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ft^ lCT praw MSOUITION TiST CHART
(ANSI ond ISO TEST CHART No. 2)
,>x'u pane iot
SHK WAS TROMISKI) l<) SLOW JIM TOOI,
I
I
m
I
I
/
EVERY MAN
FOR
HIMSELF
BY
NORMAN OUNCAN
AIM HORtTf
•■nil ( Ki isi: jMv. \iiiM\i, I n.iii"
"UOCTOK LUKK OF Tllh LABKADOH"
KTC. BTC.
i-J A. S '
NEW YORK AND LONDON
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBUSHERS
MCMVIII
j i Copyright, 1906, 1907, 1908, by Harpi* & Brothhs.
Copyrisht, 1906, by Houghton, MirpuN, and ConrAHV.
Copyiight, ifoSi t>y Ths Outlook Commmv.
CoR'riiitt, i9py, by Tnm CBM-rrav Co.
PabtttM S^lraibcr, 1908.
I
CONTENTS
CHAP.
I. The Waytarbr ""'t
II. A MATTift OF Expediency 40
III. The Minstrel 66
IV. The Squall ,^8
V. The Fool of Skklf.ton Ticki k ... 1^2
VI. A Comedy of Candlestick Cove ... 149
VII. " By-an'-by" Brown of Blunder Cove 182
VIII. They Who Lose at Love 208
IX. The Revolution at Satan's T» i« . . 231
X. The Surplus 273
ILLUSTRATIONS
SHE WAS PROMISED TO SLOW JIM TOOL . Frontispiece
" I SEED THE SHAPE OF A MAN LEAP FOR
MY PLACE " . Facing p. 62
THE DARK, SMILING SALIM, WITH HIS MAGIC
PACK, WAS WELCOME " gg
" YOU KEEP YOUR TONGUE OFF POOR 'lIZ-
ABETH " " 112
"you was fixed all RIGHT?" PARSON
JAUNT ASKED " ,^g
OL' bill HULK CRAWLIN' DOWN THE HILL
t' meetin' " "
276
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
EVERY MAN FOR
HIMSELF
I
THE WAYFARER
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 restles? wi»id : it would
not leave the night at ease. The trader Good
Samaritan lay at anchor in Poor Man's Harbor
on the Newfoundland coast: this c.^ her last voy-
age 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 Htter of goods in the cabin
I
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
restored to the hooks and shelves. The crew was
in the forecasde — a lolling, snoozy lot, now des-
perately 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.
With one blast — a swishing exhalation break-
ing 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 ^ance from
eye to eye until the crew sat in uneasy expectancy.
" If a lad's mother tells un he \e got a soul,"
he began, " it don't do no wonderful harm; but
if a man finds it out for hisself — "
The pause was for effect; so, too, the pointed
finger, the lifted nostrils, the deep, inclusive
glance.
" — i' plays the devil P
The ship's boy, a cadaverous, pasty, red-eyed,
drooj)ing-jawed youngster from the Cove o' First
G)usins, gasped in a painful way. He came closer
to the forecastle table — a fascinated rabbit.
THE WAYFARER
"Billy 111," said Tumm, "you better turn in."
"I isn't sleepy, sir."
" I 'low yc J better had" Tumm warned. " It
ain't fit for such as you t* hear."
The boy's voice dropped to an awed whisper.
"I wants t' hear," he said.
"Hear?"
"Ay, sir. I wants t' hear about souls — an'
the devil."
Tumm sighed. "Ah, well, lad," said he, "I
'low you was bom t' be troubled by fears. God
help us all!"
We waited.
"He come," Tumm be^an, "from Jug Cove
bein*," he added, indulgently, after a significant
pause, "bom 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 contmued,
"that 'tis the only excuse a man could have for
haihV from Jug Cove; for," he elucidated, "'tis
a mean place t* the westward o* Fog Island, a
bit below the Black Gravestones, where the
Soldier o* the Cross was picked up by Satan's
3
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
Tail in the nor'easter o' last fall. You opens the
Cove when you rounds Greedy Head o' the Hen-
an'-Chickens an' lays a c(uirse 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 Quick as Wink 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 nastv a front vard o' sea as ever I
knowed. ,
"'Ecod!' thinks I, 'I'll just take a run ashore t^
see how bad a mess really was made o' Jug Cove.'
"Which bein' done, I crossed courses for the
first time with Abraham Botch— Botch by name,
an' botch, accordin' t' my poor lights, by nat-
ure: 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;
4
THE WAYFARER
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 1 could see, down below, the
seventeen houses o' Jug Cove, an' the sweet little
Quick as Wink; 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!
"'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.*
"An' then—
"'Good-even,' says Abraham Botch.
