’ well. +Thee gold is come out of the fire. What happen? +Oh, ver’ well! It have be melt. What ver’ +beeg fool is he! It have be melt. All? No! +Thee gold steek together; thee gold melt in two; +thee gold be in thee beeg lump; thee gold be +damage’. What this fool theenk? Ah! Pooh! +This fool theenk thee gold have be all spoil’. +Good gold? No, spoil’ gold! No good no +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_142'></a>142</span> +more. Ruin’? I am ver’ good business man. +I see what he have mean. Ah, my heart! It +jump, it swell, it choke me, it tumble into +the belly, it stop; it hurt me mos’ awful. I +am theenk I die. Thee good God have answer +thee prayer. ‘O my God,’ I pray once more, +‘this man is ver’ beeg fool. Make Tanous Shiva +good business man. It have be ver’, ver’ easy +t’ing to do, O God!’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Spoil’, Skip’ Jim?’ I say. +</p> +<p> +“‘All spoil’, Tom Shiva,’ he say. ‘Thee gold +no good.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Ver’ sad to be ruin’,’ I say. ‘Oh, Skip’ Jim, +ver’ sad to be ruin’. I am ver’, ver’ sad to see +you ruin’.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Tom Shiva,’ he say, ‘you ver’ good man.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Skip’ Jim,’ I say, ‘I have love you ver’ +much.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Oh, Tom Shiva,’ thee beeg fool say, ‘I am +thank you ver’ hard.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Oh yess, Skip’ Jim,’ I say, ‘I am love you +ver’, ver’ much.’ +</p> +<p> +“He shake my han’. +</p> +<p> +“‘I am love you ver’ much, Skip’ Jim,’ I say, +’an’ I am ver’ good man.’ +</p> +<p> +“My han’ it pinch me ver’ sore, Skip’ Jim +shake it so hard with thee beeg, black han’ he +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_143'></a>143</span> +have. Thee han’ of thee feesherman is ver’, ver’ +beeg, ver’ strong. Thee ver’ hard work make it +ver’ beeg an’ strong. +</p> +<p> +“‘Skip’ Jim,’ I say, ‘I am poor man. But +not ver’ poor. I am have leet-tle money. I am +wish thee help to you. I am <em>buy</em> thee spoil’ gold.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Buy thee gold?’ he say. ‘Oh, Tom Shiva. +All spoil’. Look! All melt. Thee gold no +good no more.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘I am buy thee gold from you,’ I say, ‘Skip’ +Jim, my friend.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Ver’ good friend, you, Tom Shiva,’ he say; +‘ver’ good friend to me.’ +</p> +<p> +“I am look at him ver’ close. I am theenk +what he will take. ‘I am geeve you,’ I say, ‘I +am geeve you,’ Skip’ Jim,’ I say— +</p> +<p> +“Then I stop. +</p> +<p> +“‘What you geeve me for thee spoil’ gold?’ he +say. +</p> +<p> +“‘I am geeve you,’ I say, ‘for thee spoil’ gold +an’ for thee half-bushel of spoil’ silver,’ I say, ‘I +am geeve you seventy-five dollar.’ +</p> +<p> +“Then <em>he</em> get ver’ good business man in the eye. +</p> +<p> +“‘Oh no!’ he say. ‘I am want one hundred +dollar.’ +</p> +<p> +“I shake my head. ‘Oh, Skip’ Jim!’ I say. +‘Shame to have treat thee friend so! I am great +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_144'></a>144</span> +friend to you, Skip’ Jim,’ I say. ‘But,’ I say, +‘business is business. Skip’ Jim,’ I say, ‘let us +have pray.’ +</p> +<p> +“What you theenk? What you theenk this +ver’ beeg fool do? How I laugh inside! ‘Let +us have pray, Skip’ Jim,’ I say. What you +theenk he do? Eh? Not pray? Ver’ religious +man, Skip’ Jim—ver’, ver’ religious. Pray? +Oh, I know <em>him</em>. Pray? You bet he pray! +You ask Skip’ Jim to pray, an’ he pray—oh, +he pray, you bet! ‘O God,’ he pray, ‘I am ver’ +much ’blige’ for Tom Shiva. I am ver’ much +’blige’ he come to Skeleton Teekle. I am ver’ +much ’blige’ he have thee soft heart. I am ver’ +much ’blige’ you fix thee heart to help poor ol’ +Skip’ Jim. He good Jew, O God.’ (Pooh! I am +Syrian man—not Jew. But I am not tell, for +I am ver’ good business man). ‘Forgive this +poor Tom Shiva, O my dear God!’ +</p> +<p> +“I get ver’ tired with thee prayin’. I am ver’ +good business man. I am want thee gold. +</p> +<p> +“‘Skip’ Jim!’ I whis-pair. ‘Oh, Skip’ Jim!’ +I say. ‘Thee bargain! Fix thee bargain with +thee dear God.’ My heart is ver’ mad with thee +fear. ‘Fix thee bargain with thee good God,’ I +say. ‘Oh, Skip’ Jim!’ I whis-pair. ‘Queek! I +am offer seventy-five dollar.’ +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_145'></a>145</span> +</p> +<p> +“Then he get up from thee knee. Ver’ obstinate +man—ver’, ver’ obstinate man, this ol’ +Skip’ Jim. He get up from thee knee. What he +theenk? Eh? He theenk he ver’ good business +man. He theenk he beat Tom Shiva by thee sin. +Want God? Oh no! Not want God to know, +you bet! +</p> +<p> +“‘I am want one hundred dollar,’ he say, ver’ +cross, ‘for thee heap of spoil’ gold an’ silver. +Thee God is bus-ee. I am do this business by +thee ’lone. Thee dear God is ver’, ver’ bus-ee +jus’ now. I am not bother him no more.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Ver’ well,’ I say. ‘I am geeve you eighty.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Come,’ he say; ‘ninety will have do.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Ver’ well,’ I say. ‘You are my friend. I +geeve you eighty-five.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Ver’ well,’ he say. ‘I am love you ver’ +much, Tom Shiva. I take it. Ver’ kind of +you, Tom Shiva, to buy all thee spoil’ gold +an’ silver. I am hope you have not lose thee +money.’ +</p> +<p> +“I am ver’ hones’ business man. Eh? What +I say? I say I lose thee money? No, no! I +am thee ver’ mos’ hones’ business man in Newf’un’lan’. +I am too hones’ to say thee lie. +</p> +<p> +“‘I am take thee risk,’ I say. ‘You are my +friend, Skip’ Jim,’ I say. ‘I am take thee risk. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_146'></a>146</span> +I am geeve you eighty-five dollar for all the +spoil’ gold an’ silver—half cash, half trade.... +I am have mos’ wonderful suit clothes for ver’ +cheap....’” +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +And the fool of Skeleton Tickle was left with +a suit of shoddy tweed and fifty-seven dollars in +unspoiled gold and silver coin, believing that he +had overreached the peddler from Damascus +and New York, piously thanking God for the opportunity, +ascribing glory to him for the success, +content that it should be so.... And Tanous +Shiva departed by the mail-boat, as he had come, +with the seven lobster-tins of gold and the half-bushel +of silver which three generations had +labored to accumulate; and he went south to +St. John’s, where he converted the spoiled coin +into a bank credit of ten thousand dollars, content +that it should be so. And thereupon he set +out again to trade.... +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +The mail-boat was now riding at anchor within +the harbor of Skeleton Tickle. Rain was falling—thin, +penetrating, cold, driven by the wind. +On the bleak, wet hills, the cottages, vague in the +mist, cowered in dumb wretchedness, like men +of sodden patience who wait without hope. A +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_147'></a>147</span> +punt put out from shore—came listlessly toward +the steamer for the mail. +</p> +<p> +“Ho! Tom Timms!” the Syrian shouted. +“That you, Tom Timms? How Skip’ Jim All? +How my ol’, good friend Skip’ Jim All?” +</p> +<p> +The boat was under the quarter. Tom +Timms shipped his oars, wiped the rain from +his whiskers, then looked up—without feeling. +</p> +<p> +“Dead,” he said. +</p> +<p> +“Dead!” The man turned to me. “I am +thank thee good God,” he whispered, reverently, +“that I am get thee gold in time.” He shuddered. +“O, my God!” he muttered. “What if +I have come thee too late!” +</p> +<p> +“Ay, dead,” Tom Timms repeated. “He sort +o’ went an’ jus’ died.” +</p> +<p> +“Oh, dear! How have he come to die? Oh, +my poor friend, ol’ Skip’ Jim! How have he +come by thee death?” +</p> +<p> +“Hanged hisself.” +</p> +<p> +“Hanged hisself! Oh, dear! Why have thee +ol’ Skip’ Jim be so fearful wicked?” +</p> +<p> +It was an unhappy question. +</p> +<p> +“Well,” Tom Timms answered, in a colorless +drawl, “he got a trap-leader when he found out +what you done. He just sort o’ went an’ got a +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_148'></a>148</span> +trap-leader an’ hanged hisself in the fish-stage—when +he found out what you done.” +</p> +<p> +The Syrian glanced at me. I glanced at him. +Our eyes met; his were steady, innocent, pitiful; +my own shifted to the closing bank of gray fog. +</p> +<p> +“Business,” he sighed, “is business.” +</p> +<p> +The words repeated themselves interminably—a +monotonous dirge. Business is business.... +Business is business.... Business is business.... +</p> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_149'></a>149</span><a name='chVI' id='chVI'></a>VI—A COMEDY OF CANDLESTICK COVE</h2> +<p> +It was windy weather: and had been—for an +exasperating tale of dusks and dawns. It +was not the weather of variable gales, which +blow here and there, forever to the advantage of +some Newfoundland folk; it was the weather of +ill easterly winds, in gloomy conjunction bringing +fog, rain, breaking seas, drift-ice, dispiriting +cold. From Nanny’s Old Head the outlook was +perturbing: the sky was hid, with its familiar +warnings and promises; gigantic breakers fell +with swish and thud upon the black rocks below, +flinging lustreless white froth into the gray mist; +and the grounds, where the men of Candlestick +Cove must cast lines and haul traps, were in an +ill-tempered, white-capped tumble—black waves +rolling out of a melancholy fog, hanging low, +which curtained the sea beyond. +</p> +<p> +The hands of the men of Candlestick Cove +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_150'></a>150</span> +were raw with salt-water sores; all charms against +the affliction of toil in easterly gales had failed—brass +bracelets and incantations alike. And +the eyes of the men of Candlestick Cove were +alert with apprehensive caution: tense, quick to +move, clear and hard under drawn brows. With +a high sea perversely continuing beyond the +harbor tickle, there was no place in the eyes of +men for the light of humor or love, which thrive +in security. Windy weather, indeed! ’Twas a +time for men to <em>be</em> men! +</p> +<p> +“I ’low I never seed nothin’ <em>like</em> it,” Jonathan +Stock complained. +</p> +<p> +The sea, breaking upon the Rock o’ Wishes, +and the wind, roaring past, confused old Tom Lull. +</p> +<p> +“What say?” he shouted. +</p> +<p> +“Nothin’ <em>like</em> it,” said Jonathan Stock. +</p> +<p> +They had come in from the sea with empty +punts, and they were now pulling up the harbor, +side by side, toward the stage-heads, which were +lost in the misty dusk. Old Tom had hung in +the lee of the Rock o’ Wishes until Jonathan +Stock came flying over the tickle breaker in a +cloud of spray. The wind had been in the east +beyond the experience of eighty years; it was in +his aged mind to exchange opinions upon the +marvel. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_151'></a>151</span> +</p> +<p> +“Me neither,” said he. +</p> +<p> +They were drawing near Herring Point, within +the harbor, where the noise of wind and sea, in +an easterly gale, diminishes. +</p> +<p> +“I ’low I <em>never</em> seed nothin’ like it,” said +Jonathan Stock. +</p> +<p> +“Me neither, Skipper Jonathan.” +</p> +<p> +“Never <em>seed</em> nothin’ like it.” +</p> +<p> +They pulled on in silence—until the froth of +Puppy Rock was well astern. +</p> +<p> +“Me neither,” said Tom. +</p> +<p> +“<em>I</em> never seed nothin’ like it,” Jonathan +grumbled. +</p> +<p> +Old Tom wagged his head. +</p> +<p> +“No, sir!” Jonathan declared. “Never seed +<em>nothin’</em> like it.” +</p> +<p> +“Me neither.” +</p> +<p> +“Not like <em>this</em>,” said Jonathan, testily. +</p> +<p> +“Me neither,” old Tom agreed. “Not like +this. No, sir; me neither, b’y!” +</p> +<p> +’Twas a grand, companionable exchange of +ideas! A gush of talk! A whirlwind of opinion! +Both enjoyed it—were relieved by it: rid of the +gathered thought of long hours alone on the +grounds. Jonathan Stock had expressed himself +freely and at length; so, too, old Tom Lull. +’Twas heartening—this easy sociability. Tom +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_152'></a>152</span> +Lull was glad that he had waited in the lee of +the Rock o’ Wishes; he had felt the need of conversation, +and was now gratified; so, too, Jonathan +Stock. But now, quite exhausted of ideas, +they proceeded in silence, pulling mechanically +through the dripping mist. From time to time +old Tom Lull wagged his head and darkly muttered; +but the words invariably got lost in his +mouth. +</p> +<p> +Presently both punts came to Jonathan Stock’s +stage. +</p> +<p> +“I <em>’low</em>,” Jonathan exclaimed, in parting, “I +never seed nothin’ like it!” +</p> +<p> +Old Tom lifted his oars. He drew his hand +over his wet beard. A moment he reflected—frowning +at the mist: deep in philosophical labor. +Then he turned quickly to Jonathan Stock: +turned in delight, his gray old face clear of bewilderment—turned +as if about to deliver himself +of some vast original conception, which might +leave nothing more to be said. +</p> +<p> +“Me neither!” he chuckled, as his oars struck +the water and his punt moved off into the mist. +</p> +<p> +Windy weather! Moreover, it was a lean year—the +leanest of three lean years. The flakes +were idle, unkempt, dripping the fog; the stages +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_153'></a>153</span> +were empty, the bins full of salt; the splitting-knives +were rusted: this though men and punts +and nets were worn out with toil. There was +no fish: wherefore, the feeling men of Candlestick +Cove kept clear of the merchant of the place, +who had outfitted them all in the spring of the +year, and was now contemplating the reckoning +at St. John’s with much terror and some ill-humor. +</p> +<p> +It was a lean year—a time of uneasy dread. +From Cape Norman to the Funks and beyond, +the clergy, acutely aware of the prospect, and +perceiving the opportunity to be even more useful, +preached from comforting texts. “The Lord +will provide” was the theme of gentle Parson +Grey of Doubled Arm; and the discourse culminated +in a passionate allusion to “Yet have I +never seen the seed of the righteous begging +bread.” Parson Stump of Burnt Harbor—a +timid little man with tender gray eyes—treated +“Your Heavenly Father feedeth them” with inspiring +faith. +</p> +<p> +By all this the apprehension of the folk was +lulled; it was admitted even by the unrighteous +that there were times when ’twas better to be +with than without the clergy. At Little Harbor +Shallow, old Skipper Job Sutler, a man lacking in +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_154'></a>154</span> +understanding, put out no more to the grounds +off Devil-may-Care. +</p> +<p> +“Skipper Job,” the mail-boat captain warned, +“you better get out t’ the grounds in civil weather.” +</p> +<p> +“Oh,” quoth Job, “the Lard’ll take care o’ we!” +</p> +<p> +The captain was doubtful. +</p> +<p> +“An’, anyhow,” says Job, “if the Lard don’t, +the gov’ment’s got to!” +</p> +<p> +His youngest child died in the famine months +of the winter. But that was his fault.... +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +Skipper Jonathan Stock was alone with the +trader in the shop of Candlestick Cove. The +squat, whitewashed building gripped a weather-beaten +point of harbor shore. It was night—a +black night, the wind blowing high, rain pattering +fretfully upon the roof. The worried little +trader—spare, gimlet-eyed, thin-whiskered, now +perched on the counter—slapped his calf with a +yardstick; the easterly gale was fast aggravating +his temper beyond control. It was bright and +warm in the shop; the birch billets spluttered +and snored in the stove, and a great lamp suspended +from the main rafter showered the shelves +and counter and greasy floor with light. Skipper +Jonathan’s clothes of moleskin steamed with the +rain and spray of the day’s toil. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_155'></a>155</span> +</p> +<p> +“No, John,” said the trader, sharply; “she +can’t have un—it can’t be done.” +</p> +<p> +Jonathan slowly examined his wrist; the bandage +had got loose. “No?” he asked, gently, his +eyes still fixed on the salt-water sore. +</p> +<p> +“No, sir.” +</p> +<p> +Jonathan drew a great hand over his narrow +brow, where the rain still lay in the furrows. +It passed over his beard—a gigantic beard, bushy +and flaming red. He shook the rain-drops from +his hand. +</p> +<p> +“No, Mister Totley,” he repeated, in a patient +drawl. “No—oh no.” +</p> +<p> +Totley hummed the opening bars of “Wrecked +on the Devil’s Finger.” He broke off impatiently—and +sighed. +</p> +<p> +“She <em>can’t</em>,” Jonathan mused. “No—<em>she</em> +can’t.” +</p> +<p> +The trader began to whistle, but there was no +heart in the diversion; and there was much +poignant distress in the way he drummed on +the counter. +</p> +<p> +“I wouldn’t be carin’ so much,” Jonathan +softly persisted—“no, not so <em>much</em>, if ’twasn’t +their birthday. She told un three year ago they +could have un—when they was twelve. An’, +dear man! they’ll be twelve two weeks come +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_156'></a>156</span> +Toosday. Dear man!” he exclaimed again, with +a fleeting little smile, “<em>how</em> the young ones +grows!” +</p> +<p> +The trader slapped his lean thigh and turned +his eyes from Jonathan’s simple face to the +rafters. Jonathan bungled with the bandage on +his wrist; but his fingers were stiff and large, +and he could not manage the thread. A gust of +wind made the roof ring with the rain. +</p> +<p> +“An’ the other little thing?” Jonathan inquired. +“Was you ’lowin’ my woman could have—the +other little thing? She’ve her heart sort o’ sot +on <em>that</em>. Sort o’ <em>sot</em> on havin’—that there little +thing.” +</p> +<p> +“Can’t do it, Jonathan.” +</p> +<p> +“Ay,” Jonathan repeated, blankly. “She was +sayin’ the day ’twas sort o’ giddy of her; but she +was ’lowin’ her heart was sort o’ <em>sot</em> on havin’—that +little thing.” +</p> +<p> +Totley shook his head. +</p> +<p> +“Her heart,” Jonathan sighed. +</p> +<p> +“Can’t do it, John.” +</p> +<p> +“Mm-m-m! No,” Jonathan muttered, scratching +his head in helplessness and bewilderment; +“he can’t give that little thing t’ the woman, +neither. Can’t give she <em>that</em>.” +</p> +<p> +Totley shook his head. It was not an agreeable duty +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_157'></a>157</span> +thus to deny Jonathan Stock of Candlestick +Cove. It pinched the trader’s heart. +“But a must is a must!” thought he. The wind +was in the east, with no sign of change, and ’twas +late in the season; and there was no fish—<em>no +fish</em>, God help us all! There would be famine +at Candlestick Cove—<em>famine</em>, God help us all! +The folk of Candlestick Cove—Totley’s folk—must +be fed; there must be no starvation. And +the creditors at St. John’s—Totley’s creditors—were +wanting fish insistently. <em>Wanting fish</em>, God +help us! when there was no fish. There was +a great gale of ruin blowing up; there would +be an accounting to his creditors for the goods +they had given him in faith—there must be no +waste of stock, no indulgence of whims. He +must stand well. The creditors at St. John’s +must be so dealt with that the folk of Candlestick +Cove—Totley’s folk—could be fed through the +winter. ’Twas all-important that the folk should +be fed—just fed with bread and molasses and tea: +nothing more than that. Nothing more than +that, by the Lord! would go out of the store. +</p> +<p> +Jonathan pushed back his dripping cloth cap +and sighed. “’Tis fallin’ out wonderful,” he +ventured. +</p> +<p> +Totley whistled to keep his spirits up. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_158'></a>158</span> +</p> +<p> +“Awful!” said Jonathan. +</p> +<p> +The tune continued. +</p> +<p> +“She ’lows,” Jonathan went on, “that if it +keeps on at this rate she won’t have none left by +spring. That’s what <em>she</em> ’lows will happen.” +</p> +<p> +Totley proceeded to the chorus. +</p> +<p> +“No, sir,” Jonathan pleaded; “she’ll have nar +a one!” +</p> +<p> +The trader avoided his eye. +</p> +<p> +“An’ it makes her <em>feel</em> sort o’ bad,” Jonathan +protested. “I tells her that with or without she +won’t be no different t’ me. Not t’ <em>me</em>. But +she sort o’ feels bad just the same. You sees, +sir,” he stammered, abashed, “she—she—she’s +only a woman!” +</p> +<p> +Totley jumped from the counter. “Look you +Jonathan!” said he, decisively, “she can <em>have</em> +it.” +</p> +<p> +Jonathan beamed. +</p> +<p> +“She can have what she wants for herself, +look you! but she can’t have no oil-skins for the +twins, though ’tis their birthday. ’Tis hard times, +Jonathan, with the wind glued t’ the east; an’ +the twins is got t’ go wet. What kind she want? +Eh? I got two kinds in the case. I don’t recommend +neither o’ them.” +</p> +<p> +Jonathan scratched his head. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_159'></a>159</span> +</p> +<p> +“Well, then,” said the trader, “you better +find out. If she’s goin’ t’ have it at all, she better +have the kind she hankers for.” +</p> +<p> +Jonathan agreed. +</p> +<p> +“Skipper Jonathan,” said the trader, much +distressed, “we’re so poor at Candlestick Cove +that we ought t’ be eatin’ moss. I’ll have trouble +enough, this fall, gettin’ flour from St. John’s t’ +go ’round. Skipper Jonathan, if you could get +your allowance o’ flour down t’ five barrels instead +o’ six, I’d thank you. The young ones is +growin’, I knows; but—well, I’d thank you, +Jonathan, I’d thank you!” +</p> +<p> +“Mister Totley, sir,” Jonathan Stock replied, +solemnly, “I <em>will</em> get that flour down t’ five. +Don’t you fret no more about feedin’ my little +crew,” he pleaded. “’Tis kind o’ you; an’ I’m +sorry you’ve t’ fret.” +</p> +<p> +“Thank you, Jonathan.” +</p> +<p> +“An’ ... you wouldn’t mind lashin’ this bit +o’ cotton on my wrist, would you, sir? The +sleeve o’ my jacket sort o’ chafes the sore.” +</p> +<p> +“A bad hand, Jonathan!” +</p> +<p> +“No—oh no; <em>it</em> ain’t bad. I’ve had scores of +un in my time. It don’t amount t’ nothin’. Oh +no—it ain’t what you might call <em>bad</em>!” +</p> +<p> +The wrist was bound anew. Jonathan stumbled down the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_160'></a>160</span> +dark steps to the water-side, glad +that his wife was to have that which she so +much desired. He pushed out in the punt. She +was only a woman, he thought, with an indulgent +smile, but she <em>did</em> want—that little thing. The +wind was high—the rain sweeping out of the +east. He turned the bow of the punt toward a +point of light shining cheerily far off in the dark, +tumultuous night. +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +Jonathan Stock had no more than got off his +soggy boots, and washed his hands, and combed +his hair, and drawn close to the kitchen fire—while +his wife clattered over the bare floor about +the business of his comfort—when Parson Jaunt +tapped and entered: and folded his umbrella, +and wiped his face with a white handkerchief, +and jovially rubbed his hands together. This +was a hearty, stout little man, with a double chin +and a round, rosy face; with twinkling eyes; with +the jolliest little paunch in the world; dressed all +in black cloth, threadbare and shiny, powdered +with dandruff upon the shoulders; and wearing +a gigantic yellow chain hanging from pocket +to pocket of the waistcoat, and wilted collar +and cuffs, and patent-leather shoes, which were +muddy and cracked and turned up at the toes. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_161'></a>161</span> +A hearty welcome he got; and he had them all +laughing at once—twins and all. Even the +chickens in the coop under the settee clucked, and +the kid behind the stove rapturously bleated, and +the last baby chuckled, and the dog yawned and +shook his hind quarters, joyfully awake. +</p> +<p> +’Twas always comforting to have Parson Jaunt +drop in. Wherever he went among the folk of +Candlestick Cove, in wet weather or dry, poor +times or bad, there was a revival of jollity. His +rippling person, smiling face, quick laugh, amiable +intimacy, his quips and questions, his way +with children—these made him beloved. Ay, +there was always a welcome for Parson Jaunt! +</p> +<p> +“Ha, ha! Yes,” the parson proceeded, “the +brethren will be here on the next mail-boat for +the district meeting. Ha, ha! Well, well, now! +And how’s the baby getting along, Aunt Tibbie? +Hut! you little toad; don’t you laugh at me!” +</p> +<p> +But the baby would. +</p> +<p> +“Ha-a-a, you rat! You <em>will</em> laugh, will you? +He’s a fine child, that.... And I was thinking, +Skipper Jonathan, that you and Aunt Tibbie +might manage Parson All of Satan’s Trap. +Times are hard, of course; but it’s the Lord’s +work, you know.... Eh? Get out, you squid! +Stop that laughing!” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_162'></a>162</span> +</p> +<p> +The baby could not. +</p> +<p> +“Stop it, I say!” +</p> +<p> +The baby doubled up, and squirmed, and +wiggled his toes, and gasped with glee. +</p> +<p> +“Yes,” the parson continued, “that you might +manage Parson All of Satan’s Trap.” +</p> +<p> +“T’ be sure!” cried Skipper Jonathan. “We’ll +manage un, an’ be glad!” +</p> +<p> +Aunt Tibbie’s face fell. +</p> +<p> +“That’s good,” said the parson. “Now, that +<em>is</em> good news. ’Tis most kind of you, too,” he +added, earnestly, “in these hard times. And +it ends my anxiety. The brethren are now all +provided for.... Hey, you wriggler! Come out +of that! Ha, ha! Well, well!” He took the +baby from the cradle. “Gi’ me a kiss, now. +Hut! You won’t? Oh, you <em>will</em>, will you?” +He kissed the baby with real delight. “I thought +so. Ha! I thought so.” He put the baby +back. “You little slobbery squid!” said he, +with a last poke. “Ha! you little squid!” +</p> +<p> +Aunt Tibbie’s face was beaming. Anxiety +and weariness were for the moment both forgot. +’Twas good, indeed, to have Parson Jaunt drop in! +</p> +<p> +“Eh, woman?” Jonathan inquired. +</p> +<p> +“Oh, ay!” she answered. “We’ve always a +pillow an’ a bite t’ eat for the Lard’s anointed.” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_163'></a>163</span> +</p> +<p> +“The Lord’s anointed!” the parson repeated, +quickly. “Ah, that’s it, sister,” said he, the +twinkle gone from his upturned eyes. “I’ve +a notion to take that up next Sunday. And +Parson All,” he continued, “is a saintly fellow. +Yes, indeed! Converted at the age of seven. +He’s served the Lord these forty years. Ah, dear +me! what a profitable season you’ll be having +with him! A time of uplifting, a time of—of—yes, +indeed!—uplifting.” The parson was not +clever; he was somewhat limited as to ideas, as +to words; indeed, ’twas said he stuttered overmuch +in preaching and was given to repetition. +But he was sincere in the practise of his profession, +conceiving it a holy calling; and he did the best +he could, than which no man can do more. “A +time,” he repeated, “of—of—yes—of uplifting.” +</p> +<p> +Aunt Tibbie was taken by an anxious thought. +“What do he fancy,” she asked, “for feedin’?” +</p> +<p> +“Ha, ha!” the parson exploded, in his delightfully +jocular way. “That’s the woman of it. +Well, well, now! Yes, indeed! There speaks +the good housewife. Eh, Skipper Jonathan? +<em>You’re</em> well looked after, I’ll warrant. That’s +rather good, you know, coming from you, Aunt +Tibbie. Ha, ha! Why, Aunt Tibbie, he eats +anything. Anything at all! You’ll want very +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_164'></a>164</span> +little extra—very, very little extra. But he’ll +tell you when he comes. Don’t worry about +that. Just what you have for yourselves, you +know. If it doesn’t agree with him, he’ll ask +for what he desires.” +</p> +<p> +“Sure, <em>sir</em>!” said Skipper Jonathan, heartily. +“Just let un ask for it.” +</p> +<p> +“Ay,” Aunt Tibbie echoed, blankly; “just let +un ask for it. Sure, he can speak for hisself.” +</p> +<p> +“Of <em>course</em>!” cried the parson, jovially. “Why, +to be sure! <em>That’s</em> the hospitality for me! Nothing +formal about that. That’s just what makes +us Newfoundlanders famous for hospitality. +That’s what I <em>like</em>. ‘Just let un ask.’” +</p> +<p> +The clock struck. Skipper Jonathan turned +patiently to the dial. He must be at sea by +dawn. The gale, still blowing high, promised +heavy labor at the oars. He was depressed by +the roar and patter of the night. There came, +then, an angry gust of rain—out of harmony with +the parson’s jovial spirit: sweeping in from the +black sea where Jonathan must toil at dawn. +</p> +<p> +“Ay,” he sighed, indifferently. +</p> +<p> +Aunt Tibbie gave him an anxious glance. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, indeed! Ha, ha!” the parson laughed. +“Let me see, now,” he rattled. “To-morrow. +Yes, yes; to-morrow <em>is</em> Tuesday. Well, now, let +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_165'></a>165</span> +me see; yes—mm-m-m, of course, that’s right—you +will have the privilege of entertaining Brother +All for four days. I wish it was more. I wish +for your sake,” he repeated, honestly, being unaware +of the true situation in this case, “that it +<em>could</em> be more. But it can’t. I assure you, it +can’t. He <em>must</em> get the mail-boat north. Pity,” +he continued, “the brethren can’t linger. These +district meetings are so helpful, so inspiring, so +refreshing. Yes, indeed! And then the social +aspect—the relaxation, the flow of soul! We +parsons are busy men—cooped up in a study, +you know; delving in books. Our brains get +tired. Yes, indeed! They need rest.” Parson +Jaunt was quite sincere. Do not misunderstand +him. ’Twould be unkind, even, to laugh at him. +He was not clever; that is all. “Brain labor, +Skipper Jonathan,” he concluded, with an odd +touch of pomposity, “is hard labor.” +</p> +<p> +“Ay,” said Skipper Jonathan, sympathetically; +“you parsons haves wonderful hard lines. I +Wouldn’t like t’ <em>be</em> one. No, sir; not me!” +</p> +<p> +In this—in the opinion and feeling—Skipper +Jonathan was sincere. He most properly loved +Parson Jaunt, and was sorry for him, and he +must not be laughed at. +</p> +<p> +“But,” the parson argued, “we have the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_166'></a>166</span> +district meetings—times of refreshing: when brain +meets brain, you know, and wit meets wit, and +the sparks fly. Ha, ha! Yes, indeed! The +social aspect is not to be neglected. Dear me, +no! Now, for illustration, Mrs. Jaunt is to entertain +the clergy at the parsonage on Thursday +evening. Yes, indeed! She’s planned the refreshments +already.” The parson gave Aunt +Tibbie a sly, sly glance, and burst out laughing. +“Ha, ha!” he roared. “I know what you +want. You want to know what she’s going to +have, don’t you? Woman’s curiosity, eh? Ha, +ha! Oh, you women!” Aunt Tibbie smiled. +“Well,” said the parson, importantly, “I’ll tell +you. But it’s a secret, mind you! Don’t you +tell Brother All!” Aunt Tibbie beamed. “Well,” +the parson continued, his voice falling to a whisper, +“she’s going to have a jelly-cake, and an +angel-cake, and a tin of beef.” The twins sat +up, wide-eyed with attention. “Eh? Ha, ha!” +the parson laughed. “You got that? And she’s +going to have something more.” Aunt Tibbie +leaned forward—agape, her eyes staring. The +twins were already overcome. “Yes, indeed!” +said the parson. “<em>She’s got a dozen bananas +from St. John’s!</em> Eh? Ha, ha! And she’s going +to slice ’em and put ’em in a custard. Ha, ha!” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_167'></a>167</span> +</p> +<p> +The twins gasped. +</p> +<p> +“Ha, ha!” the parson roared. +</p> +<p> +They were all delighted—parson, skipper, +housewife, and twins. Nor in providing this +hospitality for the Black Bay clergy was the +parson in thought or deed a selfish shepherd. It +would be unkind—it would be most unfair—to +think it. He was an honest, earnest servant of +the Master he acknowledged, doing good at +Candlestick Cove, in fair and foul weather. He +lived his life as best he could—earnestly, diligently, +with pure, high purpose. But he was not +clever: that is all. ’Twould be an evil thing for +more brilliant folk (and possibly less kindly) to +scorn him. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, indeed!” the parson laughed. “And +look here, now—why, I must be off! Where’s my +umbrella? Here it is.... <em>Will</em> you look at that +baby, Aunt Tibbie? He’s staring at me yet. +Get out, you squid! Stop that laughing. Got a +kiss for me? Oh, you <em>have</em>, have you? Then +give it to me.... A fine baby that; yes, indeed! +A fine baby.... Get out, you wriggler! Leave +your toes be. Ha-a-a! I’ll catch you—yes, I +will!... What a night it is! How the wind +blows and the rain comes down! And no +sign of fish, Skipper Jonathan? Ah, well, the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_168'></a>168</span> +Lord will provide. Good-night. God bless +you!” +</p> +<p> +“You’ll get wonderful wet, sir,” said Aunt +Tibbie, with a little frown of anxiety. +</p> +<p> +“I don’t mind it in the least,” cried the parson. +“Not at all. I’m used to it.” +</p> +<p> +Skipper Jonathan shut the door against the +wind. +</p> +<p> +“Will it never stop blowin’!” Aunt Tibbie complained. +</p> +<p> +Outside, wind and rain had their way with the +world. Aunt Tibbie and Skipper Jonathan exchanged +glances. They were thinking of the +dawn. +</p> +<p> +“I’m wantin’ t’ go t’ bed, Tibbie,” Jonathan +sighed, “for I’m wonderful tired.” +</p> +<p> +“An’ I’m tired, too, dear,” said Aunt Tibbie, +softly. “Leave us all go t’ bed.” +</p> +<p> +They were soon sound asleep.... +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +Parson All turned out to be a mild little old +man with spectacles. His eyes were blue—faded, +watery, shy: wherein were many flashes +of humor and kindness. His face was smooth +and colorless—almost as white as his hair, which +was also long and thin and straight. When +Jonathan came in from the sea after dark—from +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_169'></a>169</span> +the night and wet and vast confusion of that +place—Parson All was placidly rocking by the +kitchen fire, his hands neatly folded, his trousers +drawn up, so that his ankles and calves might +warm; and the kitchen was in a joyous tumult, +with which the little old man from Satan’s Trap +was in benevolent sympathy. Jonathan had +thought to find the house solemn, the wife in a +fluster, the twins painfully washed and brushed, +the able seamen of the little crew glued to their +stools; but no! the baby was crowing in the +cradle, the twins tousled and grinning, the wife +beaming, the little crew rolling on the floor—the +whole kitchen, indeed, in a gratefully familiar +condition of chaos and glee. +</p> +<p> +At once they sat down to supper. +</p> +<p> +“I’m glad t’ have you, parson,” said Jonathan, +his broad, hairy face shining with soap and delight. +“That I is. I’m <em>glad</em> t’ have you.” +</p> +<p> +The parson’s smile was winning. +</p> +<p> +“Jonathan haves a wonderful taste for company,” +Aunt Tibbie explained. +</p> +<p> +The man defended himself. “I isn’t able t’ +help it,” said he. “I loves t’ feed folk. An’ I +isn’t able, an’ I never was able, an’ I never will +be able t’ help it. Here’s your brewis, sir. Eat +hearty of it. Don’t spare it.” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_170'></a>170</span> +</p> +<p> +“They’s more in the pot,” Aunt Tibbie put in. +</p> +<p> +The parson’s gentle eye searched the table—as +our eyes have often done. A bit of hopeful +curiosity—nothing more: a thing common to us +all, saints and sinners alike. We have all been +hungry and we have all hoped; but few of us, I +fancy, being faint of hunger—and dyspeptic—have +sat down to a bowl of brewis. ’Tis no sin, +in parson or layman, to wish for more; for the +Lord endowed them both with hunger, and cursed +many, indiscriminately, with indigestion. Small +blame, then, to the parson, who was desperately +hungry; small blame to Jonathan, who had no +more to give. There is no fault anywhere to be +descried. Ah, well! the parson’s roving eye was +disappointed, but twinkled just the same; it did +not darken—nor show ill-humor. There was a +great bowl of brewis—a mountain of it. ’Twas +eyed by the twins with delight. But there was +nothing more. The parson’s eye—the shy, blue, +twinkling eye—slyly sought the stove; but the +stove was bare. And still the mild eyes continued +full of benevolence and satisfaction. He +was a <em>man</em>—that parson! +</p> +<p> +“Windy weather,” said he, with an engaging +smile. +</p> +<p> +“Never seed nothin’ <em>like</em> it!” Jonathan declared. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_171'></a>171</span> +</p> +<p> +The twins were by this time busy with their +forks, their eyes darting little glances at the +parson, at the parson’s overloaded plate, at the +ruin of the mountain. +</p> +<p> +“Wind in the east,” the parson remarked. +</p> +<p> +Jonathan was perturbed. “You isn’t very +hearty the night,” said he. +</p> +<p> +“Oh, dear me, yes!” the parson protested. +“I was just about to begin.” +</p> +<p> +The faces of the twins were by this overcast. +</p> +<p> +“Don’t spare it, parson.” +</p> +<p> +The parson gulped a mouthful with a wry +face—an obstinately wry face; he could <em>not</em> +manage to control it. He smiled at once—a +quick, sweet comprehensive little smile. It was +heroic—he was sure that it was! And it <em>was</em>! +He could do no more. ’Twas impossible to take +the brewis. A melancholy—ay, and perilous—situation +for a hungry man: an old man, and a +dyspeptic. Conceive it, if you can! +</p> +<p> +“<em>That</em> ain’t hearty,” Aunt Tibbie complained. +</p> +<p> +“To be frank,” said the parson, in great humiliation—“to +be perfectly frank, I like brewis, +but—” +</p> +<p> +The happiness faded from Aunt Tibbie’s eyes. +</p> +<p> +“—I don’t find it inspiring,” the parson concluded, +in shame. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_172'></a>172</span> +</p> +<p> +The twins promptly took advantage of the +opportunity to pass their plates for more. +</p> +<p> +“Dyspepsey?” Aunt Tibbie inquired. +</p> +<p> +“It might be called that,” Parson All replied, +sweeping the board with a smile, but yet with a +flush of guilt and shame, “by a physician.” +</p> +<p> +“Poor man!” Aunt Tibbie signed. +</p> +<p> +There was a brief silence—expectant, but not +selfishly so, on the part of the parson; somewhat +despairing on the part of the hosts. +</p> +<p> +“Well, parson,” Skipper Jonathan said, doggedly, +“all you got t’ do is <em>ask</em> for what you +wants.” +</p> +<p> +“No, no!” +</p> +<p> +“That’s all you got t’ do,” Jonathan persisted. +</p> +<p> +“Most kind of you, sir! But—no, no!” +</p> +<p> +“Please do!” Aunt Tibbie begged. +</p> +<p> +But the parson was not to be persuaded. Not +Parson All of Satan’s Trap—a kindly, sensitive +soul! He was very hungry, to be sure, and must +go hungry to bed (it seemed); but he would not +ask for what he wanted. To-morrow? Well, +<em>something</em> had to be done. He would yield—he +<em>must</em> yield to the flesh—a little. This he did +timidly: with shame for the weakness of the +flesh. He resented the peculiarity of brewis in +his particular case. Indeed, he came near to +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_173'></a>173</span> +rebellion against the Lord—no, not rebellion: +merely rebellious questionings. But he is to be +forgiven, surely; for he wished most earnestly +that he might eat brewis and live—just as you +and I might have done. +</p> +<p> +“Now, Parson All,” Jonathan demanded, +“you just <em>got</em> t’ tell.” +</p> +<p> +And, well, the parson admitted that a little +bread and a tin of beef—to be taken sparingly—would +be a grateful diet. +</p> +<p> +“But we’ve none!” cried Aunt Tibbie. “An’ +this night you’ll starve!” +</p> +<p> +“To-night,” said the parson, gently, “my +stomach—is a bit out—anyhow.” +</p> +<p> +Presently he was shown to his bed.... +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +“I ’low,” said Aunt Tibbie, when the parson +was stowed away and she had caught Skipper +Jonathan’s wavering eye, “he’d better have +more’n that.” +</p> +<p> +“He—he—he’ve just <em>got</em> t’ have more.” +</p> +<p> +“He’ve a weak stomach,” Aunt Tibbie apologized. +“Poor man!” +</p> +<p> +“I tells you, Tibbie,” Jonathan declared, +“them parsons haves wonderful hard times. +They isn’t able t’ get out in the air enough. Too +much book-study. Too much brain labor. I +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_174'></a>174</span> +wouldn’t change places with a parson, woman, +for all the world!” +</p> +<p> +Aunt Tibbie nodded absently. +</p> +<p> +“I ’low,” said Jonathan, “I’d better be gettin’ +under way for the shop.” +</p> +<p> +The man drew on his boots and got into his +oil-skins, and had his wrists bandaged and went +out. It was a long pull to the shop; but his mind +was too full of wonder and sly devising to perceive +the labor of the way.... And the trader +was silting alone in the shop, perched on the +counter, slapping his lean calf with a yardstick, +while the rain pattered on the roof and the wind +went screaming past. +</p> +<p> +“You got a parson, Jonathan,” said he, accusingly. +“Yes, you is.” +</p> +<p> +“Ay,” Jonathan admitted, “I got one.” +</p> +<p> +“An’ that’s what brings you here.” +</p> +<p> +“It be,” Jonathan replied, defiantly. +</p> +<p> +The silence was disquieting. +</p> +<p> +“I’m ’lowin’,” Jonathan stammered, “t’—t’-t’ +sort o’ get four tins o’ beef.” +</p> +<p> +The trader beat his calf. +</p> +<p> +“An’ six pound o’ butter,” said Jonathan, +“an’ some pickles.” +</p> +<p> +“Anything else?” the trader snapped. +</p> +<p> +“Ay,” said Jonathan, “they is.” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_175'></a>175</span> +</p> +<p> +The trader sniffed. +</p> +<p> +“The parson haven’t said nothin’, but Tibbie’s +got a notion that he’s wonderful fond o’ canned +peaches,” Jonathan ventured, diffidently. “She +’lows they’ll keep his food sweet.” +</p> +<p> +“Anything else?” +</p> +<p> +“No—oh no!” Jonathan sighed. “I ’low you +wouldn’t give me three pound o’ cheese?” he +asked. “Not that the parson <em>mentioned</em> cheese, +but Tibbie ’lows he’d find it healthful.” The +trader nodded. “About four cans o’ peaches,” +said Jonathan. +</p> +<p> +“I see,” said the trader. +</p> +<p> +Jonathan drew a great hand over his narrow +brow, where the rain still lay in the furrows. +It passed over his red whiskers. He shook the +rain-drops from his hand. +</p> +<p> +“Oh, dear!” he sighed. +</p> +<p> +“Jonathan,” said the trader, sharply, “you’re +a fool. I’ve long knowed it. But I loves a fool; +an’ you’re the biggest dunderhead I ever knowed. +You can <em>have</em> the cheese; you can <em>have</em> the beef; +you can <em>have</em> the peaches. You can have un all. +<em>But</em>—you got t’ pay.” +</p> +<p> +“Oh, ay,” said Jonathan, freely. “I’ll pay!” +</p> +<p> +“You’ll go without sweetness in your tea,” the +trader burst out, “all next winter. Understand? +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_176'></a>176</span> +No sweetness in your tea. <em>That’s</em> how you’ll +pay. If you takes these things, mark you, +Jonathan!—an’ hearken well—if you takes these +things for your parson, there’ll be no molasses +measured out for <em>you</em>. You’ll take your tea +straight. Do you understand me, Jonathan +Stock?” +</p> +<p> +“’Tis well,” said Jonathan. +</p> +<p> +“An’—” +</p> +<p> +“The other?” Jonathan interrupted, anxiously. +“You wasn’t ’lowin’ t’ have the woman give +up that, was you? ’Tis such a little thing.” +</p> +<p> +The trader was out of temper. +</p> +<p> +“Not that!” Jonathan pleaded. +</p> +<p> +“Just that!” Totley exclaimed. “I’ll not give +it to her. If you’re t’ have parsons, why, pay +for un. Don’t come askin’ me t’ do it for +you.” +</p> +<p> +“But she—she—<em>she’s only a woman</em>! An’ +she sort o’ feels bad. Not that ’twould make any +difference t’ me—not t’ <em>me</em>. Oh, I tells her that. +But she ’lows she wants it, anyhow. She sort +o’ <em>hankers</em> for it. An’ if you could manage—” +</p> +<p> +“Not I!” Totley was very much out of temper. +“Pay for your own parson,” he growled. +</p> +<p> +“Ah, well,” Jonathan sighed, “she ’lowed, if +you made a p’int of it, that she’d take the grub +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_177'></a>177</span> +an’ do without—the other. Ay, do without—the +other.” +</p> +<p> +So Jonathan went home with what the parson +needed to eat, and he was happy. +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +It was still windy weather. Dusks and dawns +came in melancholy procession. The wind swept +in the east—high, wet, cold. Fog and rain and +drift-ice were to be met on the grounds of Candlestick +Cove. From Nanny’s Old Head the outlook +was more perturbing than ever: the sea’s +distances were still hid in the mist; the breakers +on the black rocks below gave the waste a voice, +expressed its rage, its sullen purpose; the grounds +where the men of Candlestick Cove must fish +were still in a white-capped tumble; and the sores +on the wrists of the men of Candlestick Cove +were not healed. There was no fish; the coast +hopelessly faced famine; men and women and +children would all grow lean. The winter, approaching, +was like an angry cloud rising from +the rim of the sea. The faces of the men of +Candlestick Cove were drawn—with fear of the +sea and with dread of what might come to pass. +In the meeting-house of Candlestick Cove, in +district meeting assembled, the Black Bay clergy +engaged in important discussions, with which the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_178'></a>178</span> +sea and the dripping rocks and the easterly wind +had nothing to do.... +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +The Black Bay parsons were exchanging farewells +at the landing-stage. The steamer was +waiting. There had been no change in the +weather: the wind was blowing high from the +east, there was fog abroad, the air was clammy. +Parson Jaunt took Parson All by the arm and +led him aside. +</p> +<p> +“How was you fixed, brother?” he whispered, +anxiously. “I haven’t had time to ask you +before.” +</p> +<p> +Parson All’s eyebrows were lifted in mild inquiry. +</p> +<p> +“Was you comfortable? Did you get enough +to eat?” +</p> +<p> +There was concern in Parson Jaunt’s voice—a +sweet, wistful consideration. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, yes!” Parson All answered, quickly. +“They are very good people—the Stocks.” +</p> +<p> +“They’re clean, but—” +</p> +<p> +“Poor.” +</p> +<div><a name='i178' id='i178'></a></div> +<div class='figcenter' style='padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em'> +<a name='i006' id='i006'></a> +<img src="images/illus-178.jpg" alt="“YOU WAS FIXED ALL RIGHT?” PARSON JAUNT ASKED" title=""/><br /> +<span class='caption'>“YOU WAS FIXED ALL RIGHT?” PARSON JAUNT ASKED</span> +</div> +<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_179'></a>179</span></div> +<p> +“Very, very poor! Frankly, Brother All, I was +troubled. Yes, indeed! I was troubled. I knew +they were poor, and I didn’t know whether it was +wise or right to put you there. I feared that you +might fare rather badly. But there was nothing +else to do. I sincerely hope—” +</p> +<p> +Parson All raised a hand in protest. +</p> +<p> +“You was fixed all right?” Parson Jaunt asked. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, brother,” answered Parson All, in genuine +appreciation of the hospitality he had received. +“It was touching. Praise the Lord! I’m glad +to know that such people <em>live</em> in a selfish world +like this. It was very, very touching.” +</p> +<p> +Parson Jaunt’s face expressed some surprise. +</p> +<p> +“Do you know what they did?” said Parson +All, taking Parson Jaunt by the lapel of the +coat and staring deep into his eyes. “<em>Do you +know what they did?</em>” +</p> +<p> +Parson Jaunt wagged his head. +</p> +<p> +“Why, brother,” Parson All declared, with +genuinely grateful tears in his eyes, “when I told +Skipper Jonathan that brewis soured on my +stomach, he got me tinned beef, and butter, and +canned peaches, and cheese. I’ll never forget +his goodness. Never!” +</p> +<p> +Parson Jaunt stared. “What a wonderful +thing Christianity is!” he exclaimed. “What a +wonderful, wonderful thing! By their fruits,” +he quoted, “ye shall know them.” +</p> +<p> +The Black Bay clergy were called aboard. +Parson Jaunt shook off the mild old Parson All +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_180'></a>180</span> +and rushed to the Chairman of the District, his +black coat-tails flying in the easterly wind, and +wrung the Chairman’s hand, and jovially laughed +until his jolly little paunch shook like jelly.... +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +That night, in the whitewashed cottage upon +which the angry gale beat, Skipper Jonathan and +Aunt Tibbie sat together by the kitchen fire. +Skipper Jonathan was hopelessly in from the +sea—from the white waves thereof, and the wind, +and the perilous night—and Aunt Tibbie had +dressed the sores on his wrists. The twins and +all the rest of the little crew were tucked away +and sound asleep. +</p> +<p> +Skipper Jonathan sighed. +</p> +<p> +“What was you thinkin’ about, Jonathan?” +Aunt Tibbie asked. +</p> +<p> +“Jus’ ponderin’,” said he. +</p> +<p> +“Ay; but what upon?” +</p> +<p> +“Well, Tibbie,” Jonathan answered, in embarrassment, +“I was jus’—ponderin’.” +</p> +<p> +“What is it, Jonathan?” +</p> +<p> +“I was ’lowin’, Tibbie,” Jonathan admitted, +“that it wouldn’t be so easy—no, not +so <em>easy</em>—t’ do without that sweetness in my +tea.” +</p> +<p> +Aunt Tibbie sighed. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_181'></a>181</span> +</p> +<p> +“What <em>you</em> thinkin’ about, dear?” Jonathan +asked. +</p> +<p> +“I got a sinful hankerin’,” Aunt Tibbie answered, +repeating the sigh. +</p> +<p> +“Is you, dear?” +</p> +<p> +“I got a sinful hankerin’,” said she, “for that +there bottle o’ hair-restorer. For I don’t <em>want</em> +t’ go bald! God forgive me,” she cried, in an +agony of humiliation, “for this vanity!” +</p> +<p> +“Hush, dear!” Jonathan whispered, tenderly; +“for I loves you, bald or not!” +</p> +<p> +But Aunt Tibbie burst out crying. +</p> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_182'></a>182</span><a name='chVII' id='chVII'></a>VII—“BY-AN’-BY” BROWN OF BLUNDER COVE</h2> +<p> +“By-an’-by” Brown he was called at +Blunder Cove. And as “By-an’-by” Brown +he was known within its fishing radius: Grave +Head to Blow-me-down Billy. Momentarily, on +the wet night of his landing, he had been “Mister” +Brown; then—just “By-an’-by” Brown. +</p> +<p> +There was no secret about the baby. Young +Brown was a bachelor of the outports: even so, +there was still no secret about the baby. Nonsense! +It was not “By-an’-by’s.” It never had +been. Name? Tweak. Given name? She. +What! Well, then, <em>It</em>! Age? Recent—somewheres +’long about midsummer. Blunder Cove +was amazed, but, being used to sudden peril, to +misfortune, and strange chances, was not incredulous. +Blunder Cove was sympathetic: so +sympathetic, indeed, so quick to minister and to +assist, that “By-an’-by” Brown, aged fifteen, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_183'></a>183</span> +having taken but transient shelter for the child, +remained to rear it, forever proposing, however, +to proceed—by-and-by. So there they were, +“By-an’-by” Brown and the baby! And the +baby was not “By-an’-by’s.” Everybody knew +it—even the baby: perhaps best of all. +</p> +<p> +“By-an’-by” Brown had adopted the baby at +Back Yard Bight of the Labrador. There had +been nothing else to do. It was quite out of the +question, whatever the proprieties, whatever the +requirements of babies and the inadequacy of +bachelors—it was quite out of the question for +“By-an’-by” Brown, being a bachelor of tender +years and perceptions, to abandon even a baby +at Back Yard Bight of the Labrador, having first +assisted at the interment of the mother and then +instantly lost trace of the delinquent father. The +monstrous expedient had not even occurred to +him; he made a hasty bundle of the baby and +took flight for more populous neighborhoods, +commanding advice, refuge, and infinitely more +valuable assistance from the impoverished settlements +by the way. And thereafter he remembered +the bleak and lonely reaches of Back Yard +Bight as a stretch of coast where he had been +considerably alarmed. +</p> +<p> +It had been a wet night when “By-an’-by” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_184'></a>184</span> +Brown and the baby put into Blunder Cove—wind +in the east, the sea in a tumble: a wet night, +and late of it. All the windows were black; and +the paths of the place—a water-side maze in the +lee of great hills—were knee-deep in a flood of +darkness. “By-an’-by” Brown was downcast: +this because of his years. He was a lad of +fifteen. Fifteen, mark you!