' There he lied— on the blue, spongy caribou-
moss, at the edge o' the clifF, with the black-
5
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
an'^^ite 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 chctt
as thin as paper; but aloft he carried more sail
*n the law aUows--«ky-scraper, star-gazer, an',
ayl even the curse-o'-God-over-all. That was
Botch— mostly head, an* a sight more forehead
than face, God help an! 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 r' Jug Cove: eyes in his head; his
dirty, lean boay clothed in patched moleskin an*
rotten leather.
"An'—
*** Good-even, yourself,' says I.
*• * My name's Botch,* says he. * Isn't you from
. the Quick as fFinkr
"'I is,' says I; 'an' they calls me Tumm.*
"'That's a very queer name,' says he.
6
THE WAYFARER
"'Oh nor says I. 'They isn't nothin' queer
about the name o* Tumm.*
"He laughed a bit— an* robbed his feet to-
gether: just like a tickled youngster. 'Ay,' says
he; 'that's a wonderful queer name. HarkP
says he. 'You just listen, an' I'll shmv you.
Tumm,' says he, 'Tumm, Tumm, Tumm
Tumm, Tumm, Tumm. . . . Tumm—'
"*I>onV says I, for it give me the fidgets.
Don t say it so often.'
"'Why not?* says he.
'"I don't like it," says I.
"'Tumm,' says he, with a little cackle, 'Tumm,
Tumm, Tumm — *
"'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 veiy queer name. I wisht,* says I, 'that
I'd been called Smith.*
""Twouldn't make no difference,' says he.
'AH names is queer if you stops t' think. Eveiy
word you ever spoke is queer. Everything is
queer. It's all queer— once you stops t' think
about it.'
"*Then I don't think 1*11 stop,' says I, 'for
I don't like things t* be queer.'
"Then Botch had a Kttle spell o' thinkin'."
7
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
Tuinm leaned over the forecaitle table.
"Now/* said he, forefinger lifted, "accord.n t
my lights, it ain't nice t' see any man thinkin':
for a real man 'ain't get no call f think, an' can t
afford the time on the coast o' Ncwf 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 Icpttc
fit for fits is more or less natural an* cant be
helped But Botch! When Botch Mun^— when
he got hard at it-*twould give you the shivers.
He sort o' drawed away— got into nothm . 1 hey
wasn't no sea nor shore for Botch no more; they
wasn't no earth, no heavens. He got nd o all
that, as though it hindered the work he was at,
an' didn't matter, anyhow. They wasn't nothm
left o' things but Botch— an' the nothm about
un. Botch in 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 opmions.
'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 nght,
nor wise, for a man's soul t' do no such thmg.
' A man's soul 'ain't got no common-sense ; it am .
got no caution, no manners, no nothm' that it
needs in a wicked world like this. When it gets
8
THE WAYFARER
loose, 't is liable t' wander far, an* get lost, an*
miss its supper. Accordin' t' my lights, it ou^t
t' he kep' in, i'n' fed an' washed regular, an' put
t' hed at nine o'clock. But Botch! well, there
lied his hody in the wet, like an unloved child,
while his soul went cavonin' over the Milky Way.
"He come to ?ll of a sudden. 'Tiimm,' says
he, 'you is.'
"'Ay,' says I, 'Tumm I is. Ti» the name I
was born with.'
" ' You don 't find me,' sayj he. ' I says you is*
"* Is what?'
"•just-ivr
"With that, I took un. Twas all t' oncet.
Hewastellin'methatlwtf/. Well, I w. Damme!
'twasn't anything I didn't know 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'pr*<ed. It
don't matter, look you! t' be; but 'tis mixm' t' the
mind an* feanome t* stop t' think about it. An'
it come t* me all t* oncet; an* I was s'prised, an*
I was scared.
'"Now, Tumm,* says he, with his finger p'int-
in', 'where was you V
"'Fishin' off the Shark's Fin,' says I. *We
ju.st come up loaded, an' — *
9
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
"'You d<Mi*t find me,* says he. *I says, where
was you afore you was is ?*
*"Is you gone mad ?' says I.
"'Not at all, Tumm,' says he. 'Not at all!
'Tis a plain question. You isy isn't you ? Well,
then, you must have been was. Now, then,
Tumm, v.^here was you ?'
"* Afore I was bomf
"* Ay — afore you was is.*
"* God knows!' says I. 'I 'low / don't. An'
look you, Botch,' says I, 'this talk ain't ri^t.
You isn't a infidel, is you ?*
"Oh no!' says he.
"'Then,' says I, for I was .nad, 'where in hell
did you think up all this ghostly tomfoolery ?'
"*On the grounds,* says he.
"*On the grounds V Lads,** said Tumm to
the crew, his voice falling, ** you hnxms what that
means, doesn't you ?"