—a gigantic fifteen: a +wise and competent fifteen, too, having for seven +years fended for itself in the turf huts of the +Labrador and the forecastles of the lower coasts. +But still, for the moment, he was downcast by +the burden upon his youth. So he knocked diffidently +at the first kitchen door; and presently +he stood abashed in a burst of warm light from +within. +</p> +<p> +Shelter? Oh, ay! T’ be sure. But (in quick +and resentful suspicion): +</p> +<p> +“B’y,” Aunt Phoebe Luff demanded, “what +ye got in them ile-skins? Pups?” +</p> +<p> +“By-an’-by” Brown observed that there were +embers in the kitchen stove, that steam was +faintly rising from the spout of the kettle. +</p> +<p> +“Baby,” said he. +</p> +<p> +Aunt Phoebe jumped. “What!” cried she: +</p> +<p> +“Jus’ a baby,” said “By-an’-by” Brown. +“<em>Well!</em>—you give that there baby here.” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_185'></a>185</span> +</p> +<p> +“I’ll be glad t’, ma’am,” said young “By-an’-by” +Brown, in childish tenderness, still withholding +the bundle from the woman’s extended +arms, “but not for keeps.” +</p> +<p> +“For keeps!” Aunt Phoebe snorted. +</p> +<p> +“No, ma’am; not for keeps. I’m ’lowin’ t’ +fetch it up myself,” said “By-an’-by” Brown, +“by-an’-by.” +</p> +<p> +“Dunderhead!” Aunt Phoebe whispered, softly. +</p> +<p> +And “By-an’-by” Brown, familiar with the +exigency, obediently went in. +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +<em>Then</em> there were lights in the cottages of +Blunder Cove: instantly, it seemed. And company—and +tea and hard bread and chatter—in +Skipper Tom Luff’s little white kitchen. A roaring +fire in the stove: a kettle that sang and +chuckled and danced, glad once more to be engaged +in the real business of life. So was the +cradle—glad to be useful again, though its activity +had been but for an hour suspended. It +went to work in a business-like way, with never +a creak, in response to the gentle toe of “By-an’-by” +Brown’s top-boot. There was an inquisition, +too, through which “By-an’-by” Brown +crooned to the baby, “Hush-a-by!” and absently +answered, “Uh-huh!” and “By-an’-by!” as +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_186'></a>186</span> +placid as could be. Concerning past troubles: +Oh, they was—yesterday. And of future difficulties: +Well, they was—by-an’-by. “Hush-a-by!” +and “By-an’-by!” So they gave him a +new name—“By-an’-by” Brown—because he +was of those whose past is forgot in yesterday +and whose future is no more inimical than—well, +jus’ by-an’-by. +</p> +<p> +“By-an’-by” Brown o’ Blunder Cove—paddle-punt +fishin’ the Blow-me-down grounds.... +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +It had not been for keeps. “By-an’-by” +Brown resisted in a fashion so resolute that no +encroachment upon his rights was accomplished +by Aunt Phoebe Luff. He had wandered too +long alone to be willing to yield up a property in +hearts once he possessed it. And Blunder Cove +approved. The logic was simple: <em>If</em> “By-an’-by” +Brown took the child t’ raise, why, then, +nobody else would <em>have</em> t’. The proceeding was +never regarded as extraordinary. Nobody said, +“How queer!” It was looked upon merely as a +commendably philanthropic undertaking on the +part of “By-an’-by” Brown; the accident of his +sex and situation had nothing to do with the +problem. Thus, when Aunt Phoebe’s fostering +care was no longer imperative “By-an’-by” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_187'></a>187</span> +Brown said <em>Now</em> for the first time in his life, +and departed with the baby. By that time, of +course, there was an establishment: a whitewashed +cottage by the water-side, a stage, a flake, +a punt—all the achievement of “By-an’-by’s” +own hands. A new account, too: this on the +ledger of Wull & Company, trading the French +Shore with the <em>Always Loaded</em>, putting in off and on. +</p> +<p> +“By-an’-by’s” baby began to grow perceptibly. +“By-an’-by” just kept on growing, ’lowin’ +t’ stop sometime—by-an’-by. It happened—by-an’-by. +This was when he was two-and-twenty: +by which time, according to enthusiastic observers +from a more knowing and appreciative +world, he was Magnificent. The splendor consisted, +it was said, in bulk, muscle, and the like, +somewhat, too, perhaps, in poise and glance; but +Blunder Cove knew that these external and relatively +insignificant aspects were transcended by +the spiritual graces which “By-an’-by” Brown +displayed. He was religious; but it must be +added that he was amiable. A great, tender, +devoted dog: “By-an’-by” Brown. This must +be said for him: that if he by-an’-byed the unpleasant +necessities into a future too distant to be +troublesome, he by-an’-byed the appearance of +evil to the same far exile. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_188'></a>188</span> +After all, it may be a virtue to practise the art +of by-an’-bying. +</p> +<p> +As for the baby at this period, the age of seven +years, the least said the less conspicuous the +failure to say anything adequate. Language was +never before so helplessly mocked. It may be +ventured, however, to prove the poverty of words, +that dispassionately viewed through the eyes of +“By-an’-by” Brown, she was angelic. “Jus’ a +wee li’l’ mite of a angel!” said he. Of course, +this is not altogether original, nor is it specific; +but it satisfied “By-an’-by” Brown’s idea of +perfection. A slim little slip of a maid of the +roguishly sly and dimpled sort: a maid of delicate +fashioning, exquisite of feature—a maid of impulsive +affections. Exact in everything; and exacting, +too—in a captivating way. And herein +was propagated the germ of disquietude for “By-an’-by” +Brown: promising, indeed (fostered by +the folly of procrastination), a more tragic development. +“By-an’-by’s” baby was used to saying, +You <em>told</em> me so. Also, But you <em>promised</em>. +The particular difficulty confronting “By-an’-by” +Brown was the baby’s insistent curiosity, not +inconsistent with the age of seven, concerning +the whereabouts of her father and the time and +manner of his return. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_189'></a>189</span> +</p> +<p> +Brown had piqued it into being: just by saying—“By-an’-by!” +</p> +<p> +“Ay,” says she; “but <em>when</em> will he be comin’ +back?” +</p> +<p> +“Why,” he answered, bewildered—“by-an’-by!” +</p> +<p> +It was a familiar evasion. The maid frowned. +“Is you sure?” she demanded, sceptically. +</p> +<p> +“Ye bet ye!” he was prompt to reply, feeling +bound now, to convince her, whatever came of it; +“he’ll be comin’ back—by-an’-by.” +</p> +<p> +“Well, then,” said the maid, relieved, “I +s’pose so.” +</p> +<p> +Brown had never disclosed the brutal delinquency +of Long Bill Tweak. Not to the +maid, because he could not wound her; not to +Blunder Cove, because he would not shame her. +The revelation must be made, of course; but not +now—by-an’-by. The maid knew that her +mother was dead beyond recall: no mystery was +ever made of that; and there ended the childish +wish and wonder concerning that poor woman. +But her father? Here was an inviting mystery. +No; he was not what you might call dead—jus’ +sort o’ gone away. Would he ever come back? +Oh, <em>sure</em>! no need o’ frettin’ about that; <em>he’d</em> +be back—by-an’-by. Had “By-an’-by” Brown +said <em>Never</em>, the problem would have been +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_190'></a>190</span> +dieposed of, once and for all: the fretting over with, +once and for all. But what he said was this uncourageous +and specious by-an’-by. So the maid +waited in interested speculation: then impatiently. +For she was used to saying, You <em>told</em> me so. +Also, But then you <em>promised</em>. +</p> +<p> +As by-an’-by overhauled by-an’-by in the days +of “By-an’-by” Brown, and as the ultimate by-an’-by +became imminent, “By-an’-by” Brown +was ever more disquieted. +</p> +<p> +“But,” says the maid, “‘by-an’-by’ is never.” +</p> +<p> +“Oh, my, no!” he protested. +</p> +<p> +She tapped the tip of his nose with a long little +forefinger, and emphasized every word with a +stouter tap. “Yes—it—is!” said she. +</p> +<p> +“Not <em>never</em>,” cried “By-an’-by” Brown. +</p> +<p> +“Then,” says she, “is it to-morrow?” +</p> +<p> +Brown violently shook his head. +</p> +<p> +“Is it nex’ week?” +</p> +<p> +“Goodness, no!” +</p> +<p> +“Well,” she insisted—and she took “By-an’-by’s” +face between her palms and drew it close +to search his eyes—“is it nex’ year?” +</p> +<p> +“Maybe.” +</p> +<p> +She touched the tip of her white little nose to the +sunburned tip of his. “But <em>is</em> it?” she persisted. +</p> +<p> +“Uh-huh,” said “By-an’-by” Brown, recklessly, quite +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_191'></a>191</span> +overcome, committing himself beyond +redemption; “nex’ year.” +</p> +<p> +And “By-an’-by’s” baby remembered.... +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +Next year began, of course, with the first day +of January. And a day with wind and snow it +was! Through the interval of three months +preceding, Brown had observed the approach of +this veritable by-an’-by with rising alarm. And +on New Year’s Day, why, there it was: by-an’-by +come at last! “By-an’-by” Brown, though +twenty-two, was frightened. No wonder! Hitherto +his life had not been perturbed by insoluble +bewilderments. But how to produce Long Bill +Tweak from the mist into which he had vanished +at Back Yard Bight of the Labrador seven years +ago? It was beyond him. Who could call Bill +Tweak from seven years of time and the very +waste places of space? Not “By-an’-by” Brown, +who could only ponder and sigh and scratch his +curly head. And here was the maid, used to +saying, as maids of seven will, But you told me +so! and, You <em>promised</em>! So “By-an’-by” Brown +was downcast as never before; but before the +day was spent he conceived that the unforeseen +might yet fortuitously issue in the salvation of +himself and the baby. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_192'></a>192</span> +</p> +<p> +“Maybe,” thought he—“by-an’-by!” +</p> +<p> +As January progressed the maid grew more +eager and still more confident. He <em>promised</em>, +thinks she; also, He <em>told</em> me so. There were +times, as the terrified Brown observed, when this +eagerness so possessed the child that she trembled +in a fashion to make him shiver. She would +start from her chair by the stove when a knock +came late o’ windy nights on the kitchen door; +she would stare up the frozen harbor to the Tickle +by day—peep through the curtains, interrupt her +housewifely duties to keep watch at the window. +</p> +<p> +“Anyhow, he <em>will</em> come,” says she, quite confidently, +“by-an’-by.” +</p> +<p> +“Uh-huh!” Brown must respond. +</p> +<p> +What was a shadow upon the gentle spirit of +“By-an’-by” Brown was the sunlight of certain +expectation irradiating “By-an’-by’s” baby. But +the maid fell ill. Nobody knew why. Suspicion +dwelled like a skeleton with “By-an’-by” +Brown; but this he did not divulge to Blunder +Cove. Nothin’ much the matter along o’ she, +said the Cove; jus’ a little spell o’ somethin’ or +other. It was a childish indisposition, perhaps—but +come with fever and pallor and a poignant +restlessness. “By-an’-by” Brown had never before +known how like to a black cloud the future +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_193'></a>193</span> +of a man might be. At any rate, she must be +put to bed: whereupon, of course, “By-an’-by” +Brown indefinitely put off going to bed, having +rather stand watch, he said. It was presently +a question at Blunder Cove: who was the more +wan and pitiable, “By-an’-by’s” baby, being +sick, or “By-an’-by,” being anxious? And there +was no cure anywhere to be had—no cure for +either. “By-an’-by” Brown conceived that the +appearance of Long Bill Tweak would instantly +work a miracle upon the maid. But where was +Bill Tweak? There was no magic at hand to +accomplish the feat of summoning a scamp from +Nowhere! +</p> +<p> +One windy night “By-an’-by” Brown sat with +the child to comfort her. “I ’low,” he drawled, +“that you wisht a wonderful sight that your +father was here.” +</p> +<p> +“Uh-<em>huh</em>!” the maid exclaimed. +</p> +<p> +Brown sighed. “I s’pose,” he muttered. +</p> +<p> +“Is he comin’?” she demanded. +</p> +<p> +“Oh—by-an’-by!” +</p> +<p> +“I wisht ’twas <em>now</em>,” said she. “That I +does!” +</p> +<p> +Brown listened to the wind. It was blowing +high and bitterly: a winter wind, with snow from +the northeast. “By-an’-by” was troubled. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_194'></a>194</span> +</p> +<p> +“I ’low,” said he, hopelessly, “that you’ll love +un a sight, won’t ye?—when he comes?” +</p> +<p> +“Ye bet ye!” the maid answered. +</p> +<p> +“More’n ye love—some folks?” +</p> +<p> +“A lot,” said she. +</p> +<p> +Brown was troubled. He heard the kitchen +stove snore in its familiar way, the kettle bubble, +the old wind assault the cottage he had builded +for the baby; and he remembered recent years—and was +troubled. +</p> +<p> +“Will ye love un more?” he asked, anxiously, +turning his face from the child, “than ye loves +me?” He hesitated. “Ye won’t, will ye?” he +implored. +</p> +<p> +“’Twill be different,” said she. +</p> +<p> +“Will it?” he asked, rather vacantly. +</p> +<p> +“Ye see,” she explained, “he’ll be my <em>father</em>.” +</p> +<p> +“Then,” suggested “By-an’-by,” “ye’ll be goin’ +away along o’ he?—when he comes?” +</p> +<p> +“Oh, my, no!” +</p> +<p> +“Ye’ll not? Ye’ll stay along o’ me?” +</p> +<p> +“Why, ye see,” she began, bewildered, “I’ll—why, +o’ course, I’ll—oh,” she complained, “what +ye ask me <em>that</em> for?” +</p> +<p> +“Jus’ couldn’t <em>help</em> it,” said “By-an’-by,” +humbly. +</p> +<p> +The maid began to cry. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_195'></a>195</span> +</p> +<p> +“Don’t!” pleaded “By-an’-by” Brown. “Jus’ +can’t <em>stand</em> it. I’ll do anything if ye’ll on’y stop +cryin’. Ye can <em>have</em> your father. Ye needn’t +love me no more. Ye can go away along o’ he. +An’ he’ll be comin’ soon, too. Ye’ll see if he +don’t. Jus’ by-an’-by—by-an’-by!” +</p> +<p> +“’Tis never,” the maid sobbed. +</p> +<p> +“No, no! By-an’-by is soon. Why,” cried +“By-an’-by” Brown, perceiving that this intelligence +stopped the child’s tears, “by-an’-by is—wonderful +soon.” +</p> +<p> +“To-morrow?” +</p> +<p> +“Well, no; but—” +</p> +<p> +“’Tis never!” she wailed. +</p> +<p> +“’Tis nex’ week!” cried “By-an’-by” +Brown.... +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +When the dawn of Monday morning confronted +“By-an’-by” Brown he was appalled. +Here was a desperately momentous situation: +by-an’-by must be faced—at last. Where was +Long Bill Tweak? Nobody knew. How could +Long Bill Tweak be fetched from Nowhere? +Brown scratched his head. But Long Bill +Tweak <em>must</em> be fetched: for here was the maid, +chirpin’ about the kitchen—turned out early, +ecod! t’ clean house against her father’s coming. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_196'></a>196</span> +Cured? Ay; that she was—the mouse! “By-an’-by” +Brown dared not contemplate her +collapse at midnight of Saturday. But chance +intervened: on Tuesday morning Long Bill +Tweak made Blunder Cove on the way from +Lancy Loop to St. John’s to join the sealing fleet +in the spring of the year. Long Bill Tweak in +the flesh! It was still blowing high: he had +come out of the snow—a shadow in the white +mist, rounding the Tickle rocks, observed from +all the windows of Blunder Cove, but changing +to Long Bill Tweak himself, ill-kempt, surly, +gruff-voiced, vicious-eyed, at the kitchen door of +“By-an’-by” Brown’s cottage. +</p> +<p> +Long Bill Tweak begged the maid, with a +bristle-whiskered twitch—a scowl, mistakenly delivered +as a smile—for leave to lie the night in +that place. +</p> +<p> +The maid was afraid with a fear she had not +known before. “We’re ’lowing for company,” +she objected. +</p> +<p> +“Come in!” “By-an’-by” called from the +kitchen. +</p> +<p> +The maid fled in a fright to the inner room, +and closed the door upon herself; but Long Bill +Tweak swaggered in. +</p> +<p> +“Tweak!” gasped “By-an’-by” Brown. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_197'></a>197</span> +</p> +<p> +“Brown!” growled Long Bill Tweak. +</p> +<p> +There was the silence of uttermost amazement; +but presently, with a jerk, Tweak indicated +the door through which “By-an’-by’s” +baby had fled. +</p> +<p> +“It?” he whispered. +</p> +<p> +Brown nodded. +</p> +<p> +“’Low I’ll be goin’ on,” said Long Bill Tweak, +making for the windy day. +</p> +<p> +“Ye’ll go,” answered “By-an’-by” Brown, +quietly, interposing his great body, “when ye’re +let: not afore.” +</p> +<p> +Long Bill Tweak contented himself with the +hospitality of “By-an’-by” Brown.... +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +That night, when Brown had talked with the +maid’s father for a long, long time by the kitchen +stove, the maid being then turned in, he softly +opened the bedroom door and entered, closing it +absent-mindedly behind him, dwelling the while, +in deep distress, upon the agreement he had +wrested by threat and purchase from Long Bill +Tweak. The maid was still awake because of +terror; she was glad, indeed, to have caught sight +of “By-an’-by” Brown’s broad, kindly young +countenance in the beam of light from the kitchen, +though downcast, and she snuggled deeper into +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_198'></a>198</span> +the blankets, not afraid any more. “By-an’-by” +touched a match to the candle-wick with a great +hand that trembled. He lingered over the simple +act—loath to come nearer to the evil necessity of +the time. For Long Bill Tweak was persuaded +now to be fatherly to the child; and “By-an’-by” +Brown must yield her, according to her wish. +He sat for a time on the edge of the little bed, +clinging to the maid’s hand; and he thought, in +his gentle way, that it was a very small, very dear +hand, and that he would wish to touch it often, +when he could not. +</p> +<p> +Presently Brown sighed: then, taking heart, he +joined issue with his trouble. +</p> +<p> +“I ’low,” he began, “that you wisht your +father was here.” +</p> +<p> +The maid did. +</p> +<p> +“I ’low,” he pursued, “that you wisht he was +here this very minute.” +</p> +<p> +That the maid did! +</p> +<p> +“I ’low,” said “By-an’-by,” softly, lifting the +child’s hands to his lips, “that you wisht the man +in the kitchen was him.” +</p> +<p> +“No,” the maid answered, sharply. +</p> +<p> +“Ye doesn’t?” +</p> +<p> +“Ye bet ye—no!” said she. +</p> +<p> +“Eh?” gasped the bewildered Brown. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_199'></a>199</span> +</p> +<p> +The maid sat upright and stiff in bed. “Oh, +my!” she demanded, in alarm; “he <em>isn’t</em>, is he?” +</p> +<p> +“No!” said “By-an’-by” Brown. +</p> +<p> +“Sure?” +</p> +<p> +“Isn’t I jus’ <em>tol’</em> ye so?” he answered, beaming. +</p> +<p> +Long Bill Tweak followed the night into the +shades of forgotten time.... +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +Came Wednesday upon “By-an’-by” Brown +in a way to make the heart jump. Midnight of +Saturday was now fairly over the horizon of his +adventurous sea. Wednesday! Came Thursday—prompt to +the minute. Days of bewildered +inaction! And now the cottage was ship-shape +to the darkest corners of its closets. Ship-shape as +a wise and knowing maid of seven, used to housewifely +occupations, could make it: which was as +ship-shape as ship-shape could be, though you +may not believe it. There was no more for the +maid to do but sit with folded hands and confidently +expectant gaze to await the advent of +her happiness. Thursday morning: and “By-an’-by” +Brown had not mastered his bearings. +Three days more: Thursday, Friday, Saturday. +It occurred, then, to “By-an’-by” Brown—at +precisely ten o’clock of Friday morning—that his +hope lay in Jim Turley of Candlestick Cove, an +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_200'></a>200</span> +obliging man. They jus’ <em>had</em> t’ be a father, +didn’t they? But they <em>wasn’t</em> no father no more. +Well, then, ecod! <em>make</em> one. Had t’ be a father, +<em>some</em>how, didn’t they? And—well—there was +Jim Turley o’ Candlestick Cove. He’d answer. +Why not Jim Turley o’ Candlestick Cove, an +obligin’ man, known t’ be such from Mother +Burke t’ the Cape Norman Light? He’d ’blige +a shipmate in a mess like this, ecod! You see +if he didn’t! +</p> +<p> +Brown made ready for Candlestick Cove. +</p> +<p> +“But,” the maid objected, “what is I t’ do if +father comes afore night?” +</p> +<p> +“Ah!” drawled “By-an’-by,” blankly. +</p> +<p> +“Eh?” she repeated. +</p> +<p> +“Why, o’ course,” he answered, with a large +and immediate access of interest, drawing the +arm-chair near the stove, “you jus’ set un there t’ +warm his feet.” +</p> +<p> +“An’ if he doesn’t know me?” she protested. +</p> +<p> +“Oh, sure,” “By-an’-by” affirmed, “the ol’ +man’ll know <em>you</em>, never fear. You jus’ give un +a cup o’ tea an’ say I’ll be back afore dark.” +</p> +<p> +“Well,” the maid agreed, dubiously. +</p> +<p> +“I’ll be off,” said Brown, in a flush of embarrassment, +“when I fetches the wood t’ keep +your father cosey. He’ll be thirsty an’ cold when +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_201'></a>201</span> +he comes. Ye’ll take good care of un, won’t +ye?” +</p> +<p> +“Ye bet ye!” +</p> +<p> +“Mind ye get them there ol’ feet warm. An’ +jus’ you fair pour the tea into un. He’s used t’ +his share o’ tea, ye bet! <em>I</em> knows un.” +</p> +<p> +And so “By-an’-by” Brown, travelling over +the hills, came hopefully to Jim Turley of Candlestick +Cove, an obliging man, whilst the maid +kept watch at the window of the Blunder Cove +cottage. And Jim Turley was a most obligin’ +man. ’Blige? Why, sure! <em>I’ll</em> ’blige ye! There +was no service difficult or obnoxious to the selfish +sons of men that Jim Turley would not perform +for other folk—if only he might ’blige. Ye +jus’ go ast Jim Turley; <em>he’ll</em> ’blige ye. And +Jim Turley would with delight: for Jim had a +passion for ’bligin’—assiduously seeking opportunities, +even to the point of intrusion. Beaming +Jim Turley o’ Candlestick Cove: poor, shiftless, +optimistic, serene, well-beloved Jim Turley, +forever cheerfully sprawling in the meshes of his +own difficulties! Lean Jim Turley—forgetful of +his interests in a fairly divine satisfaction with +compassing the joy and welfare of his fellows! +I shall never forget him: his round, flaring smile, +rippling under his bushy whiskers, a perpetual +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_202'></a>202</span> +delight, come any fortune; his mild, unself-conscious, +sympathetic blue eyes, looking out upon +the world in amazement, perhaps, but yet in +kind and eager inquiry concerning the affairs +of other folk; his blithe “Yo-ho!” at labor, and +“Easy does it!” Jim Turley o’ Candlestick Cove—an’ +obligin’ man! +</p> +<p> +“In trouble?” he asked of “By-an’-by” Brown, +instantly concerned. +</p> +<p> +“Not ’xactly trouble,” answered “By-an’-by.” +</p> +<p> +“Sort o’ bothered?” +</p> +<p> +“Well, no,” drawled “By-an’-by” Brown; “but +I got t’ have a father by Satu’day night.” +</p> +<p> +“For yerself?” Jim mildly inquired. +</p> +<p> +“For the maid,” said “By-an’-by” Brown; +“an’ I was ’lowin’,” he added, frankly, “that +you might ’blige her.” +</p> +<p> +“Well, now,” Jim Turley exclaimed, “I’d +like t’ wonderful well! But, ye see,” he objected, +faintly, “bein’ a ol’ bachelor I isn’t s’posed +t’—” +</p> +<p> +“Anyhow,” “By-an’-by” Brown broke in, +“I jus’ got t’ have a father by Satu’day night.” +</p> +<p> +“An’ I’m a religious man, an’—” +</p> +<p> +“No objection t’ religion,” Brown protested. +“I’m strong on religion m’self. Jus’ as soon +have a religious father as not. Sooner. Now,” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_203'></a>203</span> +he pleaded, “they isn’t nobody else in the world +t’ ’blige me.” +</p> +<p> +“No,” Jim Turley agreed, in distress; “no—I +’low not.” +</p> +<p> +“An’ I jus’ <em>got</em>,” declared Brown, “t’ have a +father by Satu’day night.” +</p> +<p> +“Course you is!” cried Jim Turley, instantly +siding with the woebegone. “Jus’ got t’!” +</p> +<p> +“Well?” +</p> +<p> +“Oh, well, pshaw!” said Jim Turley, “<em>I’ll</em> +’blige ye!” +</p> +<p> +The which he did, but with misgiving: arriving +at Blunder Cove after dark of Saturday, unobserved +by the maid, whose white little nose +was stuck to the frosty window-pane, whose eyes +searched the gloom gathered over the Tickle rocks, +whose ears were engaged with the tick-tock of +the impassive clock. No; he was not observed, +however keen the lookout: for he came sneaking +in by Tumble Gully, ’cordin’ t’ sailin’ orders, to +join “By-an’-by” Brown in the lee of the meeting-house +under Anxiety Hill, where the conspiracy +was to be perfected, in the light of recent developments, +and whence the sally was to be made. +He was in a shiver of nervousness; so, too, “By-an’-by” +Brown. It was the moment of inaction +when conspirators must forever be the prey of +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_204'></a>204</span> +doubt and dread. They were determined, grim; +they were most grave—but they were still afraid. +And Jim Turley’s conscience would not leave +him be. A religious man, Jim Turley! On +the way from Candlestick Cove he had whipped +the perverse thing into subjection, like a sinner; +but here, in the lee of the meeting-house by +Anxiety Hill, with a winter’s night fallen like a +cold cloud from perdition, conscience was risen +again to prod him. +</p> +<p> +An obligin’ man, Jim Turley: but still a religious +man—knowing his master. +</p> +<p> +“I got qualms,” said he. +</p> +<p> +“Stummick?” Brown demanded, in alarm. +</p> +<p> +“This here thing,” Jim Turley protested, +“isn’t a religious thing to do.” +</p> +<p> +“Maybe not,” replied “By-an’-by” Brown, +doggedly; “but I promised the maid a father by +Satu’day night, an’ I got t’ have un.” +</p> +<p> +“’Twould ease my mind a lot,” Jim Turley +pleaded, “t’ ask the parson. Come, now!” +</p> +<p> +“By-an’-by,” said “By-an’-by” Brown. +</p> +<p> +“No,” Jim Turley insisted; “now.” +</p> +<p> +The parson laughed; then laughed again, with +his head thrown back and his mouth fallen open +very wide. Presently, though, he turned grave, +and eyed “By-an’-by” Brown in a questioning, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_205'></a>205</span> +anxious way, as though seeking to discover in +how far the big man’s happiness might be +chanced: whereupon he laughed once more, +quite reassured. He was a pompous bit of a +parson, this, used to commanding the conduct of +Blunder Cove; to controlling its affairs; to shaping +the destinies of its folk with a free, bold hand: +being in this both wise and most generously concerned, +so that the folk profited more than they +knew. And now, with “By-an’-by” Brown and +the maid on his hands, to say nothing of poor +Jim Turley, he did not hesitate; there was nothing +for it, thinks he, but to get “By-an’-by” +Brown out of the mess, whatever came of it, +and to arrange a future from which all by-an’-bying +must be eliminated. A new start, thinks +he; and the by-an’-by habit would work no further +injury. So he sat “By-an’-by” Brown and +Jim Turley by the kitchen stove, without a word +of explanation, and, still condescending no hint +of his purpose, but bidding them both sit tight to +their chairs, went out upon his business, which, +as may easily be surmised, was with the maid. +</p> +<p> +“Bein’ a religious man,” said Jim Turley, +solemnly, “he’ll mend it.” +</p> +<p> +When the parson came back there was nothing +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_206'></a>206</span> +within her comprehension, which was +quite sufficient to her need. “By-an’-by” Brown +was sent home, with a kindly God-bless-ye! and +an injunction of the most severe description to +have done with by-an’-bying. He stumbled into +his own kitchen in a shamefaced way, prepared, +like a mischievous lad, to be scolded until his big +ears burned and his scalp tingled; and he was a +long, long time about hanging up his cap and +coat and taking off his shoes, never once glancing +toward the maid, who sat silent beyond the +kitchen stove. And then, when by no further +subterfuge could he prolong his immunity, he +turned boldly in her direction, patiently and +humbly to accept the inevitable correction, a +promise to do better already fashioned upon his +tongue. And there she sat, beyond the glowing +stove, grinning in a way to show her white little +teeth. Tears? Maybe: but only traces—where-left, +indeed, for the maid to learn, or, at least, +by her eyes shone all the brighter. And “By-an’-by” +Brown, reproaching himself bitterly, sat +down, with never a word, and began to trace +strange pictures on the floor with the big toe of +his gray-socked foot, while the kettle and the +clock and the fire sang the old chorus of comfort +and cheer. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_207'></a>207</span> +</p> +<p> +The big man’s big toe got all at once furiously +interested in its artistic occupation. +</p> +<p> +“Ah-ha!” says “By-an’-by’s” baby, “<em>I</em> found +you out!” +</p> +<p> +“Uh-huh!” she repeated, threateningly, “I +found <em>you</em> out.” +</p> +<p> +“Did ye?” “By-an’-by” softly asked. +</p> +<p> +The maid came on tiptoe from behind the +stove, and made an arrangement of “By-an’-by” +Brown’s long legs convenient for straddling; and +having then settled herself on his knees, she +tipped up his face and fetched her own so close +that he could not dodge her eyes, but must look +in, whatever came of it; and then—to the reviving +delight of “By-an’-by” Brown—she tapped +his nose with a long little forefinger, emphasizing +every word with a stouter tap, saying: +</p> +<p> +“Yes—I—did!” +</p> +<p> +“Uh-huh!” he chuckled. +</p> +<p> +“An’,” said she, “I don’t <em>want</em> no father.” +</p> +<p> +“Ye don’t?” he cried, incredulous. +</p> +<p> +“Because,” she declared, “I’m ’lowin’ t’ take +care o’ <em>you</em>—an’ <em>marry</em> you.” +</p> +<p> +“Ye is?” he gasped. +</p> +<p> +“Ye bet ye, b’y,” said “By-an’-by’s” baby—“by-an’-by!” +</p> +<p> +Then they hugged each other hard. +</p> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_208'></a>208</span><a name='chVIII' id='chVIII'></a>VIII—THEY WHO LOSE AT LOVE</h2> +<p> +And old Khalil Khayyat, simulating courage, +went out, that the reconciliation of Yusef +Khouri with the amazing marriage might surely +be accomplished. And returning in dread and +bewildered haste, he came again to the pastry-shop +of Nageeb Fiani, where young Salim Awad, +the light of his eyes, still lay limp over the round +table in the little back room, grieving that +Haleema, Khouri’s daughter, of the tresses of +night, the star-eyed, his well-beloved, had of a +sudden wed Jimmie Brady, the jolly truckman. +The smoke hung dead and foul in the room; the +coffee was turned cold in the cups, stagnant and +greasy; the coal on the narghile was grown gray +as death: the magic of great despair had in a twinkling +worked the change of cheer to age and +shabbiness and frigid gloom. But the laughter +and soft voices in the outer room were all unchanged, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_209'></a>209</span> +still light, lifted indifferently above the +rattle of dice and the aimless strumming of a +canoun; and beyond was the familiar evening +hum and clatter of New York’s Washington +Street, children’s cries and the patter of feet, +drifting in at the open door; and from far off, +as before, came the low, receding roar of the +Elevated train rounding the curve to South Ferry. +</p> +<p> +Khayyat smiled in compassion: being old, used +to the healing of years, he smiled; and he laid a +timid hand on the head of young Salim Awad. +</p> +<p> +“Salim, poet, the child of a poet,” he whispered, +“grieve no more!” +</p> +<p> +“My heart is a gray coal, O Khalil!” sighed +Salim Awad, who had lost at love. “For a moment +it glowed in the breath of love. It is +turned cold and gray; it lies forsaken in a vast +night.” +</p> +<p> +“For a moment,” mused Khalil Khayyat, +sighing, but yet smiling, “it glowed in the breath +of love. Ah, Salim,” said he, “there is yet the +memory of that ecstasy!” +</p> +<p> +“My heart is a brown leaf: it flutters down the +wind of despair; it is caught in the tempest of +great woe.” +</p> +<p> +“It has known the sunlight and the tender +breeze.” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_210'></a>210</span> +</p> +<p> +Salim looked up; his face was wet and white; +his black hair, fallen in disarray over his forehead, +was damp with the sweat of grief; his eyes, soulful, +glowing in deep shadows, he turned to some +place high and distant. “My heart,” he cried, +passionately, clasping his hands, “is a thing that +for a moment lived, but is forever dead! It is in +a grave of night and heaviness, O Khalil, my +friend!” +</p> +<p> +“It is like a seed sown,” said Khalil Khayyat. +</p> +<p> +“To fail of harvest!” +</p> +<p> +“Nay; to bloom in compassionate deeds. The +flower of sorrow is the joy of the world. In the +broken heart is the hope of the hopeless; in the +agony of poets is their sure help. Hear me, O +Salim Awad!” the old man continued, rising, +lifting his lean brown hand, his voice clear, +vibrant, possessing the quality of prophecy. +“The broken heart is a seed sown by the hand of +the Beneficent and Wise. Into the soil of life +He casts it that there may be a garden in the +world. With a free, glad hand He sows, that +the perfume and color of high compassion may +glorify the harvest of ambitious strife; and progress +is the fruit of strife and love the flower of +compassion. Yea, O Salim, poet, the child of +a poet, taught of a poet, which am I, the broken +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_211'></a>211</span> +heart is a seed sown gladly, to flower in this +beauty. Blessed,” Khalil Khayyat concluded, +smiling, “oh, blessed be the Breaker of Hearts!” +</p> +<p> +“Blessed,” asked Salim Awad, wondering, +“be the Breaker of Hearts?” +</p> +<p> +“Yea, O Salim,” answered Khalil Khayyat, +speaking out of age and ancient pain; “even +blessed be the Breaker of Hearts!” +</p> +<p> +Salim Awad turned again to the place that +was high and distant—beyond the gaudy, dirty +ceiling of the little back room—where, it may be, +the form of Haleema, the star-eyed, of the slender, +yielding shape of the tamarisk, floated in a radiant +cloud, compassionate and glorious. +</p> +<p> +“What is my love?” he whispered. “Is it a +consuming fire? Nay,” he answered, his voice +rising, warm, tremulous; “rather is it a little +blaze, kindled brightly in the night, that it may +comfort my beloved. What is my love, O Haleema, +daughter of Khouri, the star-eyed? Is it +an arrow, shot from my bow, that it may tear +the heart of my beloved? Nay; rather is it a +shield against the arrows of sorrow—my shield, +the strength of my right arm: a refuge from the +cruel shafts of life. What are my arms? Are +they bars of iron to imprison my beloved? Nay,” +cried Salim Awad, striking his breast; “they are +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_212'></a>212</span> +but a resting-place. A resting-place,” he repeated, +throwing wide his arms, “to which she +will not come! Oh, Haleema!” he moaned, +flinging himself upon the little round table, +“Haleema! Jewel of all riches! Star of the +night! Flower of the world! Haleema ... +Haleema....” +</p> +<p> +“Poet!” Khalil Khayyat gasped, clutching the +little round table, his eyes flashing. “The child +of a poet, taught of a poet, which am I!” +</p> +<p> +They were singing in the street—a riot of Irish +lads, tenement-born; tramping noisily past the +door of Nageeb Fiani’s pastry-shop to Battery +Park. And Khalil Khayyat sat musing deeply, +his ears closed to the alien song, while distance +mellowed the voices, changed them to a vagrant +harmony, made them one with the mutter of +Washington Street; for there had come to him +a great thought—a vision, high, glowing, such as +only poets may know—concerning love and the +infinite pain; and he sought to fashion the +thought: which must be done with tender care +in the classic language, lest it suffer in beauty +or effect being uttered in haste or in the common +speech of the people. Thus he sat: low in his +chair, his head hanging loose, his eyes jumping, +his brown, wrinkled face fearfully working, until +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_213'></a>213</span> +every hair of his unshaven beard stood restlessly +on end. And Salim Awad, looking up, perceived +these throes: and thereby knew that some prophetic +word was immediately to be spoken. +</p> +<p> +“They who lose at love,” Khayyat muttered, +“must.... They who lose at love....” +</p> +<p> +“Khalil!” +</p> +<p> +The Language Beautiful was for once perverse. +The words would not come to Khalil +Khayyat. He gasped, tapped the table with +impatient fingers—and bent again to the task. +</p> +<p> +“They who lose at love....” +</p> +<p> +“Khalil!” Salim Awad’s voice was plaintive. +“What must they do, O Khalil,” he implored, +“who lose at love? Tell me, Khalil! <em>What +must they do?</em>” +</p> +<p> +“They who lose at love.... They who lose at +love must.... They who lose at love must ... +seek....” +</p> +<p> +“Speak, O Khalil, concerning those wretched +ones! And they must seek?” +</p> +<p> +Khayyat laughed softly. He sat back in the +chair—proudly squared his shoulders. “And +now I know!” he cried, in triumph. He cleared +his throat. “They who lose at love,” he declaimed, +“must seek....” He paused abruptly. +There had been a warning in the young lover’s +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_214'></a>214</span> +eyes: after all, in exceptional cases, poetry might +not wisely be practised. +</p> +<p> +“Come, Khalil!” Salim Awad purred. “They +who lose at love? What is left for them to +do?” +</p> +<p> +“Nay,” answered Khalil Khayyat, looking +away, much embarrassed, “I will not tell you.” +</p> +<p> +Salim caught the old man’s wrist. “What is +the quest?” he cried, hoarsely, bending close. +</p> +<p> +“I may not tell.” +</p> +<p> +Salim’s fingers tightened; his teeth came together +with a snap; his face flushed—a quick +flood of red, hot blood. +</p> +<p> +“What is the quest?” he demanded. +</p> +<p> +“I dare not tell.” +</p> +<p> +“The quest?” +</p> +<p> +“I <em>will</em> not tell!” +</p> +<p> +Nor would Khalil Khayyat tell Salim Awad +what must be sought by such as lose at love; but +he called to Nageeb Fiani, the greatest player in +all the world, to bring the violin, that Salim +might hear the music of love and be comforted. +And in the little back room of the pastry-shop +near the Battery, while the trucks rattled over +the cobblestones and the songs of the Irish +troubled the soft spring night, Nageeb Fiani +played the Song of Love to Lali, which the blind +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_215'></a>215</span> +prince had made, long, long ago, before he died +of love; and in the sigh and wail and passionate +complaint of that dead woe the despair of Salim +Awad found voice and spent itself; and he +looked up, and gazing deep into the dull old +eyes of Khalil Khayyat, new light in his own, he +smiled. +</p> +<p> +“Yet, O Khalil,” he whispered, “will I go +upon that quest!” +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +Now, Salim Awad went north to the bitter +coasts—to the shore of rock and gray sea—there +to carry a pack from harbor to harbor of a barren +land, ever seeking in trade to ease the sorrows +of love. Neither sea nor land—neither naked +headland nor the unfeeling white expanse—neither +sunlit wind nor the sleety gale in the +night—helped him to forgetfulness. But, as all +the miserable know, the love of children is a vast +delight: and the children of that place are blue-eyed +and hungry; and it is permitted the stranger +to love them.... On he went, from Lobster +Tickle to Snook’s Arm, from Dead Man’s Cove +to Righteous Harbor, trading laces and trinkets +for salt fish; and on he went, sanguine, light of +heart, blindly seeking that which the losers at +love must seek; for Khalil Khayyat had told him +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_216'></a>216</span> +that the mysterious Thing was to be found in +that place. +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +With a jolly wind abeam—a snoring breeze +from the southwest—the tight little <em>Bully Boy</em>, +fore-and-after, thirty tons, Skipper Josiah Top, +was footing it through the moonlight from Tutt’s +Tickle to the Labrador: bound down north for +the first fishing of that year. She was tearing +through the sea—eagerly nosing the slow, black +waves; and they heartily slapped her bows, broke, +ran hissing down the rail, lay boiling in the broad, +white wake, stretching far into the luminous mist +astern. Salim Awad, the peddler, picked up at +Bread-and-Water Harbor, leaned upon the rail—staring +into the mist: wherein, for him, were +melancholy visions of the star-eyed maid of +Washington Street.... At midnight the wind +veered to the east—a swift, ominous change—and +rose to the pitch of half a gale, blowing cold +and capriciously. It brought fog from the distant +open; the night turned clammy and thick; +the <em>Bully Boy</em> found herself in a mess of dirty +weather. Near dawn, being then close inshore, +off the Seven Dogs, which growled to leeward, +she ran into the ice—the first of the spring floes: +a field of pans, slowly drifting up the land. And +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_217'></a>217</span> +when the air was gray she struck on the Devil’s +Finger, ripped her keel out, and filled like a sieve; +and she sank in sixty seconds, as men say—every +strand and splinter of her. +</p> +<p> +But first she spilled her crew upon the ice. +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +The men had leaped to port and starboard, +fore and aft, in unthinking terror, each desperately +concerned with his own life; they were +now distributed upon the four pans which had +been within leaping distance when the <em>Bully +Boy</em> settled: white rafts, floating on a black, +slow-heaving sea; lying in a circle of murky +fog; creeping shoreward with the wind. If the +wind held—and it was a true, freshening wind,—they +would be blown upon the coast rocks, +within a measurable time, and might walk +ashore; if it veered, the ice would drift to sea, +where, ultimately, in the uttermost agony of +cold and hunger, every man would yield his life. +The plight was manifest, familiar to them, +every one; but they were wise in weather lore: +they had faith in the consistency of the wind that +blew; and, in the reaction from bestial terror, +they bandied primitive jokes from pan to pan—save +the skipper, who had lost all that he had, +and was helplessly downcast: caring not a whit +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_218'></a>218</span> +whether he lived or died; for he had loved his +schooner, the work of his hands, his heart’s +child, better than his life. +</p> +<p> +It chanced that Salim Awad, who loved the +star-eyed daughter of Khouri, and in this land +sought to ease the sorrow of his passion—it +chanced that this Salim was alone with Tommy +Hand, the cook’s young son—a tender lad, now +upon his first voyage to the Labrador. And +the boy began to whimper. +</p> +<p> +“Dad,” he called to his father, disconsolate, +“I wisht—I wisht—I was along o’ you—on <em>your</em> +pan.” +</p> +<p> +The cook came to the edge of the ice. “Does +you, lad?” he asked, softly. “Does you wisht +you was along o’ me, Tommy? Ah, but,” he +said, scratching his beard, bewildered, “you +isn’t.” +</p> +<p> +The space of black water between was short, +but infinitely capacious; it was sullen and cold—intent +upon its own wretchedness: indifferent +to the human pain on either side. The child +stared at the water, nostrils lifting, hands clinched, +body quivering: thus as if at bay in the +presence of an implacable terror. He turned to +the open sea, vast, gray, heartless: a bitter waste—might +and immensity appalling. Wistfully +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_219'></a>219</span> +then to the land, upon which the scattered pack +was advancing, moving in disorder, gathering as +it went: bold, black coast, naked, uninhabited—but +yet sure refuge: being greater than the sea, +which it held confined; solid ground, unmoved +by the wind, which it flung contemptuously to +the sky. And from the land to his father’s large, +kind face. +</p> +<p> +“No, b’y,” the cook repeated, “you isn’t. +You sees, Tommy lad,” he added, brightening, +as with a new idea, “you <em>isn’t</em> along o’ me.” +</p> +<p> +Tommy rubbed his eyes, which were now wet. +“I wisht,” he sobbed, his under lip writhing, “I +<em>was</em>—along o’ you!” +</p> +<p> +“I isn’t able t’ swim t’ you, Tommy,” said the +cook; “an’, ah, Tommy!” he went on, reproachfully, +wagging his head, “you isn’t able t’ swim +t’ me. I tol’ you, Tommy—when I went down +the Labrador las’ year—I <em>tol’</em> you t’ l’arn t’ +swim. I tol’ you, Tommy—don’t you mind the +time?—when you was goin’ over the side o’ th’ +ol’ <em>Gabriel’s Trumpet</em>, an’ I had my head out o’ +the galley, an’ ’twas a fair wind from the sou’east, +an’ they was weighin’ anchor up for’ard—don’t +you mind the day, lad?—I tol’ you, Tommy, +you <em>must</em> l’arn t’ swim afore another season. +Now, see what’s come t’ you!” still reproachfully, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_220'></a>220</span> +but with deepening tenderness. “An’ all along +o’ not mindin’ your dad! ‘Now,’ says you, ‘I +wisht I’d been a good lad an’ minded my dad.’ +Ah, Tommy—shame! I’m thinkin’ you’ll mind +your dad after this.” +</p> +<p> +Tommy began to bawl. +</p> +<p> +“Never you care, Tommy,” said the cook. +“The wind’s blowin’ we ashore. You an’ me’ll +be saved.” +</p> +<p> +“I wants t’ be along o’ you!” the boy sobbed. +</p> +<p> +“Ah, Tommy! <em>You</em> isn’t alone. You got +the Jew.” +</p> +<p> +“But I wants <em>you</em>!” +</p> +<p> +“You’ll take care o’ Tommy, won’t you, +Joe?” +</p> +<p> +Salim Awad smiled. He softly patted Tommy +Hand’s broad young shoulder. “I weel have,” +said he, slowly, desperately struggling with the +language, “look out for heem. I am not can,” +he added, with a little laugh, “do ver’ well.” +</p> +<p> +“Oh,” said the cook, patronizingly, “you’re +able for it, Joe.” +</p> +<p> +“I am can try eet,” Salim answered, courteously +bowing, much delighted. “Much ’bliged.” +</p> +<p> +Meantime Tommy had, of quick impulse, +stripped off his jacket and boots. He made a +ball of the jacket and tossed it to his father. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_221'></a>221</span> +</p> +<p> +“What you about, Tommy?” the cook demanded. +“Is you goin’ t’ swim?” +</p> +<p> +Tommy answered with the boots; whereupon +he ran up and down the edge of the pan, and, at +last, slipped like a reluctant dog into the water, +where he made a frothy, ineffectual commotion; +after which he sank. When he came to the surface +Salim Awad hauled him inboard. +</p> +<p> +“You isn’t goin’ t’ try again, is you, Tommy?” +the cook asked. +</p> +<p> +“No, sir.” +</p> +<p> +Salim Awad began to breathe again; his eyes, +too, returned to their normal size, their usual place. +</p> +<p> +“No,” the cook observed. “’Tis wise not to. +You isn’t able for it, lad. Now, you sees what +comes o’ not mindin’ your dad.” +</p> +<p> +The jacket and boots were tossed back. +Tommy resumed the jacket. +</p> +<p> +“Tommy,” said the cook, severely, “isn’t you +got no more sense ’n that?” +</p> +<p> +“Please, sir,” Tommy whispered, “I forgot.” +</p> +<p> +“Oh, <em>did</em> you! <em>Did</em> you forget? I’m thinkin’, +Tommy, I hasn’t been bringin’ of you up very +well.” +</p> +<p> +Tommy stripped himself to his rosy skin. He +wrung the water out of his soggy garments and +with difficulty got into them again. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_222'></a>222</span> +</p> +<p> +“You better be jumpin’ about a bit by times,” +the cook advised, “or you’ll be cotchin’ cold. +An’ your mamma wouldn’t like <em>that</em>,” he concluded, +“if she ever come t’ hear on it.” +</p> +<p> +“Ay, sir; please, sir,” said the boy. +</p> +<p> +They waited in dull patience for the wind to +blow the floe against the coast. +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +It began to snow—a thick fall, by-and-by: +the flakes fine and dry as dust. A woolly curtain +shut coast and far-off sea from view. The wind, +rising still, was charged with stinging frost. It +veered; but it blew sufficiently true to the favorable +direction: the ice still made ponderously for +the shore, reeling in the swell.... The great pan +bearing Salim Awad and Tommy Hand lagged; +it was soon left behind: to leeward the figures of +the skipper, the cook, the first hand, and the +crew turned to shadows—dissolved in the cloud +of snow. The cook’s young son and the love-lorn +peddler from Washington Street alone peopled +a world of ice and water, all black and +white: heaving, confined. They huddled, cowering +from the wind, waiting—helpless, patient: +themselves detached from the world of ice and +water, which clamored round about, unrecognized. +The spirit of each returned: the one to the Cedars +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_223'></a>223</span> +of Lebanon, the other to Lobster Cove; and in +each place there was a mother. In plights like +this the hearts of men and children turn to distant +mothers; for in all the world there is no rest +serene—no rest remembered—like the first rest +the spirits of men know. +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +When dusk began to dye the circumambient +cloud, the pan of ice was close inshore; the shape +of the cliffs—a looming shadow—was vague in +the snow beyond. There was no longer any roar +of surf; the first of the floe, now against the coast, +had smothered the breakers. A voice, coming +faintly into the wind, apprised Tommy Hand +that his father was ashore.... But the pan still +moved sluggishly. +</p> +<p> +Tommy Hand shivered. +</p> +<p> +“Ah, Tom-ee!” Salim Awad said, anxiously. +“Run! Jump! You weel have—what say?—cotch +seek. Ay—cotch thee seek. Eh? R-r-run, +Tom-ee!” +</p> +<p> +“Ay, ay,” Tommy Hand answered. “I’ll be +jumpin’ about a bit, I’m thinkin’, t’ keep warm—as +me father bid me do.” +</p> +<p> +“Queek!” cried Salim, laughing. +</p> +<p> +“Ay,” Tommy muttered; “as me father bid +me do.” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_224'></a>224</span> +</p> +<p> +“Jump, Tom-ee!” Salim clapped his hands. +“Hi, hi! Dance, Tom-ee!” +</p> +<p> +In the beginning Tommy was deliberate and +ponderous; but as his limbs were suppled—and +when his blood ran warm again—the dance +quickened; for Salim Awad slapped strangely +inspiring encouragement, and with droning “la, +la!” and sharp “hi, hi!” excited the boy to mad +leaps—and madder still. “La, la!” and “Hi, +hi!” There was a mystery in it. Tommy leaped +high and fast. “La, la!” and “Hi, hi!” In +response to the strange Eastern song the fisherboy’s +grotesque dance went on.... Came then the +appalling catastrophe: the pan of rotten, brittle +salt-water ice cracked under the lad; and it fell +in two parts, which, in the heave of the sea, at +once drifted wide of each other. The one part +was heavy, commodious; the other a mere unstable +fragment of what the whole had been: +and it was upon the fragment that Salim Awad +and Tommy Hand were left. Instinctively they +sprawled on the ice, which was now overweighted—unbalanced. +Their faces were close; and +as they lay rigid—while the ice wavered and +the water covered it—they looked into each +other’s eyes.... There was, not room for +both. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_225'></a>225</span> +</p> +<p> +“Tom-ee,” Salim Awad gasped; his breath +indrawn, quivering, “I am—mus’—go!” +</p> +<p> +The boy stretched out his hand—an instinctive +movement, the impulse of a brave and generous +heart—to stop the sacrifice. +</p> +<p> +“Hush!” Salim Awad whispered, hurriedly, +lifting a finger to command peace. “I am—for +one queek time—have theenk. Hush, Tom-ee!” +</p> +<p> +Tommy Hand was silent. +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +And Salim Awad heard again the clatter and +evening mutter of Washington Street, children’s +cries and the patter of feet, drifting in from the +soft spring night—heard again the rattle of dice +in the outer room, and the aimless strumming of +the canoun—heard again the voice of Khalil +Khayyat, lifted concerning such as lose at love. +And Salim Awad, staring into a place that was +high and distant, beyond the gaudy, dirty ceiling +of the little back room of Nageeb Fiani’s pastry-shop +near the Battery, saw again the form of +Haleema, Khouri’s star-eyed daughter, floating +in a cloud, compassionate and glorious. “‘The +sun as it sets,’” he thought, in the high words of +Antar, spoken of Abla, his beloved, the daughter +of Malik, when his heart was sore, “‘turns toward +her and says, “Darkness obscures the land, do +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_226'></a>226</span> +thou arise in my absence.” The brilliant moon +calls out to her: “Come forth, for thy face is like +me, when I am in all my glory.” The tamarisk-trees +complain of her in the morn and in the eve, +and say: “Away, thou waning beauty, thou form +of the laurel!” She turns away abashed, and +throws aside her veil, and the roses are scattered +from her soft, fresh cheeks. Graceful is every +limb; slender her waist; love-beaming are her +glances; waving is her form. The lustre of day +sparkles from her forehead, and by the dark +shades of her curling ringlets night itself is driven +away!’”.... They who lose at love? Upon what +quest must the wretched ones go? And Khalil +Khayyat had said that the Thing was to be found +in this place.... Salim Awad’s lips trembled: +because of the loneliness of this death—and because +of the desert, gloomy and infinite, lying +beyond. +</p> +<p> +“Tom-ee,” Salim Awad repeated, smiling +now, “I am—mus’—go. Goo’-bye, Tom-ee!” +</p> +<p> +“No, no!” +</p> +<p> +In this hoarse, gasping protest Salim Awad +perceived rare sweetness. He smiled again—delight, +approval. “Ver’ much ’bliged,” he said, +politely. Then he rolled off into the water.... +</p> +<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_227'></a>227</span></div> +<p> +One night in winter the wind, driving up from +the Battery, whipped a gray, soggy snow past the +door of Nageeb Fiani’s pastry-shop in Washington +Street. The shop was a cosey shelter from +the weather; and in the outer room, now crowded +with early idlers, they were preaching revolution +and the shedding of blood—boastful voices, +raised to the falsetto of shallow passion. Khalil +Khayyat, knowing well that the throne of Abdul-Hamid +would not tremble to the talk of Washington +Street, sat unheeding in the little back room; +and the coal on the narghile was glowing red, +and the coffee was steaming on the round table, +and a cloud of fragrant smoke was in the air. +In the big, black book, lying open before the +poet, were to be found, as always, the thoughts +of Abo Elola Elmoarri. +</p> +<p> +Tanous, the newsboy—the son of Yusef, the +father of Samara, by many called Abosamara—threw +<em>Kawkab Elhorriah</em> on the cook’s +counter. +</p> +<p> +“News of death!” cried he, as he hurried importantly +on. “<em>Kawkab</em>! News of death!” +</p> +<p> +The words caught the ear of Khalil Khayyat. +“News of death?” mused he. “It is a massacre +in Armenia.” He turned again, with a hopeless +sigh, to the big, black book. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_228'></a>228</span> +</p> +<p> +“News of death!” cried Nageeb Fiani, in the +outer room. “What is this?” +</p> +<p> +The death of Salim Awad: being communicated, +as the editor made known, by one who knew, +and had so informed an important person at St. +John’s, who had despatched the news south +from that far place to Washington Street.... And +when Nageeb Fiani had learned the manner of +the death of Salim Awad, he made haste to +Khalil Khayyat, holding <em>Kawkab Elhorriah</em> open +in his, hand. +</p> +<p> +“There is news of death, O Khalil!” said he. +</p> +<p> +“Ah,” Khayyat answered, with his long finger +marking the place in the big, black book, “there +has been a massacre in Armenia. God will yet +punish the murderer.” +</p> +<p> +“No, Khalil.” +</p> +<p> +Khayyat looked up in alarm. “The Turks +have not shed blood in Beirut?” +</p> +<p> +“No, Khalil.” +</p> +<p> +“Not so? Ah, then the mother of Shishim +has been cast into prison because of the sedition +uttered by her son in this place; and she has there +died.” +</p> +<p> +“No, Khalil.” +</p> +<p> +“Nageeb,” Khayyat demanded, quietly, “of +whom is this sad news spoken?” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_229'></a>229</span> +</p> +<p> +“The news is from the north.” +</p> +<p> +Khayyat closed the book. He sipped his coffee, +touched the coal on the narghile and puffed it +to a glow, contemplated the gaudy wall-paper, +watched a spider pursue a patient course toward +the ceiling; at last opened the big, black book, and +began to turn the leaves with aimless, nervous +fingers. Nageeb stood waiting for the poet to +speak; and in the doorway, beyond, the people +from the outer room had gathered, waiting also +for words to fall from the lips of this man; for +the moment was great, and the poet was great. +</p> +<p> +“Salim Awad,” Khayyat muttered, “is dead.” +</p> +<p> +“Salim is dead. He died that a little one +might live.” +</p> +<p> +“That a little one might live?” +</p> +<p> +“Even so, Khalil—that a child might have +life.” +</p> +<p> +Khayyat smiled. “The quest is ended,” he +said. “It is well that Salim is dead.” +</p> +<p> +It is well? The people marvelled that Khalil +Khayyat should have spoken these cruel words. +It is well? And Khalil Khayyat had said so? +</p> +<p> +“That Salim should die in the cold water?” +Nageeb Fiani protested. +</p> +<p> +“That Salim should die—the death that he +did. It is well.” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_230'></a>230</span> +</p> +<p> +The word was soon to be spoken; out of the +mind and heart of Khalil Khayyat, the poet, +great wisdom would appear. There was a +crowding at the door: the people pressed closer +that no shade of meaning might be lost; the dark +faces turned yet more eager; the silence deepened, +until the muffled rattle of trucks, lumbering +through the snowy night, and the roar of the +Elevated train were plain to be heard. What +would the poet say? What word of eternal +truth would he speak? +</p> +<p> +“It is well?” Nageeb Fiani whispered. +</p> +<p> +“It is well.” +</p> +<p> +The time was not yet come. The people still +crowded, still shuffled—still breathed. The poet +waited, having the patience of poets. +</p> +<p> +“Tell us, O Khalil!” Nageeb Fiani implored. +</p> +<p> +“They who lose at love,” said Khalil Khayyat, +fingering the leaves of the big, black book, “must +patiently seek some high death.” +</p> +<p> +Then the people knew, beyond peradventure, +that Khalil Khayyat was indeed a great poet. +</p> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_231'></a>231</span><a name='chIX' id='chIX'></a>IX—THE REVOLUTION AT SATAN’S TRAP</h2> +<p> +Jehoshaphat Rudd of Satan’s Trap was +shy—able-bodied, to be sure, if a gigantic +frame means anything, and mature, if a family +of nine is competent evidence, but still as shy as +a child. Moreover, he had the sad habit of anxiety: +whence tense eyelids, an absent, poignant +gaze, a perpetual pucker between the brows. +His face was brown and big, framed in tawny, +soft hair and beard, and spread with a delicate +web of wrinkles, spun by the weather—a round +countenance, simple, kindly, apathetic. The +wind had inflamed the whites of his eyes and +turned the rims blood red; but the wells in the +midst were deep and clear and cool. Reserve, +courageous and methodical diligence at the fishing, +a quick, tremulous concern upon salutation—by +these signs the folk of his harbor had long +ago been persuaded that he was a fool; and a fool +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_232'></a>232</span> +he was, according to the convention of the Newfoundland +outports: a shy, dull fellow, whose +interests were confined to his punt, his gear, the +grounds off the Tombstone, and the bellies of his +young ones. He had no part with the disputatious +of Satan’s Trap: no voice, for example, in the +rancorous discussions of the purposes and ways +of the Lord God Almighty, believing the purposes +to be wise and kind, and the ways the Lord’s own +business. He was shy, anxious, and preoccupied; +wherefore he was called a fool, and made no answer: +for doubtless he <em>was</em> a fool. And what did +it matter? He would fare neither better nor worse. +</p> +<p> +Nor would Jehoshaphat wag a tongue with the +public-spirited men of Satan’s Trap: the times +and the customs had no interest, no significance, +for him; he was troubled with his own concerns. +Old John Wull, the trader, with whom (and no +other) the folk might barter their fish, personified +all the abuses, as a matter of course. But— +</p> +<p> +“I ’low I’m too busy t’ think,” Jehoshaphat +would reply, uneasily. “I’m too busy. I—I—why, +I got t’ tend my <em>fish!</em>” +</p> +<p> +This was the quality of his folly. +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +It chanced one summer dawn, however, when +the sky was flushed with tender light, and the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_233'></a>233</span> +shadows were trooping westward, and the sea +was placid, that the punts of Timothy Yule and +Jehoshaphat Rudd went side by side to the Tombstone +grounds. It was dim and very still upon +the water, and solemn, too, in that indifferent +vastness between the gloom and the rosy, swelling +light. Satan’s Trap lay behind in the shelter +and shadow of great hills laid waste—a lean, impoverished, +listless home of men. +</p> +<p> +“You dunderhead!” Timothy Yule assured +Jehoshaphat. “He’ve been robbin’ you.” +</p> +<p> +“Maybe,” said Jehoshaphat, listlessly. “I been +givin’ the back kitchen a coat o’ lime, an’ I isn’t +had no time t’ give t’ thinkin’.” +</p> +<p> +“An’ he’ve been robbin’ this harbor for forty +year.” +</p> +<p> +“Dear man!” Jehoshaphat exclaimed, in dull +surprise. “Have he told you that?” +</p> +<p> +“Told me!” cried Timothy. “No,” he added, +with bitter restraint; “he’ve not.” +</p> +<p> +Jehoshaphat was puzzled. “Then,” said he, +“how come you t’ know?” +</p> +<p> +“Why, they <em>says</em> so.” +</p> +<p> +Jehoshaphat’s reply was gently spoken, a compassionate +rebuke. “An I was you, Timothy,” +said he, “I wouldn’t be harsh in judgment. ’Tisn’t +quite Christian.” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_234'></a>234</span> +</p> +<p> +“My God!” ejaculated the disgusted Timothy. +</p> +<p> +After that they pulled in silence for a time. +Jehoshaphat’s face was averted, and Timothy +was aware of having, in a moment of impatience, +not only committed a strategic indiscretion, but +of having betrayed his innermost habit of profanity. +The light grew and widened and yellowed; +the cottages of Satan’s Trap took definite +outline, the hills their ancient form, the sea +its familiar aspect. Sea and sky and distant +rock were wide awake and companionably smiling. +The earth was blue and green and yellow, +a glittering place. +</p> +<p> +“Look you! Jehoshaphat,” Timothy demanded; +“is you in debt?” +</p> +<p> +“I is.” +</p> +<p> +“An’ is you ever been out o’ debt?” +</p> +<p> +“I isn’t.” +</p> +<p> +“How come you t’ know?” +</p> +<p> +“Why,” Jehoshaphat explained, “Mister Wull +<em>told</em> me so. An’ whatever,” he qualified, “father +was in debt when he died, an’ Mister Wull told +me I ought t’ pay. Father was <em>my</em> father,” +Jehoshaphat argued, “an’ I ’lowed I <em>would</em> pay. +For,” he concluded, “’twas right.” +</p> +<p> +“Is he ever give you an account?” +</p> +<p> +“Well, no—no, he haven’t. But it wouldn’t +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_235'></a>235</span> +do no good, for I’ve no learnin’, an’ can’t +read.” +</p> +<p> +“No,” Timothy burst out, “an’ he isn’t give +nobody no accounts.” +</p> +<p> +“Well,” Jehoshaphat apologized, “he’ve a good +deal on his mind, lookin’ out for the wants of +us folk. He’ve a <em>wonderful</em> lot o’ brain labor. +He’ve all them letters t’ write t’ St. John’s, an’ +he’ve got a power of ’rithmetic t’ do, an’ he’ve got +the writin’ in them big books t’ trouble un, an’—” +</p> +<p> +Timothy sneered. +</p> +<p> +“Ah, well,” sighed Jehoshaphat, “an I was +you, Timothy, I wouldn’t be harsh in judgment.” +</p> +<p> +Timothy laughed uproariously. +</p> +<p> +“Not harsh,” Jehoshaphat repeated, quietly—“not +in judgment.” +</p> +<p> +“Damn un!” Timothy cursed between his +teeth. “The greedy squid, the devil-fish’s spawn, +with his garden an’ his sheep an’ his cow! <em>You</em> +got a cow, Jehoshaphat? <em>You</em> got turnips an’ +carrots? <em>You</em> got ol’ Bill Lutt t’ gather soil, an’ +plant, an’ dig, an’ weed, while you smokes plug-cut +in the sunshine? Where’s <em>your</em> garden, Jehoshaphat? +Where’s <em>your</em> onions? The green +lumpfish! An’ where do he get his onions, an’ +where do he get his soup, an’ where do he get his +cheese an’ raisins? ’Tis out o’ you an’ me an’ +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_236'></a>236</span> +all the other poor folk o’ Satan’s Trap. ’Tis +from the fish, an’ <em>he</em> never cast a line. ’Tis +from the fish that we takes from the grounds while +he squats like a lobster in the red house an’ in +the shop. An’ he gives less for the fish ’n he +gets, an’ he gets more for the goods an’ grub ’n +he gives. The thief, the robber, the whale’s +pup! Is you able, Jehoshaphat, t’ have the doctor +from Sniffle’s Arm for <em>your</em> woman! Is <em>you</em> +able t’ feed <em>your</em> kids with cow’s milk an’ baby-food?” +</p> +<p> +Jehoshaphat mildly protested that he had not +known the necessity. +</p> +<p> +“An’ what,” Timothy proceeded, “is you ever +got from the grounds but rheumatiz an’ salt-water +sores?” +</p> +<p> +“I got enough t’ eat,” said Jehoshaphat. +</p> +<p> +Timothy was scornful. +</p> +<p> +“Well,” Jehoshaphat argued, in defence of +himself, “the world have been goin’ for’ard a +wonderful long time at Satan’s Trap, an’ nobody +else haven’t got no more’n just enough.” +</p> +<p> +“Enough!” Timothy fumed. “’Tis kind o’ +the Satan’s Trap trader t’ give you that! <em>I’ll</em> tell +un,” he exploded; “I’ll give un a piece o’ my +mind afore I dies.” +</p> +<p> +“Don’t!” Jehoshaphat pleaded. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_237'></a>237</span> +</p> +<p> +Timothy snorted his indignation. +</p> +<p> +“I wouldn’t be rash,” said Jehoshaphat. +“Maybe,” he warned, “he’d not take your fish +no more. An’ maybe he’d close the shop an’ go +away.” +</p> +<p> +“Jus’ you wait,” said Timothy. +</p> +<p> +“Don’t you do it, lad!” Jehoshaphat begged. +“’Twould make such a wonderful fuss in the +world!” +</p> +<p> +“An’ would you think o’ that?” +</p> +<p> +“I isn’t got <em>time</em> t’ think,” Jehoshaphat complained. +“I’m busy. I ’low I got my fish t’ cotch +an’ cure. I isn’t got time. I—I—I’m too busy.” +</p> +<p> +They were on the grounds. The day had +broken, a blue, serene day, knowing no disquietude. +They cast their grapnels overside, and +they fished until the shadows had fled around the +world and were hurrying out of the east. And +they reeled their lines, and stowed the fish, and +patiently pulled toward the harbor tickler, talking +not at all of the Satan’s Trap trader, but only of +certain agreeable expectations which the young +Timothy had been informed he might entertain +with reasonable certainty. +</p> +<p> +“I ’low,” said Jehoshaphat, when they were +within the harbor, “I understand. I got the hang +of it,” he repeated, with a little smile, “now.” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_238'></a>238</span> +</p> +<p> +“Of what?” Timothy wondered. +</p> +<p> +“Well,” Jehoshaphat explained, “’tis your +first.” +</p> +<p> +This was a sufficient explanation of Timothy’s +discontent. Jehoshaphat remembered that he, +too, had been troubled, fifteen years ago, when +the first of the nine had brought the future to his +attention. He was more at ease when this enlightenment +came. +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +Old John Wull was a gray, lean little widower, +with a bald head, bowed legs, a wide, straight, +thin-lipped mouth, and shaven, ashy cheeks. His +eyes were young enough, blue and strong and +quick, often peering masterfully through the +bushy brows, which he could let drop like a curtain. +In contrast with the rugged hills and +illimitable sea and stout men of Satan’s Trap, his +body was withered and contemptibly diminutive. +His premises occupied a point of shore within the +harbor—a wharf, a storehouse, a shop, a red +dwelling, broad drying-flakes, and a group of +out-buildings, all of which were self-sufficient and +proud, and looked askance at the cottages that +lined the harbor shore and strayed upon the hills +beyond. +</p> +<p> +It was his business to supply the needs of the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_239'></a>239</span> +folk in exchange for the fish they took from the +sea—the barest need, the whole of the catch. +Upon this he insisted, because he conscientiously +believed, in his own way, that upon the fruits of +toil commercial enterprise should feed to satiety, +and cast the peelings and cores into the back +yard for the folk to nose like swine. +</p> +<p> +Thus he was accustomed to allow the fifty +illiterate, credulous families of Satan’s Trap +sufficient to keep them warm and to quiet their +stomachs, but no more; for, he complained: +“Isn’t they got enough on their backs?” and, +“Isn’t they got enough t’ eat?” and, “Lord!” +said he, “they’ll be wantin’ figs an’ joolry next.” +</p> +<p> +There were times when he trembled for the +fortune he had gathered in this way—in years +when there were no fish, and he must feed the +men and women and human litters of the Trap +for nothing at all, through which he was courageous, +if niggardly. When the folk complained +against him, he wondered, with a righteous wag +of the head, what would become of them if he +should vanish with his property and leave them +to fend for themselves. Sometimes he reminded +them of this possibility; and then they got afraid, +and thought of their young ones, and begged him +to forget their complaint. His only disquietude was +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_240'></a>240</span> +the fear of hell: whereby he was led to +pay the wage of a succession of parsons, if they +preached comforting doctrine and blue-pencilled +the needle’s eye from the Testament; but not +otherwise. By some wayward, compelling sense +of moral obligation, he paid the school-teacher, +invariably, generously, so that the little folk of +Satan’s Trap might learn to read and write in +the winter months. ’Rithmetic he condemned, +but tolerated, as being some part of that unholy, +imperative thing called l’arnin’; but he had no +feeling against readin’ and writin’. +</p> +<p> +There was no other trader within thirty miles. +</p> +<p> +“They’ll trade with me,” John Wull would +say to himself, and be comforted, “or they’ll +starve.” +</p> +<p> +It was literally true. +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +In that winter certain gigantic forces, with +which old John Wull had nothing whatever to +do, were inscrutably passionate. They went their +way, in some vast, appalling quarrel, indifferent +to the consequences. John Wull’s soul, money, +philosophy, the hopes of Satan’s Trap, the various +agonies of the young, were insignificant. +Currents and winds and frost had no knowledge +of them. It was a late season: the days were +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_241'></a>241</span> +gray and bitter, the air was frosty, the snow lay +crisp and deep in the valleys, the harbor water +was frozen. Long after the time for blue winds +and yellow hills the world was still sullen and +white. Easterly gales, blowing long and strong, +swept the far outer sea of drift-ice—drove it in +upon the land, pans and bergs, and heaped it +against the cliffs. There was no safe exit from +Satan’s Trap. The folk were shut in by ice and +an impassable wilderness. This was not by the +power or contriving of John Wull: the old man had +nothing to do with it; but he compelled the season, +impiously, it may be, into conspiracy with +him. By-and-by, in the cottages, the store of +food, which had seemed sufficient when the first +snow flew, was exhausted. The flour-barrels of +Satan’s Trap were empty. Full barrels were in +the storehouse of John Wull, but in no other +place. So it chanced that one day, in a swirling +fall of snow, Jehoshaphat Rudd came across the +harbor with a dog and a sled. +</p> +<p> +John Wull, from the little office at the back of +the shop, where it was warm and still, watched +the fisherman breast the white wind. +</p> +<p> +“Mister Wull,” said Jehoshaphat, when he +stood in the office, “I ’low I’ll be havin’ another +barrel o’ flour.” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_242'></a>242</span> +</p> +<p> +Wull frowned. +</p> +<p> +“Ay,” Jehoshaphat repeated, perplexed; “another +barrel.” +</p> +<p> +Wull pursed his lips. +</p> +<p> +“O’ flour,” said Jehoshaphat, staring. +</p> +<p> +The trader drummed on the desk and gazed +out of the window. He seemed to forget that +Jehoshaphat Rudd stood waiting. Jehoshaphat +felt awkward and out of place; he smoothed his +tawny beard, cracked his fingers, scratched his +head, shifted from one foot to the other. Some +wonder troubled him, then some strange alarm. +He had never before realized that the lives of his +young were in the keeping of this man. +</p> +<p> +“Flour,” he ventured, weakly—“one barrel.” +</p> +<p> +Wull turned. “It’s gone up,” said he. +</p> +<p> +“Have it, now!” Jehoshaphat exclaimed. “I +’lowed last fall, when I paid eight,” he proceeded, +“that she’d clumb as high as she could get +’ithout fallin’. But she’ve gone up, says you? +Dear man!” +</p> +<p> +“Sky high,” said the trader. +</p> +<p> +“Dear man!” +</p> +<p> +The stove was serene and of good conscience. +It labored joyously in response to the clean-souled +wind. For a moment, while the trader +watched the snow through his bushy brows and +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_243'></a>243</span> +Jehoshaphat Rudd hopelessly scratched his head, +its hearty, honest roar was the only voice lifted +in the little office at the back of John Wull’s +shop. +</p> +<p> +“An’ why?” Jehoshaphat timidly asked. +</p> +<p> +“Scarcity.” +</p> +<p> +“Oh,” said Jehoshaphat, as though he understood. +He paused. “Isn’t you got as much +as you <em>had?</em>” he inquired. +</p> +<p> +The trader nodded. +</p> +<p> +“Isn’t you got enough in the storehouse t’ last +till the mail-boat runs?” +</p> +<p> +“Plenty, thank God!” +</p> +<p> +“Scarcity,” Jehoshaphat mused. “Mm-m-m! +Oh, I <em>sees</em>,” he added, vacantly. “Well, Mister +Wull,” he sighed, “I ’low I’ll take one of Early +Rose an’ pay the rise.” +</p> +<p> +Wull whistled absently. +</p> +<p> +“Early Rose,” Jehoshaphat repeated, with a +quick, keen glance of alarm. +</p> +<p> +The trader frowned. +</p> +<p> +“Rose,” Jehoshaphat muttered. He licked +his lips. “Of Early,” he reiterated, in a gasp, +“Rose.” +</p> +<p> +“All right, Jehoshaphat.” +</p> +<p> +Down came the big key from the nail. Jehoshaphat’s +round face beamed. The trader +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_244'></a>244</span> +slapped his ledger shut, moved toward the door, +but stopped dead, and gazed out of the window, +while his brows fell over his eyes, and he fingered +the big key. +</p> +<p> +“Gone up t’ eighteen,” said he, without turning. +</p> +<p> +Jehoshaphat stared aghast. +</p> +<p> +“Wonderful high for flour,” the trader continued, +in apologetic explanation; “but flour’s +wonderful scarce.” +</p> +<p> +“Tisn’t <em>right!</em>” Jehoshaphat declared. “Eighteen +dollars a barrel for Early Rose? ’Tisn’t +right!” +</p> +<p> +The key was restored to the nail. +</p> +<p> +“I can’t pay it, Mister Wull. No, no, man, +I can’t do it. Eighteen! Mercy o’ God! ’Tisn’t +right! ’Tis too <em>much</em> for Early Rose.” +</p> +<p> +The trader wheeled. +</p> +<p> +“An’ I <em>won’t</em> pay it,” said Jehoshaphat. +</p> +<p> +“You don’t have to,” was the placid reply. +</p> +<p> +Jehoshaphat started. Alarm—a sudden vision +of his children—quieted his indignation. “But, +Mister Wull, sir,” he pleaded, “I got t’ have it. +I—why—I just <em>got</em> t’ have it!” +</p> +<p> +The trader was unmoved. +</p> +<p> +“Eighteen!” cried Jehoshaphat, flushing. +“Mercy o’ God! I says ’tisn’t right.” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_245'></a>245</span> +</p> +<p> +“Tis the price.” +</p> +<p> +“’Tisn’t right!” +</p> +<p> +Wull’s eyes were how flashing. His lips were +drawn thin over his teeth. His brows had fallen +again. From the ambush they made he glared +at Jehoshaphat. +</p> +<p> +“I say,” said he, in a passionless voice, “that +the price o’ flour at Satan’s Trap is this day +eighteen.” +</p> +<p> +Jehoshaphat was in woful perplexity. +</p> +<p> +“Eighteen,” snapped Wull. “Hear me?” +</p> +<p> +They looked into each other’s eyes. Outside +the storm raged, a clean, frank passion; for nature +is a fair and honest foe. In the little office +at the back of John Wull’s shop the withered +body of the trader shook with vicious anger. +Jehoshaphat’s round, brown, simple face was +gloriously flushed; his head was thrown back, +his shoulders were squared, his eyes were sure +and fearless. +</p> +<p> +“’Tis robbery!” he burst out. +</p> +<p> +Wull’s wrath exploded. “You bay-noddy!” +he began; “you pig of a punt-fisherman; you +penniless, ragged fool; you man without a copper; +you sore-handed idiot! What you whinin’ about? +What right <em>you</em> got t’ yelp in my office?” +</p> +<p> +Of habit Jehoshaphat quailed. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_246'></a>246</span> +</p> +<p> +“If you don’t want my flour,” roared Wull, +fetching the counter a thwack with his white fist, +“leave it be! ’Tis mine, isn’t it? I <em>paid</em> for it. +I <em>got</em> it. There’s a law in this land, you pauper, +that <em>says</em> so. There’s a law. Hear me? There’s +a law, Mine, mine!” he cried, in a frenzy, lifting +his lean arms. “What I got is mine. I’ll eat +it,” he fumed, “or I’ll feed my pigs with it, or +I’ll spill it for the fishes. They isn’t no law t’ +make me sell t’ <em>you</em>. An’ you’ll pay what I’m +askin’, or you’ll starve.” +</p> +<p> +“You wouldn’t do that, sir,” Jehoshaphat +gently protested. “Oh no—<em>no</em>! Ah, now, you +wouldn’t do that. You wouldn’t throw it t’ the +fishes, would you? Not flour! ’Twould be a +sinful waste.” +</p> +<p> +“Tis my right.” +</p> +<p> +“Ay,’ Mister Wull,” Jehoshaphat argued, with +a little smile, “’tis yours, I’ll admit; but we been +sort o’ dependin’ on you t’ lay in enough t’ get +us through the winter.” +</p> +<p> +WUll’s response was instant and angry. “Get +you out o’ my shop,” said he, “an’ come back +with a civil tongue!” +</p> +<p> +“I’ll go, Mister Wull,” said Jehoshaphat, +quietly, picking at a thread in his faded cap. +“I’ll go. Ay, I’ll go. But—I got t’ have the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_247'></a>247</span> +flour. I—I—just <em>got</em> to. But I won’t pay,” he +concluded, “no eighteen dollars a barrel.” +</p> +<p> +The trader laughed. +</p> +<p> +“For,” said Jehoshaphat, “’tisn’t right.” +</p> +<p> +Jehoshaphat went home without the flour, +complaining of the injustice. +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +Jehoshaphat Rudd would have no laughter in +the house, no weeping, no questions, no noise of +play. For two days he sat brooding by the +kitchen fire. His past of toil and unfailing recompense, +the tranquil routine of life, was +strangely like a dream, far off, half forgot. As a +reality it had vanished. Hitherto there had been +no future; there was now no past, no ground for +expectation. He must, at least, take time to +think, have courage to judge, the will to retaliate. +It was more important, more needful, to sit in +thought, with idle hands, than to mend the rent +in his herring seine. He was mystified and deeply +troubled. +</p> +<p> +Sometimes by day Jehoshaphat strode to the +window and looked out over the harbor ice to +the point of shore where stood the storehouse and +shop and red dwelling of old John Wull. By +night he drew close to the fire, and there sat +with his face in his hands; nor would he go +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_248'></a>248</span> +to bed, nor would he speak, nor would he +move. +</p> +<p> +In the night of the third day the children awoke +and cried for food. Jehoshaphat rose from his +chair, and stood shaking, with breath suspended, +hands clinched, eyes wide. He heard their +mother rise and go crooning from cot to cot. +Presently the noise was hushed: sobs turned to +whimpers, and whimpers to plaintive whispers, +and these complaints to silence. The house was +still; but Jehoshaphat seemed all the while to hear +the children crying in the little rooms above, +He began to pace the floor, back and forth, back +and forth, now slow, now in a fury, now with listless +tread. And because his children had cried +for food in the night the heart of Jehoshaphat +Rudd was changed. From the passion of those +hours, at dawn, he emerged serene, and went to +bed. +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +At noon of that day Jehoshaphat Rudd was +in the little office at the back of the shop. John +Wull was alone, perched on a high stool at the +desk, a pen in hand, a huge book open before +him. +</p> +<p> +“I’m come, sir,” said Jehoshaphat, “for the +barrel o’ flour.” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_249'></a>249</span> +</p> +<p> +The trader gave him no attention. +</p> +<p> +“I’m come, sir,” Jehoshaphat repeated, his +voice rising a little, “for the flour.” +</p> +<p> +The trader dipped his pen in ink. +</p> +<p> +“I says, sir,” said Jehoshaphat, laying a hand +with some passion upon the counter, “that I’m +come for that there barrel o’ flour.” +</p> +<p> +“An’ I s’pose,” the trader softly inquired, +eying the page of his ledger more closely, “that +you thinks you’ll get it, eh?” +</p> +<p> +“Ay, sir.” +</p> +<p> +Wull dipped his pen and scratched away. +</p> +<p> +“Mister Wull!” +</p> +<p> +The trader turned a leaf. +</p> +<p> +“Mister Wull,” Jehoshaphat cried, angrily, “I +wants flour. Is you gone deaf overnight?” +</p> +<p> +Impertinent question and tone of voice made +old John Wull wheel on the stool. In the forty +years he had traded at Satan’s Trap he had never +before met with impertinence that was not +timidly offered. He bent a scowling face upon +Jehoshaphat. “An’ you thinks,” said he, “that +you’ll get it?” +</p> +<p> +“I does.” +</p> +<p> +“Oh, you does, does you?” +</p> +<p> +Jehoshaphat nodded. +</p> +<p> +“It all depends,” said Wull. “You’re wonderful deep +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_250'></a>250</span> +in debt, Jehoshaphat.” The trader +had now command of himself. “I been lookin’ +up your account,” he went on, softly. “You’re so +wonderful far behind, Jehoshaphat, on account +o’ high livin’ an’ Christmas presents, that I been +thinkin’ I might do the business a injury by givin’ +you more credit. I can’t think o’ <em>myself</em>, Jehoshaphat, +in this matter. ’Tis a <em>business</em> matter; +an’ I got t’ think o’ the business. You sees, +Jehoshaphat, eighteen dollars more credit—” +</p> +<p> +“Eight,” Jehoshaphat corrected. +</p> +<p> +“Eighteen,” the trader insisted. +</p> +<p> +Jehoshaphat said nothing, nor did his face express +feeling. He was looking stolidly at the +big key of the storehouse. +</p> +<p> +“The flour depends,” Wull proceeded, after +a thoughtful pause, through which he had regarded +the gigantic Jehoshaphat with startled curiosity, +“on what I thinks the business will stand in +the way o’ givin’ more credit t’ you.” +</p> +<p> +“No, sir,” said Jehoshaphat. +</p> +<p> +Wull put down his pen, slipped from the high +stool, and came close to Jehoshaphat. He was +mechanical and slow in these movements, as +though all at once perplexed, given some new +view, which disclosed many and strange possibilities. +For a moment he leaned against the counter, legs crossed, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_251'></a>251</span> +staring at the floor, with his +long, scrawny right hand smoothing his cheek +and chin. It was quiet in the office, and warm, +and well-disposed, and sunlight came in at the +window. +</p> +<p> +Soon the trader stirred, as though awakening. +“You was sayin’ eight, wasn’t you?” he asked, +without looking up. +</p> +<p> +“Eight, sir.” +</p> +<p> +The trader pondered this. “An’ how,” he +inquired, at last, “was you makin’ that out?” +</p> +<p> +“Tis a fair price.” +</p> +<p> +Wull smoothed his cheek and chin. “Ah!” +he murmured. He mused, staring at the floor, +his restless fingers beating a tattoo on his teeth. +He had turned woebegone and very pale. “Jehoshaphat,” +he asked, turning upon the man, +“would you mind tellin’ me just how you’re +’lowin’ t’ get my flour against my will?” +</p> +<p> +Jehoshaphat looked away. +</p> +<p> +“I’d like t’ know,” said Wull, “if you wouldn’t +mind tellin’ me.” +</p> +<p> +“No,” Jehoshaphat answered. “No, Mister +Wull—I wouldn’t mind tellin’.” +</p> +<p> +“Then,” Wull demanded, “how?” +</p> +<p> +“Mister Wull,” Jehoshaphat explained, “I’m +a bigger man than you.” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_252'></a>252</span> +</p> +<p> +It was very quiet in the office. The wind had +gone down in the night, the wood in the stove was +burned to glowing coals. It was very, very +still in old John Wull’s office at the back of the +shop, and old John Wull turned away, and went +absently to the desk, where he fingered the +leaves of his ledger, and dipped his pen in ink, +but did not write. There was a broad window +over the desk, looking out upon the harbor; +through this, blankly, he watched the children at +play on the ice, but did not see them. By-and-by, +when he had closed the book and put the +desk in order, he came back to the counter, leaned +against it, crossed his legs, began to smooth his +chin, while he mused, staring at the square of sunlight +on the floor. Jehoshaphat could not look +at him. The old man’s face was so gray and +drawn, so empty of pride and power, his hand +so thin and unsteady, his eyes so dull, so deep +in troubled shadows, that Jehoshaphat’s heart +ached. He wished that the world had gone on +in peace, that the evil practices of the great were +still hid from his knowledge, that there had been +no vision, no call to revolution; he rebelled against +the obligation upon him, though it had come to +him as a thing that was holy. He regretted his +power, had shame, indeed, because of the ease +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_253'></a>253</span> +with which the mighty could be put down. He +felt that he must be generous, tender, that he +must not misuse his strength. +</p> +<p> +The patch of yellow light had perceptibly +moved before the trader spoke. “Jehoshaphat,” +he asked, “you know much about law?” +</p> +<p> +“Well, no, Mister Wull,” Jehoshaphat answered, +with simple candor; “not <em>too</em> much.” +</p> +<p> +“The law will put you in jail for this.” +</p> +<p> +Constables and jails were like superstitious +terrors to Jehoshaphat. He had never set eyes +on the brass buttons and stone walls of the law. +</p> +<p> +“Oh no—<em>no</em>!” he protested. “He wouldn’t! +Not in <em>jail</em>!” +</p> +<p> +“The law,” Wull warned, with grim delight, +“will put you in jail.” +</p> +<p> +“He <em>couldn’t</em>!” Jehoshaphat complained. “As I +takes it, the law sees fair play atween men. That’s +what he was <em>made</em> for. I ’low he ought t’ put you +in jail for raisin’ the price o’ flour t’ eighteen; but +not me—not for what I’m bound t’ do, Mister +Wull, law or no law, as God lives! ’Twouldn’t +be right, sir, if he put me in jail for that.” +</p> +<p> +“The law will.” +</p> +<p> +“But,” Jehoshaphat still persisted, doggedly, +“’twouldn’t be <em>right</em>!’ +</p> +<p> +The trader fell into a muse. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_254'></a>254</span> +</p> +<p> +“I’m come,” Jehoshaphat reminded him, “for +the flour.” +</p> +<p> +“You can’t have it.” +</p> +<p> +“Oh, dear!” Jehoshaphat sighed. “My, my! +Pshaw! I ’low, then, us’ll just have t’ <em>take</em> it.” +</p> +<p> +Jehoshaphat went to the door of the shop. +It was cold and gloomy in the shop. He opened +the door. The public of Satan’s Trap, in the +persons of ten men of the place, fathers of families +(with the exception of Timothy Yule, who had +qualified upon his expectations), trooped over the +greasy floor, their breath cloudy in the frosty air, +and crowded into the little office, in the wake of +Jehoshaphat Rudd. They had the gravity of +mien, the set faces, the compassionate eyes, the +merciless purpose, of a jury. The shuffling subsided. +It was once more quiet in the little office. +Timothy Yule’s hatred got the better of his sense +of propriety: he laughed, but the laugh expired +suddenly, for Jehoshaphat Rudd’s hand fell with +unmistakable meaning upon his shoulder. +</p> +<p> +John Wull faced them. +</p> +<p> +“I ’low, Mister Wull,” said Jehoshaphat, diffidently, +“that we wants the storehouse key.” +</p> +<p> +The trader put the key in his pocket. +</p> +<p> +“The key,” Jehoshaphat objected; “we wants +that there key.” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_255'></a>255</span> +</p> +<p> +“By the Almighty!” old John Wull snarled, +“you’ll all go t’ jail for this, if they’s a law in +Newfoundland.” +</p> +<p> +The threat was ignored. +</p> +<p> +“Don’t hurt un, lads,” Jehoshaphat cautioned; +“for he’s so wonderful tender. He’ve not been +bred the way <em>we</em> was. He’s wonderful old an’ +lean an’ brittle,” he added, gently; “so I ’low +we’d best be careful.” +</p> +<p> +John Wull’s resistance was merely technical. +</p> +<p> +“Now, Mister Wull,” said Jehoshaphat, when +the big key was in his hand and the body of the +trader had been tenderly deposited in his chair +by the stove, “don’t you go an’ fret. We isn’t +the thieves that break in an’ steal nor the moths +that go an’ corrupt. We isn’t robbers, an’ we +isn’t mean men. We’re the public,” he explained, +impressively, “o’ Satan’s Trap. We got +together, Mister Wull,” he continued, feeling +some delight in the oratory which had been thrust +upon him, “an’ we ’lowed that flour was worth +about eight; but we’ll pay nine, for we got thinkin’ +that if flour goes up an’ down, accordin’ t’ the +will o’ God, it ought t’ go up now, if ever, the +will o’ God bein’ a mystery, anyhow. We don’t +want you t’ close up the shop an’ go away, after +this, Mister Wull; for we got t’ have you, or some +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_256'></a>256</span> +one like you, t’ do what you been doin’, so as we +can have minds free o’ care for the fishin’. If +they was anybody at Satan’s Trap that could read +an’ write like you, an’ knowed about money an’ +prices—if they was anybody like that at Satan’s +Trap, willin’ t’ do woman’s work, which I doubts, +we wouldn’t care whether you went or stayed; +but they isn’t, an’ we can’t do ’ithout you. So +don’t you fret,” Jehoshaphat concluded. “You +set right there by the fire in this little office o’ +yours. Tom Lower’ll put more billets on the +fire for you, an’ you’ll be wonderful comfortable +till we gets through. I’ll see that account is +kep’ by Tim Yule of all we takes. You can put +it on the books just when you likes. No hurry, +Mister Wull—no hurry. The prices will be +them that held in the fall o’ the year, ’cept flour, +which is gone up t’ nine by the barrel. An’, ah, +now, Mister Wull,” Jehoshaphat pleaded, “don’t +you have no hard feelin’. ’Twouldn’t be right; +We’re the public; so <em>please</em> don’t you go an’ have +no hard feelin’.” +</p> +<p> +The trader would say nothing. +</p> +<p> +“Now, lads,” said Jehoshaphat, “us’ll go.” +In the storehouse there were two interruptions +to the transaction of business in an orderly +fashion. Tom Lower, who was a lazy fellow and +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_257'></a>257</span> +wasteful, as Jehoshaphat knew, demanded thirty +pounds of pork, and Jehoshaphat knocked him +down. Timothy Yule, the anarchist, proposed +to sack the place, and him Jehoshaphat knocked +down twice. There was no further difficulty. +</p> +<p> +“Now, Mister Wull,” said Jehoshaphat, as he +laid the key and the account on the trader’s +desk, “the public o’ Satan’s Trap is wonderful +sorry; but the thing had t’ be done.” +</p> +<p> +The trader would not look up. +</p> +<p> +“It makes such a wonderful fuss in the world,” +Jehoshaphat complained, “that the crew hadn’t +no love for the job. But it—it—it jus’ had t’ be +done.” +</p> +<p> +Old John Wull scowled. +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +For a long time, if days may be long, Jehoshaphat +Rudd lived in the fear of constables and +jails, which were the law, to be commanded by +the wealth of old John Wull; and for the self-same +period—the days being longer because of the +impatience of hate—old John Wull lived in expectation +of his revenge. Jehoshaphat Rudd +lowed he’d stand by, anyhow, an’ <em>go</em> t’ jail, if +’twas needful t’ maintain the rights o’ man. Ay, +<em>he’d</em> go t’ jail, an’ be whipped an’ starved, as the +imagination promised, but he’d be jiggered if +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_258'></a>258</span> +he’d “<em>’pologize</em>.” Old John Wull kept grim +watch upon the winds; for upon the way the wind +blew depended the movement of the ice, and the +clearing of the sea, and the first voyage of the +mail-boat. He was glad that he had been robbed; +so glad that he rubbed his lean, transparent +hands until the flush of life appeared to surprise +him; so glad that he chuckled until his housekeeper +feared his false teeth would by some +dreadful mischance vanish within him. Jail? ay, +he’d put Jehoshaphat Rudd in jail; but he would +forgive the others, that they might continue to +fish and to consume food. In jail, ecod! t’ be +fed on bread an’ water, t’ be locked up, t’ wear +stripes, t’ make brooms, t’ lie there so long that +the last little Rudd would find its own father +a stranger when ’twas all over with. ’Twould +be fair warning t’ the malcontent o’ the folk; +they would bide quiet hereafter. All the people +would toil and trade; they would complain no +more. John Wull was glad that the imprudence +of Jehoshaphat Rudd had provided him with +power to restore the ancient peace to Satan’s +Trap. +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +One day in the spring, when the bergs and +great floes of the open had been blown to sea, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_259'></a>259</span> +and the snow was gone from the slopes of the +hills, and the sun was out, and the earth was +warm and yellow and merrily dripping, old John +Wull attempted a passage of the harbor by the +ice, which there had lingered, confined. It was +only to cross the narrows from Haul-Away Head +to Daddy Tool’s Point, no more than a stone’s +throw for a stout lad. The ice had been broken +into pans by a stiff breeze from the west, and was +then moving with the wind, close-packed, bound +out to sea, there to be dispersed and dissolved. +It ran sluggishly through the narrows, scraping +the rocks of the head and of the point; the heave +of the sea slipped underneath and billowed the +way, and the outermost pans of ice broke from +the press and went off with the waves. But the +feet of old John Wull were practised; he essayed +the crossing without concern—indeed, with an +absent mind. Presently he stopped to rest; and +he stared out to sea, musing; and when again he +looked about, the sea had softly torn the pan +from the pack. +</p> +<p> +Old John Wull was adrift, and bound out. +</p> +<p> +“Ahoy, you, Jehoshaphat!” he shouted. “Jehoshaphat! +Oh, Jehoshaphat!” +</p> +<p> +Jehoshaphat came to the door of his cottage +on Daddy Tool’s Point. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_260'></a>260</span> +</p> +<p> +“Launch that rodney,”<a name="FNanchor_1" id="FNanchor_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1" class="fnanchor"><sup>[1]</sup></a> Wull directed, “an’ +put me on shore. An’ lively, man,” he complained. +“I’ll be cotchin’ cold out here.” +</p> +<p> +With the help of Timothy Yule, who chanced +to be gossiping in the kitchen, Jehoshaphat Rudd +got the rodney in the open water by the stage-head. +What with paddling and much hearty +hauling and pushing, they had the little craft +across the barrier of ice in the narrows before +the wind had blown old John Wull a generous +rod out to sea. +</p> +<p> +“Timothy, lad,” Jehoshaphat whispered, “I +’low you better stay here.” +</p> +<p> +Timothy kept to the ice. +</p> +<p> +“You been wonderful slow,” growled Wull. +“Come ’round t’ the lee side, you dunderhead! +Think I wants t’ get my feet wet?” +</p> +<p> +“No, sir,” Jehoshaphat protested. “Oh no; +I wouldn’t have you do that an I could <em>help</em> +it.” +</p> +<p> +The harbor folk were congregating on Haul-Away +Head and Daddy Tool’s Point. ’Twas +an agreeable excitement to see John Wull in a +mess—in a ludicrous predicament, which made +him helpless before their eyes. They whispered, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_261'></a>261</span> +they smiled behind their hands, they chuckled +inwardly. +</p> +<p> +Jehoshaphat pulled to the lee side of the pan. +</p> +<p> +“Come ’longside,” said Wull. +</p> +<p> +Jehoshaphat dawdled. +</p> +<p> +“Come ’longside, you fool!” Wull roared. +“Think I can leap three fathom?” +</p> +<p> +“No, sir; oh no; no, indeed.” +</p> +<p> +“Then come ’longside.” +</p> +<p> +Jehoshaphat sighed. +</p> +<p> +“Come in here, you crazy pauper!” Wull +screamed, stamping his rage. “Come in here +an’ put me ashore!” +</p> +<p> +“Mister Wull!” +</p> +<p> +Wull eyed the man in amazement. +</p> +<p> +“Labor,” said Jehoshaphat, gently, “is gone +up.” +</p> +<p> +Timothy Yule laughed, but on Haul-Away +Head and Daddy Tool’s Point the folk kept +silent; nor did old John Wull, on the departing +pan, utter a sound. +</p> +<p> +“Sky high,” Jehoshaphat concluded. +</p> +<p> +The sun was broadly, warmly shining, the sky +was blue; but the wind was rising smartly, and +far off over the hills of Satan’s Trap, beyond the +wilderness that was known, it was turning gray +and tumultuous. Old John Wull scowled, wheeled, and +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_262'></a>262</span> +looked away to sea; he did not see the +ominous color and writhing in the west. +</p> +<p> +“We don’t want no law, Mister Wull,” Jehoshaphat +continued, “at Satan’s Trap.” +</p> +<p> +Wull would not attend. +</p> +<p> +“Not law,” Jehoshaphat repeated; “for we +knows well enough at Satan’s Trap,” said he, +“what’s fair as atween men. You jus’ leave the +law stay t’ St. John’s, sir, where he’s t’ home. +He isn’t fair, by no means; an’ we don’t want un +here t’ make trouble.” +</p> +<p> +The trader’s back was still turned. +</p> +<p> +“An’, Mister Wull,” Jehoshaphat entreated, +his face falling like a child’s, “don’t you have no +hard feelin’ over this. Ah, now, <em>don’t</em>!” he +pleaded. “You won’t, will you? For we isn’t +got no hate for you, Mister Wull, an’ we isn’t +got no greed for ourselves. We just wants what’s +fair—just what’s fair.” He added: “Just on’y +that. We likes t’ see you have your milk an’ +butter an’ fresh beef an’ nuts an’ whiskey. <em>We</em> +don’t want them things, for they isn’t ours by +rights. All we wants is just on’y fair play. We +don’t want no law, sir: for, ecod!” Jehoshaphat +declared, scratching his head in bewilderment, +“the law looks after them that <em>has</em>, so far as I +<em>knows</em>, sir, an’ don’t know nothin’ about them +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_263'></a>263</span> +that <em>hasn’t</em>. An’ we don’t want un here at Satan’s +Trap. We won’t <em>have</em> un! We—we—why, +ecod! we—we can’t <em>’low</em> it! We’d be ashamed +of ourselves an we ’lowed you t’ fetch the law t’ +Satan’s Trap t’ wrong us. We’re free men, isn’t +we?” he demanded, indignantly. “Isn’t we? +Ecod! I ’low we <em>is</em>! You think, John Wull,” +he continued, in wrath, “that <em>you</em> can do what you +like with <em>we</em> just because you an’ the likes o’ you +is gone an’ got a law? You can’t! You can’t! +An’ you can’t, just because we won’t <em>’low</em> it.” +</p> +<p> +It was an incendiary speech. +</p> +<p> +“No, you can’t!” Timothy Yule screamed +from the ice, “you robber, you thief, you whale’s +pup! <em>I’ll</em> tell you what I thinks o’ you. You +can’t scare <em>me</em>. I wants that meadow you stole +from my father. I wants that meadow—” +</p> +<p> +“Timothy,” Jehoshaphat interrupted, quietly, +“you’re a fool. Shut your mouth!” +</p> +<p> +Tom Lower, the lazy, wasteful Tom Lower, +ran down to the shore of Haul-Away Head, and +stamped his feet, and shook his fist. “I wants +your cow an’ your raisins an’ your candy! We +got you down, you robber! An’ I’ll <em>have</em> your +red house; I’ll have your wool blankets; I’ll have +your—” +</p> +<p> +“Tom Lower,” Jehoshaphat roared, rising in +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_264'></a>264</span> +wrath, “I’ll floor you for that! That I will—next +time I cotch you out.” +</p> +<p> +John Wull turned half-way around and grinned. +</p> +<p> +“Mister Wull,” Jehoshaphat asked, propitiatingly, +“won’t you be put ashore?” +</p> +<p> +“Not at the price.” +</p> +<p> +“I ’low, then, sir,” said Jehoshaphat, in some +impatience, “that you might as well be comfortable +while you makes up your mind. Here!” +He cast a square of tarpaulin on the ice, and +chancing to discover Timothy Yule’s jacket, he +added that. “There!” he grunted, with satisfaction; +“you’ll be sittin’ soft an’ dry while you +does your thinkin’. Don’t be long, sir—not +overlong. <em>Please</em> don’t, sir,” he begged; “for +it looks t’ me—it looks wonderful t’ me—like +a spurt o’ weather.” +</p> +<p> +John Wull spread the tarpaulin. +</p> +<p> +“An’ when you gets through considerin’ of the +question,” said Jehoshaphat, suggestively, “an’ +is come t’ my way o’ thinkin’, why all you got t’ +do is lift your little finger, an’ I’ll put you ashore”—a +gust of wind whipped past—“if I’m able,” +Jehoshaphat added. +</p> +<p> +Pan and boat drifted out from the coast, a +slow course, which in an hour had reduced the +harbor folk to black pygmies on the low rocks to +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_265'></a>265</span> +windward. Jehoshaphat paddled patiently in the +wake of the ice. Often he raised his head, in apprehension, +to read the signs in the west; and he +sighed a deal, and sometimes muttered to himself. +Old John Wull was squatted on the tarpaulin, +with Timothy Yule’s jacket for a cushion, +his great-coat wrapped close about him, his cap +pulled over his ears, his arms folded. The withered +old fellow was as lean and blue and rigid and +staring as a frozen corpse. +</p> +<p> +The wind had freshened. The look and smell +of the world foreboded a gale. Overhead the sky +turned gray. There came a shadow on the sea, +sullen and ominous. Gusts of wind ran offshore +and went hissing out to sea; and they left the +waters rippling black and flecked with froth +wherever they touched. In the west the sky, +far away, changed from gray to deepest black +and purple; and high up, midway, masses of +cloud, with torn and streaming edges, rose +swiftly toward the zenith. It turned cold. A +great flake of snow fell on Jehoshaphat’s cheek, +and melted; but Jehoshaphat was pondering +upon justice. He wiped the drop of water away +with the back of his hand, because it tickled him, +but gave the sign no heed. +</p> +<p> +“I ’low, Mister Wull,” said he, doggedly, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_266'></a>266</span> +“that you better give Timothy Yule back his +father’s meadow. For nobody knows, sir,” he +argued, “why Timothy Yule’s father went an’ +signed his name t’ that there writin’ just afore he +died. ’Twasn’t right. He didn’t ought t’ sign +it. An’ you got t’ give the meadow back.” +</p> +<p> +John Wull was unmoved. +</p> +<p> +“An’, look you! Mister Wull,” Jehoshaphat +continued, pulling closer to the pan, addressing +the bowed back of the trader, “you better not +press young Isaac Lower for that cod-trap money. +He’ve too much trouble with that wife o’ his t’ +be bothered by debt. Anyhow, you ought t’ +give un a chance. An’, look you! you better let +ol’ Misses Jowl have back her garden t’ Green +Cove. The way you got that, Mister Wull, is +queer. I don’t know, but I ’low you better give +it back, anyhow. You <em>got</em> to, Mister Wull; +an’, ecod! you got t’ give the ol’ woman a pound +o’ cheese an’ five cents’ worth—no, ten—ten +cents’ worth o’ sweets t’ make her feel good. +She <em>likes</em> cheese. She ’lows she never could get +<em>enough</em> o’ cheese. She ’lows she <em>wished</em> she could +have her fill afore she dies. An’ you got t’ give +her a whole pound for herself.” +</p> +<p> +They were drifting over the Tombstone grounds. +</p> +<p> +“Whenever you makes up your mind,” Jehoshaphat suggested, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_267'></a>267</span> +diffidently, “you lift your +little finger—jus’ your little finger.” +</p> +<p> +There was no response. +</p> +<p> +“Your little finger,” Jehoshaphat repeated. +“Jus’ your little finger—on’y that.” +</p> +<p> +Wull faced about. “Jehoshaphat,” said he, +with a grin, “you wouldn’t leave me.” +</p> +<p> +“Jus’ wouldn’t I!” +</p> +<p> +“You wouldn’t.” +</p> +<p> +“You jus’ wait and see.” +</p> +<p> +“You wouldn’t leave me,” said Wull, “because +you couldn’t. I knows you, Jehoshaphat—I +knows you.” +</p> +<p> +“You better look out.” +</p> +<p> +“Come, now, Jehoshaphat, is you goin’ t’ +leave an old man drift out t’ sea an’ die?” +</p> +<p> +Jehoshaphat was embarrassed. +</p> +<p> +“Eh, Jehoshaphat?” +</p> +<p> +“Well, no,” Jehoshaphat admitted, frankly. +“I isn’t; leastways, not alone.” +</p> +<p> +“Not alone?” anxiously. +</p> +<p> +“No; not alone. I’ll go with you, Mister +Wull, if you’re lonesome, an’ wants company. +You sees, sir, I can’t give in. I jus’ <em>can’t</em>! I’m +here, Mister Wull, in this here cranky rodney, +beyond the Tombstone grounds, with a dirty +gale from a point or two south o’ west about t’ +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_268'></a>268</span> +break, because I’m the public o’ Satan’s Trap. +I can die, sir, t’ save gossip; but I sim-plee jus’ +isn’t able t’ give in. ’Twouldn’t be <em>right</em>.” +</p> +<p> +“Well, <em>I</em> won’t give in.” +</p> +<p> +“Nor I, sir. So here we is—out here beyond +the Tombstone grounds, you on a pan an’ me +in a rodney. An’ the weather isn’t—well—not +quite <em>kind</em>.” +</p> +<p> +It was not. The black clouds, torn, streaming, +had possessed the sky, and the night was +near come. Haul-Away Head and Daddy Tool’s +Point had melted with the black line of coast. +Return—safe passage through the narrows to the +quiet water and warm lights of Satan’s Trap—was +almost beyond the most courageous hope. +The wind broke from the shore in straight lines—a +stout, agile wind, loosed for riot upon the sea. +The sea was black, with a wind-lop upon the +grave swell—a black-and-white sea, with spume +in the gray air. The west was black, with no +hint of other color—without the pity of purple or +red. Roundabout the sea was breaking, troubled +by the wind, indifferent to the white little rodney +and the lives o’ men. +</p> +<p> +“You better give in,” old John Wull warned. +</p> +<p> +“No,” Jehoshaphat answered; “no; oh no! +I won’t give in. Not <em>in</em>.” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_269'></a>269</span> +</p> +<p> +A gust turned the black sea white. +</p> +<p> +“<em>You</em> better give in,” said Jehoshaphat. +</p> +<p> +John Wull shrugged his shoulders and turned +his back. +</p> +<p> +“Now, Mister Wull,” said Jehoshaphat, firmly, +“I ’low I can’t stand this much longer. I +’low we can’t be fools much longer an’ get back +t’ Satan’s Trap. I got a sail, here, Mister Wull; +but, ecod! the beat t’ harbor isn’t pleasant t’ +<em>think</em> about.” +</p> +<p> +“You better go home,” sneered old John +Wull. +</p> +<p> +“I ’low I <em>will</em>,” Jehoshaphat declared. +</p> +<p> +Old John Wull came to the windward edge of +the ice, and there stood frowning, with his feet +submerged. “What was you sayin’?” he asked. +“That you’d go home?” +</p> +<p> +Jehoshaphat looked away. +</p> +<p> +“An’ leave me?” demanded John Wull. +“Leave <em>me? Me?</em>” +</p> +<p> +“I got t’ think o’ my kids.” +</p> +<p> +“An’ you’d leave me t’ <em>die?</em>” +</p> +<p> +“Well,” Jehoshaphat complained, “’tis long +past supper-time. You better give in.” +</p> +<p> +“I won’t!” +</p> +<p> +The coast was hard to distinguish from the +black sky in the west. It began to snow. Snow +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_270'></a>270</span> +and night, allied, would bring Jehoshaphat Rudd +and old John Wull to cold death. +</p> +<p> +“Mister Wull,” Jehoshaphat objected, “’tis +long past supper-time, an’ I wants t’ go home.” +</p> +<p> +“Go—an’ be damned!” +</p> +<p> +“I’ll count ten,” Jehoshaphat threatened. +</p> +<p> +“You dassn’t!” +</p> +<p> +“I don’t know whether I’ll <em>go</em> or not,” said +Jehoshaphat. “Maybe not. Anyhow, I’ll count +ten, an’ see what happens. Is you ready?” +</p> +<p> +Wull sat down on the tarpaulin. +</p> +<p> +“One,” Jehoshaphat began. +</p> +<p> +John Wull seemed not to hear. +</p> +<p> +“Two,” said Jehoshaphat. “Three—four—five—six—seven.” +</p> +<p> +John Wull did not turn. +</p> +<p> +“Eight.” +</p> +<p> +There was no sign of relenting. +</p> +<p> +“Nine.” +</p> +<p> +Jehoshaphat paused. “God’s mercy!” he +groaned, “don’t you be a fool, Mister Wull,” he +pleaded. “Doesn’t you <em>know</em> what the weather is?” +</p> +<p> +A wave—the lop raised by the wind—broke +over the pan. John Wull stood up. There +came a shower of snow. +</p> +<p> +“Eh?” Jehoshaphat demanded, in agony. +</p> +<p> +“I won’t give in,” said old John Wull. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_271'></a>271</span> +</p> +<p> +“Then I got t’ say ten. I jus’ <em>got</em> to.” +</p> +<p> +“I dare you.” +</p> +<p> +“I will, Mister Wull. Honest, I will! I’ll +say ten an you don’t look out.” +</p> +<p> +“Why don’t you <em>do</em> it?” +</p> +<p> +“In a minute, Mister Wull. I’ll say it just +so soon as I get up the sail. I will, Mister Wull, +honest t’ God!” +</p> +<p> +The coast had vanished. +</p> +<p> +“Look,” cried Jehoshaphat, “we’re doomed +men!” +</p> +<p> +The squall, then first observed, sent the sea +curling over the ice. Jehoshaphat’s rodney +shipped the water it raised. Snow came in a +blinding cloud. +</p> +<p> +“Say ten, you fool!” screamed old John Wull. +</p> +<p> +“Ten!” +</p> +<p> +John Wull came to the edge of the pan. +’Twas hard for the old man to breast the gust. +He put his hands to his mouth that he might +be heard in the wind. +</p> +<p> +“I give in!” he shouted. +</p> +<p> +Jehoshaphat managed to save the lives of both. +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +Old John Wull, with his lean feet in a tub of +hot water, with a gray blanket over his shoulders, +with a fire sputtering in the stove, with his housekeeper +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_272'></a>272</span> +hovering near—old John Wull chuckled. +The room was warm and his stomach was full, +and the wind, blowing horribly in the night, could +work him no harm. There he sat, sipping herb +tea to please his housekeeper, drinking whiskey +to please himself. He had no chill, no fever, +no pain; perceived no warning of illness. So he +chuckled away. It was all for the best. There +would now surely be peace at Satan’s Trap. Had +he not yielded? What more could they ask? +They would be content with this victory. For a +long, long time they would not complain. He +had yielded; very well: Timothy Yule should +have his father’s meadow, Dame Jowl her garden +and sweets and cheese, the young Lower be left +in possession of the cod-trap, and there would +be no law. Very well; the folk would neither +pry nor complain for a long, long time: that was +triumph enough for John Wull. So he chuckled +away, with his feet in hot water, and a gray +blanket about him, bald and withered and +ghastly, but still feeling the comfort of fire and +hot water and whiskey, the pride of power. +</p> +<p> +And within three years John Wull possessed +again all that he had yielded, and the world of +Satan’s Trap wagged on as in the days before +the revolution. +</p> +<hr class='fnsep' /> +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_1" id="Footnote_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> +A rodney is a small, light boat, used for getting about among the ice packs, chiefly in seal-hunting. +</p></div> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_273'></a>273</span><a name='chX' id='chX'></a>X—THE SURPLUS</h2> +<p> +To the east was the illimitable ocean, laid +thick with moonlight and luminous mist; +to the west, beyond a stretch of black, slow heaving +water, was the low line of Newfoundland, an +illusion of kindliness, the malignant character of +its jagged rock and barren interior transformed by +the gentle magic of the night. Tumm, the clerk, +had the wheel of the schooner, and had been +staring in a rapture at the stars. +</p> +<p> +“Jus’ readin’, sir,” he explained. +</p> +<p> +I wondered what he read. +</p> +<p> +“Oh,” he answered, turning again to contemplate +the starlit sky, “jus’ a little psa’m from +my Bible.” +</p> +<p> +I left him to read on, myself engaged with a +perusal of the serene and comforting text-book +of philosophy spread overhead. The night was +favorably inclined and radiant: a soft southerly +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_274'></a>274</span> +wind blowing without menace, a sky of infinite +depth and tender shadow, the sea asleep under +the moon. With a gentle, aimlessly wandering +wind astern—an idle, dawdling, contemptuous +breeze, following the old craft lazily, now and +again whipping her nose under water to remind +her of suspended strength—the trader <em>Good +Samaritan</em> ran on, wing and wing, through the +moonlight, bound across from Sinners’ Tickle to +Afterward Bight, there to deal for the first of the +catch. +</p> +<p> +“Them little stars jus’ <em>will</em> wink!” Tumm +complained. +</p> +<p> +I saw them wink in despite. +</p> +<p> +“Ecod!” Tumm growled. +</p> +<p> +The amusement of the stars was not by this +altered to a more serious regard: everywhere they +winked. +</p> +<p> +“I’ve seed un peep through a gale o’ wind, a +slit in the black sky, a cruel, cold time,” Tumm +continued, a pretence of indignation in his voice, +“when ’twas a mean hard matter t’ keep a schooner +afloat in a dirty sea, with all hands wore out +along o’ labor an’ the fear o’ death an’ hell; an’, +ecod! them little cusses was winkin’ still. Eh? +What d’ye make o’ that?—winkin’ still, the +heartless little cusses!” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_275'></a>275</span> +</p> +<p> +There were other crises, I recalled—knowing +little enough of the labor of the sea—upon which +they winked. +</p> +<p> +“Ay,” Tumm agreed; “they winks when lovers +kiss on the roads; an’ they winks jus’ the +same,” he added, softly, “when a heart breaks.” +</p> +<p> +“They’re humorous little beggars,” I observed. +</p> +<p> +Tumm laughed. “They been lookin’ at this +here damned thing so long,” he drawled—meaning, +no doubt, upon the spectacle of the world—“that +no wonder they winks!” +</p> +<p> +This prefaced a tale. +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +“Somehow,” Tumm began, his voice fallen +rather despondent, I fancied, but yet continuing +most curiously genial, “it always made me think +o’ dust an’ ashes t’ clap eyes on ol’ Bill Hulk o’ +Gingerbread Cove. Ay, b’y; but I could jus’ +fair hear the parson singsong that mean truth o’ +life: ‘Dust t’ dust; ashes t’ ashes’—an’ make the +best of it, ye sinners an’ young folk! When ol’ +Bill hove alongside, poor man! I’d think no +more o’ maids an’ trade, o’ which I’m fair sinful +fond, but on’y o’ coffins an’ graves an’ ground. +For, look you! the ol’ feller was so white an’ +wheezy—so fishy-eyed an’ crooked an’ shaky +along o’ age. ’Tis a queer thing, sir, but, truth +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_276'></a>276</span> +o’ God, so old was Bill Hulk that when he’d +board me I’d remember somehow the warm +breast o’ my mother, an’ then think, an’ couldn’t +help it, o’ the bosom o’ dust where my head must +lie.” +</p> +<p> +Tumm paused. +</p> +<p> +“Seemed t’ me, somehow,” he continued, +“when the <em>Quick as Wink</em> was lyin’ of a Sunday +t’ Gingerbread Cove—seemed t’ me somehow, +when I’d hear the church bell ring an’ echo +across the water an’ far into the hills—when I’d +cotch sight o’ ol’ Bill Hulk, with his staff an’ braw +black coat, crawlin’ down the hill t’ meetin’—ay, +an’ when the sun was out, warm an’ yellow, an’ +the maids an’ lads was flirtin’ over the roads t’ +hear the parson thunder agin their hellish levity—seemed +t’ me then, somehow, that ol’ Bill was +all the time jus’ dodgin’ along among open +graves; for, look you! the ol’ feller had such +trouble with his legs. An’ I’d wish by times that +he’d stumble an’ fall in, an’ be covered up in a +comfortable an’ decent sort o’ fashion, an’ stowed +away for good an’ all in the bed where he belonged. +</p> +<p> +“‘Uncle Bill,’ says I, ‘you at it yet?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Hangin’ on, Tumm,’ says he. ‘I isn’t quite +through.’ +</p> +<div><a name='i276' id='i276'></a></div> +<div class='figcenter' style='padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em'> +<a name='i007' id='i007'></a> +<img src="images/illus-276.jpg" alt="“OL’ BILL HULK CRAWLIN’ DOWN THE HILL T’ MEETIN’”" title=""/><br /> +<span class='caption'>“OL’ BILL HULK CRAWLIN’ DOWN THE HILL T’ MEETIN’”</span> +</div> +<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_277'></a>277</span></div> +<p> +“‘Accordin’ t’ the signs,’ says I, ‘you isn’t got +much of a grip left.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Yes, I is!’ says he. ‘I got all my fishin’ +fingers exceptin’ two, an’ I ’low they’ll last me +till I’m through.’ +</p> +<p> +“Ecod! sir, but it made me think so mean o’ +the world that I ’lowed I’d look away. +</p> +<p> +“‘No, Tumm,’ says he, ‘I isn’t <em>quite</em> through.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Well,’ says I, ‘you must be tired.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Tired,’ says he. ‘Oh no, b’y! Tired? Not +me! I got a little spurt o’ labor t’ do afore <em>I</em> +goes.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘An’ what’s that, Uncle Bill?’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘Nothin’ much,’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“‘But what <em>is</em> it?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Nothin’ much,’ says he; ‘jus’ a little spurt +o’ labor.’ +</p> +<p> +“The ol’ feller lived all alone, under Seven +Stars Head, in a bit of a white house with black +trimmin’s, jus’ within the Tickle, where ’twas +nice an’ warm an’ still; an’ he kep’ his house as +neat an’ white as a ol’ maid with a gray tomcat +an’ a window-garden o’ geraniums, an’, like all +the ol’ maids, made the best fish on fifty mile o’ +coast. ’Twas said by the ol’ folks o’ Gingerbread +Cove that their fathers knowed the time when +Bill Hulk had a partner; but the partner got lost +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_278'></a>278</span> +on the Labrador, an’ then Bill Hulk jus’ held on +cotchin’ fish an’ keepin’ house all alone, till he +got the habit an’ couldn’t leave off. Was a time, +I’m told, a time when he had his strength—was a +time, I’m told, afore he wore out—was a time +when Bill Hulk had a bit o’ money stowed away +in a bank t’ St. John’s. Always ’lowed, I’m told, +that ’twas plenty t’ see un through when he got +past his labor. ‘I got enough put by,’ says he. +‘I got more’n enough. I’m jus’ fishin’ along,’ +says he, ‘t’ give t’ the poor. Store in your +youth,’ says he, ‘an’ you’ll not want in your age.’ +But somehow some o’ them St. John’s gentlemen +managed t’ discover expensive ways o’ delightin’ +theirselves; an’ what with bank failures an’ lean +seasons an’ lumbago, ol’ Bill was fallen poor +when first I traded Gingerbread Cove. About +nine year after that, bein’ then used t’ the trade o’ +that shore, I ’lowed that Bill had better knock +off an’ lie in the sun till ’twas time for un t’ go t’ +his last berth. ‘’Twon’t be long,’ thinks I, ’an’ +I ’low my owners can stand it. Anyhow,’ thinks +I, ‘’tis high time the world done something for +Bill.’ +</p> +<p> +“But— +</p> +<p> +“‘Tumm,’ says he, ‘how many books is kep’ +by traders in Newf’un’land?’ +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_279'></a>279</span> +</p> +<p> +“I ’lowed I didn’t know. +</p> +<p> +“‘Call it a round million,’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“‘What of it?’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘Nothin’ much,’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“‘But what of it?’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘Well,’ says he, ‘if you was t’ look them million +books over, goin’ as easy as you please an’ +markin’ off every line o’ every page with your +forefinger, what d’ye think would come t’ pass?’ +</p> +<p> +“I ’lowed I couldn’t tell. +</p> +<p> +“‘Eh?’ says he. ‘Come, now! give a guess.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘I don’t know, Bill,’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘Why, Tumm,’ says he, ‘you wouldn’t find +a copper agin the name o’ ol’ Bill Hulk!’ +</p> +<p> +“‘That’s good livin’,’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘Not a copper!’ says he. ‘No, sir; <em>not if +you looked with spectacles</em>. An’ so,’ says he, ‘I +’low I’ll jus’ keep on payin’ my passage for the +little time that’s left. If my back on’y holds +out,’ says he, ‘I’ll manage it till I’m through. +’Twon’t be any more than twenty year. Jus’ a +little spurt o’ labor t’ do, Tumm,’ says he, ‘afore +I goes.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘More labor, Uncle Bill?’ says I. ‘God’s +sake!’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Nothin’ much,’ says he; ‘jus’ a little spurt +afore I goes in peace.’ +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_280'></a>280</span> +</p> +<p> +“Ah, well! he’d labored long enough, lived +long enough, t’ leave other hands clean up the +litter an’ sweep the room o’ his life. I didn’t +know what that little spurt o’ labor was meant t’ +win for his peace o’ mind—didn’t know what he’d +left undone—didn’t know what his wish or his +conscience urged un t’ labor for. I jus’ wanted +un t’ quit an’ lie down in the sun. ‘For,’ thinks I, +‘the world looks wonderful greedy an’ harsh t’ +me when I hears ol’ Bill Hulk’s bones rattle over +the roads or come squeakin’ through the Tickle +in his punt. ‘Leave un go in peace!’ thinks I. +‘I isn’t got no love for a world that sends them +bones t’ sea in an easterly wind. Ecod!’ thinks I; +‘but he’ve earned quiet passage by jus’ livin’ t’ +that ghastly age—jus’ by hangin’ on off a lee +shore in the mean gales o’ life.’ Seemed t’ me, +too, no matter how Bill felt about it, that he +might be obligin’ an’ quit afore he <em>was</em> through. +Seemed t’ me he might jus’ stop where he was an’ +leave the friends an’ neighbors finish up. ’Tisn’t +fair t’ ask a man t’ have his labor done in a ship-shape +way—t’ be through with the splittin’ an’ +all cleaned up—when the Skipper sings out, +‘Knock off, ye dunderhead!’ Seems t’ me a +man might leave the crew t’ wash the table an’ +swab the deck an’ throw the livers in the cask. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_281'></a>281</span> +</p> +<p> +“‘You be obligin’, Bill,’ says I, ‘an’ quit.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Isn’t able,’ says he, ’till I’m through.’ +</p> +<p> +“So the bones o’ ol’ Bill Hulk rattled an’ +squeaked right on till it made me fair ache when +I <em>thunk</em> o’ Gingerbread Cove. +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +“About four year after that I made the Cove +in the spring o’ the year with supplies. ‘Well,’ +thinks I, ‘they won’t be no Bill Hulk this season. +With that pain in his back an’ starboard leg, this +winter have finished he; an’ I’ll lay a deal on +that.’ ’Twas afore dawn when we dropped +anchor, an’ a dirty dawn, too, with fog an’ rain, +the wind sharp, an’ the harbor in a tumble for +small craft; but the first man over the side was +ol’ Bill Hulk. +</p> +<p> +“‘It <em>can’t</em> be you, Uncle Bill!’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘Tumm,’ says he, ‘I isn’t quite through—yet.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘You isn’t goin’ at it <em>this</em> season, is you?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Ay,’ says he; ‘goin’ at it again, Tumm.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘What for?’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘Nothin’ much,’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“‘But what <em>for</em>?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Well,’ says he, ‘I’m savin’ up.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Savin’ up?’ says I. ‘Shame <em>to</em> you! What +you savin’ up for?’ +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_282'></a>282</span> +</p> +<p> +“‘Oh,’ says he, ‘jus’ savin’ up.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘But what <em>for</em>?’ says I. ‘What’s the sense +of it?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Bit o’ prope’ty,’ says he. ‘I’m thinkin’ o’ +makin’ a small investment.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘At your age, Uncle Bill!’ says I. ‘An’ a +childless man!’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Jus’ a small piece,’ says he. ‘Nothin’ much, +Tumm.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘But it won’t do you no <em>good</em>,’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘Well, Tumm,’ says he, ‘I’m sort o’ wantin’ +it, an’ I ’low she won’t go t’ waste. I been +fishin’ from Gingerbread Cove for three hundred +year,’ says he, ‘an’ when I knocks off I wants t’ +have things ship-shape. Isn’t no comfort, Tumm,’ +says he, ‘in knockin’ off no other way.’ +</p> +<p> +“Three hundred year he ’lowed he’d fished +from that there harbor, a hook-an’-line man +through it all; an’ as they wasn’t none o’ us abroad +on the coast when he come in, he’d stick to it, +spite o’ parsons. They was a mean little red-headed +parson came near churchin’ un for the +whopper; but Bill Hulk wouldn’t repent. ‘You +isn’t been here long enough t’ <em>know</em>, parson,’ says +he. ‘’Tis goin’ on three hundred year, I tells +you! I’ll haul into my fourth hundred,’ says he, +‘come forty-three year from Friday fortnight.’ +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_283'></a>283</span> +Anyhow, he’d been castin’ lines on the Gingerbread +grounds quite long enough. ’Twas like +t’ make a man’s back ache—t’ make his head spin +an’ his stomach shudder—jus’ t’ think o’ the +years o’ labor an’ hardship Bill Hulk had weathered. +Seemed t’ me the very stars must o’ got +fair disgusted t’ watch un put out through the +Tickle afore dawn an’ pull in after dark. +</p> +<p> +“‘Lord!’ says they. ‘If there ain’t Bill Hulk +puttin’ out again! Won’t nothin’ <em>ever</em> happen +t’ he?’” +</p> +<p> +I thought it an unkind imputation. +</p> +<p> +“Well,” Tumm explained, “the little beggars +is used t’ change; an’ I wouldn’t wonder if they +was bored a bit by ol’ Bill Hulk.” +</p> +<p> +It might have been. +</p> +<p> +“Four or five year after that,” Tumm proceeded, +“the tail of a sou’east gale slapped me +into Gingerbread Cove, an’ I ’lowed t’ hang the +ol’ girl up till the weather turned civil. Thinks +I, ‘’Tis wonderful dark an’ wet, but ’tis also +wonderful early, an’ I’ll jus’ take a run ashore +t’ yarn an’ darn along o’ ol’ Bill Hulk.’ So I +put a bottle in my pocket t’ warm the ol’ ghost’s +marrow, an’ put out for Seven Stars Head in the +rodney. ’Twas mean pullin’ agin the wind, but +I fetched the stage-head ’t last, an’ went crawlin’ +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_284'></a>284</span> +up the hill. Thinks I, ‘They’s no sense in knockin’ +in a gale o’ wind like this, for Bill Hulk’s so +wonderful hard o’ hearin’ in a sou’east blow.’ +</p> +<p> +“So I drove on in. +</p> +<p> +“‘Lord’s sake, Bill!’ says I, ‘what you up to?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Nothin’ much, Tumm,’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“‘It don’t look right,’ says I. ‘What <em>is</em> it?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Nothin’ much,’ says he; ‘jus’ countin’ up +my money.’ +</p> +<p> +“’Twas true enough: there he sot—playin’ +with his fortune. They was pounds of it: +coppers an’ big round pennies an’ silver an’ one +lone gold piece. +</p> +<p> +“‘You been gettin’ rich?’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘Tumm,’ says he, ‘you got any clear idea o’ +how much hard cash they is lyin’ right there on +that plain deal table in this here very kitchen +you is in?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘I isn’t,’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘Well,’ says he, ‘they’s as much as fourteen +dollar! An’ what d’ye think o’ that?’ +</p> +<p> +“I ’lowed I’d hold my tongue; so I jus’ lifted +my eyebrow, an’ then sort o’ whistled, ‘Whew!’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Fourteen,’ says he, ‘an’ more!’ +</p> +<p> +“‘<em>Whew!</em>’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘An’, Tumm,’ says he, ‘I had twenty-four +sixty once—about eighteen year ago.’ +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_285'></a>285</span> +</p> +<p> +“‘You got a heap now,’ says I. ‘Fourteen +dollar! Whew!’ +</p> +<p> +“‘No, Tumm!’ cries he, all of a sudden. ‘No, +no! I been lyin’ t’ you. I been lyin’!’ says he. +‘Lyin’!’ +</p> +<p> +“‘I don’t care,’ says I; ‘you go right ahead an’ +lie.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘They <em>isn’t</em> fourteen dollar there,’ says he. +‘I jus’ been makin’ <em>believe</em> they was. See that +there little pile o’ pennies t’ the nor’east? I been +sittin’ here countin’ in them pennies twice. They +isn’t fourteen dollar,’ says he; ‘they’s on’y thirteen +eighty-four! But I <em>wisht</em> they was fourteen.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Never you mind,’ says I; ‘you’ll get that bit +o’ prope’ty yet.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘I <em>got</em> to,’ says he, ‘afore I goes.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Where does it lie?’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘Oh, ’tisn’t nothin’ much, Tumm,’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“‘But what <em>is</em> it?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Nothin’ much,’ says he; ‘jus’ a small piece.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Is it meadow?’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘No,’ says he; ‘tisn’t what you might call +meadow an’ be right, though the grass grows +there, in spots, knee high.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Is it a potato-patch?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘No,’ says he; ‘nor yet a patch.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘’Tisn’t a <em>flower</em> garden, is it?’ says I. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_286'></a>286</span> +</p> +<p> +“‘N-no,’ says he; ‘you couldn’t rightly say so—though +they <em>grows</em> there, in spots, quite free +an’ nice.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Uncle Bill,’ says I, ‘you isn’t never told me +nothin’ about that there bit o’ prope’ty. What’s +it held at?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘The prope’ty isn’t much, Tumm,’ says he. +‘Jus’ a small piece.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘But how much <em>is</em> it?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Tom Neverbudge,’ says he, ‘is holdin’ it at +twenty-four dollar; he’ve come down one in the +las’ seven year. But I’m on’y ’lowin’ t’ pay +twenty-one; you sees I’ve come <em>up</em> one in the las’ +<em>four</em> year.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘’Twould not be hard t’ split the difference,’ +says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘Ay,’ says he; ‘but they’s a wonderful good +reason for not payin’ more’n twenty-one for that +there special bit o’ land.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘What’s that?’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘Well,’ says he, ‘’tis second-handed.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Second-handed!’ says I. ‘That’s queer!’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Been used,’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“‘Used, Uncle Bill?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Ay,’ says he; ‘been used—been used, now, +for nigh sixty year.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘She’s all wore out?’ says I. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_287'></a>287</span> +</p> +<p> +“‘No,’ says he; ‘not wore out.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘<em>She’d</em> grow nothin’?’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘Well,’ says he, ‘nothin’ much is expected, +Tumm,’ says he, ‘in that line.’ +</p> +<p> +“I give a tug at my pocket, an’, ecod! out +jumped the bottle o’ Scotch. +</p> +<p> +“‘Well, well!’ says he. ‘Dear man! But I +bet ye,’ says he, ‘that you isn’t fetched no pain-killer.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘That I is!’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘Then,’ says he, ‘about half an’ half, Tumm, +with a dash o’ water; that’s the way I likes it +when I takes it.’ +</p> +<p> +“So we fell to, ol’ Bill Hulk an’ me, on the +Scotch an’ the pain-killer. +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +“Well, now, after that,” Tumm resumed, +presently, “I went deep sea for four year in the +South American fish trade; an’ then, my ol’ berth +on the <em>Quick as Wink</em> bein’ free of incumbrance—’twas +a saucy young clerk o’ the name o’ Bullyworth—I +’lowed t’ blow the fever out o’ my +system with the gales o’ this here coast. ‘A +whiff or two o’ real wind an’ a sight o’ Mother +Burke,’ thinks I, ‘will fix <em>me</em>.’ ’Twas a fine +Sunday mornin’ in June when I fetched Gingerbread +Cove in the ol’ craft—warm an’ blue an’ +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_288'></a>288</span> +still an’ sweet t’ smell. ‘They’ll be no Bill Hulk, +thank God!’ thinks I, ‘t’ be crawlin’ up the hill t’ +meetin’ <em>this</em> day; <em>he’ve</em> got through an’ gone t’ +his berth for all time. I’d like t’ yarn with un +on this fine civil Sunday,’ thinks I; ‘but I ’low +he’s jus’ as glad as I is that he’ve been stowed +away nice an’ comfortable at last.’ But from +the deck, ecod! when I looked up from shavin’, +an’ Skipper Jim was washin’ up in the forecastle, +I cotched sight o’ ol’ Bill Hulk, bound up +the hill through the sunshine, makin’ tolerable +weather of it, with the wind astern, a staff in his +hand, and the braw black coat on his back. +</p> +<p> +“‘Skipper Jim,’ sings I, t’ the skipper below, +‘you hear a queer noise?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘No,’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“‘Nothin’ like a squeak or a rattle?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘No,’ says he. ‘What’s awry?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Oh, nothin’ says I:’ on’y ol’ Bill Hulk’s on +the road.’ +</p> +<p> +“I watched un crawl through the little door on +Meetin’-house Hill long after ol’ Sammy Street +had knocked off pullin’ the bell; an’ if I didn’t +hear neither squeak nor rattle as he crep’ along, +why, I <em>felt</em> un, anyhow, which is jus’ as hard to +bear. ‘Well,’ thinks I, ‘he’ve kep’ them bones +above ground, poor man! but he’s never <em>at</em> it +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_289'></a>289</span> +yet. He’ve knocked off for good,’ thinks I; ‘he’ll +stumble t’ meetin’ of a fine Sunday mornin’, an’ +sit in the sun for a spell; an’ then,’ thinks I, +‘they’ll stow un away where he belongs.’ So I +went aboard of un that evenin’ for a last bit +of a yarn afore his poor ol’ throat rattled an’ +quit. +</p> +<p> +“‘So,’ says I, ‘you is at it yet?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Ay, Tumm,’ says he; ‘isn’t quite through—yet. +But,’ says he, ‘I’m ’lowin’ t’ <em>be</em>.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Hard at it, Uncle Bill?’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘Well, no, Tumm,’ says he; ‘not hard. Back +give warnin’ a couple o’ year ago,’ says he, ‘an’ +I been sort o’ easin’ off for fear o’ accident. I’ve +quit the Far Away grounds,’ says he, ‘but I been +doin’ very fair on Widows’ Shoal. They’s on’y +one o’ them fishin’ there nowadays, ah’ she +’lowed she didn’t care.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘An’ when,’ says I, ‘is you ’lowin’ t’ knock +off?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Jus’ as soon as I gets through, Tumm,’ says +he. ‘I won’t be a minute longer.’ +</p> +<p> +“Then along come the lean-cheeked, pig-eyed, +scrawny-whiskered son of a squid which owned +the bit o’ prope’ty that Bill Hulk had coveted for +thirty year. Man o’ the name o’ Tom Budge; +but as he seldom done it, they called un Neverbudge; +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_290'></a>290</span> +an’ Gingerbread Cove is full o’ Never-budges +t’ this day. Bill ’lowed I might as well +go along o’ he an’ Tom t’ overhaul the bit o’ land +they was tryin’ t’ trade; so out we put on the +inland road—round Burnt Bight, over the crest +o’ Knock Hill, an’ along the alder-fringed path. +’Twas in a green, still, soft-breasted little valley—a +little pool o’ sunshine an’ grass among the +hills—with Ragged Ridge t’ break the winds from +the sea, an’ the wooded slope o’ the Hog’s Back +t’ stop the nor’westerly gales. ’Twas a lovely +spot, sir, believe me, an’ a gentle-hearted one, +too, lyin’ deep in the warmth an’ glory o’ sunshine, +where a man might lay his head on the +young grass an’ go t’ sleep, not mindin’ about +nothin’ no more. Ol’ Bill Hulk liked it wonderful +well. Wasn’t no square o’ ground on that +coast that he’d rather own, says he, than the little +plot in the sou’east corner o’ that graveyard. +</p> +<p> +“‘Sight rather have that, Tumm,’ says he, +‘than a half-acre farm.’ +</p> +<p> +“’Twas so soft an’ snug an’ sleepy an’ still in +that little graveyard that I couldn’t blame un +for wantin’ t’ stretch out somewheres an’ stay +there forever. +</p> +<p> +“‘Ay,’ says he, ‘an’ a thirty-foot potato-patch +throwed in!’ +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_291'></a>291</span> +</p> +<p> +“‘‘’Tis yours at the price,’ says Tom Neverbudge. +</p> +<p> +“‘<em>If</em>,’ says Bill Hulk, ‘’twasn’t a second-handed +plot. See them graves in the sou’west corner, +Tumm?’ +</p> +<p> +“Graves o’ two children, sir: jus’ on’y that—laid +side by side, sir, where the sunlight lingered +afore the shadow o’ Hog’s Back fell. +</p> +<p> +“‘Been there nigh sixty year,’ says Bill. ‘Pity,’ +says he; ‘wonderful pity.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘They won’t do you no harm,’ says Neverbudge. +</p> +<p> +“‘Ay,’ says Bill; ‘but I’m a bachelor, Tom, +used t’ sleepin’ alone,’ says he, ‘an’ I’m ’lowin’ I +wouldn’t take so wonderful quick t’ any other +habit. I’m told,’ says he, ‘that sleepin’ along o’ +children isn’t what you might call a easy berth.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘You’d soon get used t’ <em>that</em>,’ says Neverbudge. +‘Any family man’ll tell you so.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Ay,’ says Bill; ‘but they isn’t kin o’ mine. +Why,’ says he, ‘they isn’t even friends!’ +</p> +<p> +“‘That don’t matter,’ says Neverbudge. +</p> +<p> +“‘Not matter!’ says he. ‘Can you tell me, +Tom Neverbudge, the <em>names</em> o’ them children?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Not me.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Nor yet their father’s name?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘No, sir.’ +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_292'></a>292</span> +</p> +<p> +“‘Then,’ says Bill, ‘as a religious man, is you +able t’ tell me they was born in a proper an’ +perfeckly religious manner?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘I isn’t,’ says Neverbudge. ‘I guarantees +nothin’.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘An’ yet, as a religious man,’ says Bill, ‘you +stands there an’ says it doesn’t matter?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Anyhow,’ says Neverbudge, ‘it doesn’t matter +<em>much</em>’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Not much!’ cries Bill. ‘An’ you a religious +man! Not much t’ lie for good an’ all,’ says he, +‘in the company o’ the damned?’ +</p> +<p> +“With that Tom Neverbudge put off in a rage. +</p> +<p> +“‘Uncle Billy,’ says I, ‘what you wantin’ +that plot for, anyhow? ’Tis so damp ’tis fair +swampy.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Nothin’ much,’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“‘But what <em>for?</em>’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘Well,’ says he, ‘I wants it.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘An’ ’tis on a side-hill,’ says I. ‘If the +dunderheads doesn’t dig with care, you’ll find +yourself with your feet higher’n your head.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Well,’ says he, ‘I wants it.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘You isn’t got no friends in this neighborhood,’ +says I; ‘they’re all put away on the north +side. An’ the sun,’ says I, ‘doesn’t strike here +last.’ +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_293'></a>293</span> +</p> +<p> +“‘I wants it,’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“‘What for?’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘Nothin’ much,’ says he; ‘but I wants it.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘But what for?’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘Well,’ says he, in a temper, ‘I got a <em>hankerin’</em> +for it!’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Then, Uncle Bill,’ says I, for it made me +sad,’ I wouldn’t mind them little graves. They’re +poor wee things,’ says I, ‘an’ they wouldn’t disturb +your rest.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Hush!’ says he. ‘Don’t—<em>don’t</em> say that!’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Graves o’ children,’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘Don’t say no more, Tumm,’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“‘Jus’ on’y poor little kids,’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘Stop!’ says he. ‘Doesn’t you see I’m +cryin’?’ +</p> +<p> +“Then up come Tom Neverbudge. ‘Look +you, Bill Hulk!’ says he, ‘you can take that plot +or leave it. I’ll knock off seventy-five cents on +account o’ the risk you take in them children. +Come now!’ says he; ‘you take it or leave it.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Twenty-one fifty,’ says Bill. ‘That’s a raise +o’ fifty, Tom.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Then,’ says Tom, ‘I’ll use that plot meself.’ +</p> +<p> +“Bill Hulk jumped. ‘You!’ says he. ‘Nothin’ +gone wrong along o’ you, is they, Tom?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Not yet,’ says Tom; ‘but they might.’ +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_294'></a>294</span> +</p> +<p> +“‘No chill,’ says Bill, ‘an’ no fever? No ache +in your back, is they, Tom?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Nar a ache.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘An’ you isn’t give up the Labrador?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Not me!’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Oh, well,’ says Bill, feelin’ easy again, ‘I +’low <em>you</em> won’t never need no graveyard.’ +</p> +<p> +“Tom Neverbudge up canvas an’ went off +afore the wind in a wonderful temper; an’ then +ol’ Bill Hulk an’ me took the homeward road. +I remembers the day quite well—the low, warm +sun, the long shadows, the fresh youth an’ green +o’ leaves an’ grass, the tinkle o’ bells on the hills, +the reaches o’ sea, the peace o’ weather an’ +Sabbath day. I remembers it well: the wheeze +an’ groan o’ ol’ Bill—crawlin’ home, sunk deep +in the thought o’ graves—an’ the tender, bedtime +twitter o’ the new-mated birds in the alders. +When we rounded Fish Head Rock—’tis half-way +from the graveyard—I seed a lad an’ a maid +flit back from the path t’ hide whilst we crep’ by; +an’ they was a laugh on the lad’s lips, an’ a smile +an’ a sweet blush on the maid’s young face, as +maids will blush an’ lads will laugh when love +lifts un high. ’Twas at that spot I cotched ear +of a sound I knowed quite well, havin’ made it +meself, thank God! many a time an’ gladly. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_295'></a>295</span> +</p> +<p> +“Bill Hulk stopped dead in the path. ‘What’s +that?’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“‘Is you not knowin’?’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘I’ve heared it afore,’ says he, ‘somewheres.’ +</p> +<p> +“Twas a kiss,’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘Tumm,’ says he, in a sort o’ scared whisper, +‘<em>is they at that yet in the world?</em>’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Jus’ as they used t’ be,’ says I, ‘when you +was young.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Well,’ says he, ‘jig <em>me!</em>’ +</p> +<p> +“Then I knowed, somehow, jus’ how old ol’ +Bill Hulk must be. +</p> +<p> +“Well, thereafter,” Tumm continued, with a +sigh and a genial little smile, “they come lean +years an’ they come fat ones, as always, by the +mystery o’ God. Ol’ Bill Hulk drove along +afore the wind, with his last rags o’ sail all spread, +his fortune lean or fat as the Lord’s own seasons +’lowed. He’d fall behind or crawl ahead jus’ +accordin’ t’ the way a careful hand might divide +fish by hunger; but I ’lowed, by an’ all, he +was overhaulin’ Tom Neverbudge’s twenty-three +twenty-five, an’ would surely make it if the wind +held true a few years longer. ‘Twelve thirty +more, Tumm,’ says he, ‘an’ if ’twasn’t for the +pork I might manage it this season. The longer +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_296'></a>296</span> +you lives, Tumm,’ says he, ‘the more expensive +it gets. Cost me four fifty las’ season for +Dr. Hook’s Surecure Egyptian Lumbago Oil, +an’ one fifty, Tumm, for a pair o’ green glasses +t’ fend off blindness from the aged. An’ I jus’ got +t’ have pork t’ keep my ol’ bones warm. I don’t +<em>want</em> no pork,’ says he; ‘but they isn’t no heat in +flour, an’, anyhow, I got t’ build my shoulder +muscles up. You take a ol’ hulk like mine,’ says +he, ‘an’ you’ll find it a wonderful expensive craft +t’ keep in sailin’ order.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘You stick t’ pork,’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘I was thinkin’,’ says he, ‘o’ makin’ a small +investment in a few bottles o’ Hook’s Vigor. +Clerk o’ the <em>Free for All</em>,’ says he, ‘’lows ’tis a +wonderful nostrum t’ make the old feel young.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘You stick t’ pork,’ says I, ‘an’ be damned +t’ the clerk o’ the <em>Free for All</em>.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Maybe I better,’ says he, ‘an’ build up my +shoulders. They jus’ <em>got</em> t’ be humored.’ +</p> +<p> +“Ol’ Bill Hulk always ’lowed that if by God’s +chance they’d on’y come a fair fishin’ season +afore his shoulders give out he’d make a self-respectin’ +haul an’ be through. ‘Back give out +about thirteen year ago,’ says he, ‘the time I got +cotched by a dirty nor’easter on the Bull’s Horn +grounds. One o’ them strings back there sort +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_297'></a>297</span> +o’ went an’ snapped,’ says he, ‘jus’ as I was +pullin’ in the Tickle, an’ she isn’t been o’ much +use t’ me since. Been rowin’ with my shoulders +for a little bit past,’ says he, ‘an’ doin’ very fair in +southerly weather; but I got a saucy warnin’,’ +says he, ‘that they won’t stand nothin’ from the +nor’east. “No, sir,” says they; “nothin’ from +the nor’east for we, Bill Hulk, an’ don’t you put +us to it!” I’m jus’ a bit afeared,’ says he, ‘that +they might get out o’ temper in a southerly tumble; +an’ if they done that, why, I’d jus’ have t’ stop, +dear Lord!’ says he, ‘’ithout bein’ through! Isn’t +got no legs t’ speak of,’ says he, ‘but I don’t need +none. I got my arms runnin’ free,’ says he,’ an’ +I got one thumb an’ all my fishin’ fingers ’ceptin’ +two. Lungs,’ says he, ‘is so-so; they wheezes, +Tumm, as you knows, an’ they labors in a fog, +an’ aches all the time, but chances is they’ll <em>last</em>, +an’ a fair man can’t ask no more. As for liver, +Tumm,’ says he, ‘they isn’t a liver on these here +coasts t’ touch the liver I got. Why,’ says he, ‘I +never knowed I had one till I was told!’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Liver,’ says I, ‘is a ticklish business.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘’Lowin’ a man didn’t overeat,’ says he, +‘think he could spurt along for a spell on his +liver?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘I does,’ says I. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_298'></a>298</span> +</p> +<p> +“‘That’s good,’ says he; ‘for I’m countin’ a +deal on she.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Never you fear,’ says I. ‘<em>She’ll</em> stand +you.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Think she will?’ says he, jus’ like a child. +‘Maybe, then,’ says he, ‘with my own labor, +Tumm, I’ll buy my own grave at last!’ +</p> +<p> +“But the season bore hard on the ol’ man, an’ +when I balanced un up in the fall o’ the year, +the twelve thirty he’d been t’ leeward o’ the twenty-three +twenty-five Tom Neverbudge wanted for +the plot where the two little graves lay side by +side had growed t’ fifteen ninety-three. +</p> +<p> +“‘Jus’ where I was nine year ago,’ says he, +‘lackin’ thirty-four cents.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Never you fear,’ says I +</p> +<p> +“‘My God! Tumm,’ says he, ‘I got t’ do better +nex’ season.’” +</p> +<p> +Tumm paused to gaze at the stars. +</p> +<p> +“Still there,” I ventured. +</p> +<p> +“Winkin’ away,” he answered, “the wise little +beggars!” +</p> +<p> +The <em>Good Samaritan</em> dawdled onward. +</p> +<p> +“Well, now, sir,” Tumm continued, “winter +tumbled down on Gingerbread Cove, thick an’ +heavy, with nor’east gales an’ mountains o’ snow; +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_299'></a>299</span> +but ol’ Bill Hulk weathered it out on his own +hook, an’ by March o’ that season, I’m told, had +got so far along with his shoulder muscles that +he went swilin’ [sealing] with the Gingerbread +men at the first offshore sign. ’Twas a big pack, +four mile out on the floe, with rough ice, a drear +gray day, an’ the wind in a nasty temper. He +done very well, I’m told, what with the legs he +had, an’ was hard at it when the wind changed +to a westerly gale an’ drove the ice t’ sea. They +wasn’t no hope for Bill, with four mile o’ ice +atween him an’ the shore, an’ every chunk an’ +pan o’ the floe in a mad hurry under the wind: +<em>they</em> knowed it an’ <em>he</em> knowed it. ‘Lads,’ says +he, ‘you jus’ run along home or you’ll miss your +supper. As for me,’ says he, ‘why, I’ll jus’ +keep on swilin’. Might as well make a haul,’ +says he, ‘whatever comes of it.’ The last they +seed o’ Bill, I’m told, he was still hard at it, +gettin’ his swiles on a likely pan; an’ they all +come safe t’ land, every man o’ them, ’ceptin’ +two young fellers, I’m told, which was lost in +a jam off the Madman’s Head. Wind blowed +westerly all that night, I’m told, but fell jus’ after +dawn; an’ then they nosed poor ol’ Bill out o’ the +floe, where they found un buried t’ the neck in +his own dead swiles, for the warmth of the life +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_300'></a>300</span> +they’d had, but hard put to it t’ keep the spark +alight in his own chilled breast. +</p> +<p> +“‘Maybe I’m through,’ says he, when they’d +got un ashore; ‘but I’ll hang on so long as I’m +able.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Uncle Billy,’ says they, ‘you’re good for +twenty year yet.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘No tellin’,’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“‘Oh, sure!’ says they; ‘you’ll do it.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Anyhow,’ says he, ‘now that you’ve fetched +me t’ <em>land</em>,’ says he, ‘I got t’ hang on till the +<em>Quick as Wink</em> comes in.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘What for?’ says they. +</p> +<p> +“‘Nothin’ much,’ says he; ‘but I jus’ got to.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘You go t’ bed,’ says they, ‘an’ we’ll stow +them swile in the stage.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘I’ll lie down an’ warm up,’ says he, ‘an’ rest +for a spell. Jus’ a little spurt,’ says he, ‘jus’ a +little spurt—o’ rest.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘You’ve made a wonderful haul,’ says they. +</p> +<p> +“‘At last!’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“‘Rest easy,’ says they, ‘as t’ that.’ +</p> +<p> +“’Twas the women that put un t’ bed. +</p> +<p> +“‘Seems t’ me,’ says he, ‘that the frost has bit +my heart.’ +</p> +<p> +“So ol’ Bill Hulk was flat on his back when +I made Gingerbread Cove with supplies in the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_301'></a>301</span> +first o’ that season—anchored there in bed, sir, +at last, with no mortal hope o’ makin’ the +open sea again. Lord! how white an’ withered +an’ cold he was! From what a far-off place +in age an’ pain an’ weariness he looked back +at me! +</p> +<p> +“‘I been waitin’, Tumm,’ says he. ‘Does +you hear?’ +</p> +<p> +“I bent close t’ hear. +</p> +<p> +“‘I’m in a hurry,’ says he. ‘Isn’t got no +chance t’ pass the time o’ day. Does you hear?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Ay,’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘I got hopes,’ says he. ‘Tom Neverbudge +haves come down t’ twenty-two seventy-five. +You’ll find a old sock in the corner locker, +Tumm,’ says he, ‘with my fortune in the toe. +Pass un here. An’ hurry, Tumm, hurry, for I +isn’t got much of a grip left! Now, Tumm,’ +says he, ‘measure the swile oil in the stage an’ +balance me up for the las’ time.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘How much you got in that sock?’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘Nothin’ much,’ says he. ‘Jus’ a little left +over.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘But <em>how</em> much?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘I’m not wantin’ t’ tell,’ says he, ‘lest you +cheat me with kindness. I’d have you treat me +as a man, come what will.’ +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_302'></a>302</span> +</p> +<p> +“‘So help me God! then, Bill Hulk,’ says I, +‘I’ll strike that balance fair.’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Tumm!’ he called. +</p> +<p> +“I turned in the door. +</p> +<p> +“‘Oh, make haste!’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“I measured the swile oil, neither givin’ nor +takin’ a drop, an’ I boarded the <em>Quick as Wink</em>, +where I struck ol’ Bill Hulk’s las’ balance, fair t’ +the penny, as atween a man an’ a man. Ah! +but ’twas hard, sir, t’ add no copper t’ the mean +small total that faced me from the page: for the +fortune in the toe o’ Bill Hulk’s ol’ sock was +light enough, God knows! when I passed un +over. +</p> +<p> +“‘Tumm,’ says he, ‘is it a honest balance?’ +</p> +<p> +“‘It is,’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘Wait a minute!’ says he. ‘Jus’ a minute +afore you tells me. I isn’t quite ready.’ +</p> +<p> +“I watched the sun drop into the sea while I +waited. +</p> +<p> +“‘Now,’ says he, ‘tell me quick!’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Nine eighty-three,’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“’Add t’ that,’ says he, ‘the twelve ninety-three +in the sock. Quick, Tumm!’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“I scribbled it out. +</p> +<p> +“‘Wait!’ says he. ‘Just a minute, Tumm, +till I gets a better grip.’ +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_303'></a>303</span> +</p> +<p> +“I seed ’twas growin’ quite gray in the west. +</p> +<p> +“‘Now!’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“‘Uncle Billy,’ roars I, ‘tis twenty-two seventy-six!’ +</p> +<p> +“‘Send for Tom Neverbudge!’ cries he: ‘for +I done it—thank God, I done it!’ +</p> +<p> +“I fetched Tom Neverbudge with me own +hands t’ trade that grave for the fortune o’ ol’ +Bill Hulk,” Tumm proceeded, “an’ I seed for +meself, as atween a party o’ the first part an’ a +party o’ the second, that ’twas all aboveboard an’ +ship-shape, makin’ what haste I was able, for +Bill Hulk’s anchor chain showed fearful signs +o’ givin’ out. +</p> +<p> +“‘Is it done?’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“‘All fast,’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘A plot an’ a penny left over!’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“‘A plot an’ a penny,’ says I. +</p> +<p> +“‘Tumm,’ says he, with a little smile, ‘I needs +the plot, but <em>you</em> take the penny. ’Tis sort o’ +surprisin’,’ says he, ‘an’ wonderful nice, too, t’ +be able t’ make a bequest. I’d like t’ do it, +Tumm,’ says he, ‘jus’ for the feel of it, if you +don’t mind the size.’ +</p> +<p> +“I ’lowed I’d take it an’ be glad. +</p> +<p> +“‘Look you! Bill Hulk,’ says Neverbudge, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_304'></a>304</span> +‘if them graves is goin’ t’ trouble you, I’ll move +un an’ pay the cost o’ labor. There, now!’ says +he; ‘that’s kind enough.’ +</p> +<p> +“Bill Hulk got up on his elbow. ‘<em>What</em>’ll +you do along o’ my plot?’ says he. +</p> +<p> +“‘Move them graves,’ says Neverbudge. +</p> +<p> +“‘You leave my plot be, Tom Neverbudge!’ +says Bill. ‘What you think I been wantin’ t’ lie +in that plot for, anyhow?’ +</p> +<p> +“Tom Neverbudge ’lowed he didn’t know. +</p> +<p> +“‘Why,’ says ol’ Bill Hulk, ‘jus’ t’ lie alongside +them poor lonely little kids!’ +</p> +<p> +“I let un fall back on the pillow. +</p> +<p> +“‘I’m through, Tumm,’ says he, ‘an’ I ’low +I’ll quit.’ +</p> +<p> +“Straightway he quit....” +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +Wind astern, moonlight and mist upon the +sea, a serene and tender sky, with a multitude of +stars benignantly peeping from its mystery: and +the <em>Good Samaritan</em> dawdled on, wing and wing +to the breeze, bound across from Sinners’ Tickle +to Afterward Bight, there to deal for the first of +the catch. Tumm looked up to the sky. He was +smiling in a gentle, wistful way. A little psa’m +from his Bible? Again I wondered concerning +the lesson. “Wink away,” said he, “you little +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_305'></a>305</span> +beggars! Wink away—wink away! You been +lookin’ at this damned thing so long that no +wonder you winks. Wink away! I’m glad +you’ve the heart t’ do it. I’m not troubled by +fears when you winks down, you’re so wonderful +wiser’n we. Wink on, you knowin’ little +beggars!” +</p> +<p> +This, then, it seemed, was the lesson. +</p> +<div class='center'> +<p>THE END</p> +</div> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Every Man for Himself, by Norman Duncan + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF *** + +***** This file should be named 36998-h.htm or 36998-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/6/9/9/36998/ + +Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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