The Jug Cove fishing-grounds lie off Break-
heart 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
10
THE WAYFARER
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, unpro-
voked wrath; of unsought and surprising gentle-
nesses. 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, re-
mote and cruel. Seaward, fogs and winds are
bred; the inisty 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,
II
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
restless place. At night its infinite spaces are
alight with the dread marvel of stars. The uni-
verse is voiceless and indifferent. It has no pur-
pose—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 iiom dawn to dark the punts of
Jug Cove float in the midst of these terrors.
"Eh?" Tumm resumed. *'Tou knows wh?*
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 th«re on the grounds, between Break-heart
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'f The more I've thunk, the less
I've knowed. 'Tis all come down t' this, now.
THE WAYFARER
Tumm : that I is. An* if I I'j, I was an* will be.
But sometimes I misdoubt the was; an* if I loses
my grip on the was, Tumm, my God! what 'II
become o' the will be ? Can you tell me that,
Tumm ? Is I got t' come down t' the is ? Can't
I build nothin' on that ? Can't I go no further
than the is ? An* will I lose even that ? Is 1 got
t' come down t* knowin* nothin* at all ?*
"'Look you! Botch,' says I, *don*t you know
the price o' fish ?*
"'No,' says he. 'But it ain't nothin' t' know.
It ain't worth knowin'. It— it— it don't matter!*
"*I 'low,' says I, 'your wife don't think like-
wise. You got a wife, isn't you ?*
"'Ay,' says he.
"*An' a kid?*
"*I don't know,' says he.
"'You whatV says I.
"'I don't know,' says he. 'She was engaged
at it when I con)e up on the K jad. They was a
lot o' women in the house, an' a wonderful lot o*
fuss an* muss. You'd be s prised, Tumm,' says
he, *t* know how much fuss a thing like this can
make. So,' says he, 'I *lowed Fd come up on the
Pillar o' Cloud an' think a spell in peace.'
"'An' what ?' says I.
'"Have a little spurt at thinkin'.'
'3
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
••'O'she?'
"'Oh no, Tumm/ says he; *ihat ain't nothin*
think 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.*
*'An' with that," drawled Tumm, "down the
Pillar o' Cloud goes Abraham Botch."
He paused to laugh; and 'twas a soft, sad little
laugh— dwelling upon things long past.
"An' by-and-by," he continued, "I took the
goat-path t* the water-side; an' I went aboard the
Quick as Wink in a fog o' dreams an' questions.
The crew was weighin' anchor, then; an' 'twas
good for the soul t' feel the deck-planks under-
foot, 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' some-
thing with my hands— something real an' solid;
something I knows about; something that means
something!' For all this talk o' the is an' was,
*an' all these thoughts o' the why, an' all the ciy-
baby 'My Godsl' o' Abraham Botch, an' the
mystery o' the wee new soul, had made me diz^
14
THE WAYFARER
in the head an' a bit sick at the stomach. So I
took the wheeU 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 cmcet
I got the Quick as Wink in diem 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.
*"I won't care a squid,' thinks I, 'for the why
nor the wherefore o' nothin' 1'
"'N neither I did."
The skipper of the Gooa Samaritan yawned.
" Isn't they nothin' about fish in this here yam f*
he asked.
"Nor tradin'," snapped Tumm.
"Nothin' about love?"
" Botch never knowed about love."
"If you'll 'scuse me," said the skipper, "I'll
turn in. I got enoug^."
But the clammy, red-eyed lad from the Cove
>5
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
o' First Cousins hitched closer to the table, and
put his chin in tiis hands. He was now in a
shower of yellow light from the forecastle lamp.
His nostrils were working; his eyes were wide
aiid restless and hot. He had bitten at a chap-
ped underlip until the blood came.
"About that if/7/ he" he whispered, timidly.
"Did Botch never say — where?"
"You better turn in," Tumm answered.
"But I wants t' know!"
Tumm averted his face. " 111," he command-
ed, quietly, "you better turn in."
The boy was obedient.
" In March, 'long about two year after," Tumm
resumed, "I shipped for the ice aboard the
Neptune. 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 Ukely 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,
16
THE WAYFARER
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.
***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."
"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 momin'; an' in the momin', out
o' the blizzard t' win'ward, along comes Abraham
17
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
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 i 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 fuss/ 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.
*"Ahoy, Botch!' sings I.
"He knowed me t' oncet. 'Tumml* he sings
out. 'Well, well I ThsA you F
"'TTic same,' says I. 'You got a bad berth
i8
THE WAYFARER
there, Botch. I wish you was aboard the beig
widi me.'
"'Oh,* says he, 'the pan 'II do. 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 for'
"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 whidin'
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 Gove!
"'This wind,' says I, 'will work up a wonder-
ful big sea. Botch. You'll be swep' off afore
nightfall.'
"'No,' says he; 'for by good luck, Tumm, I'm
froze tight t' the pan.'
"'But the seas *11 drown you.'
"'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 1*11 be able
t' duck most o' the big seas.*
«9
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
"It wasn't nice t* see the gentle wicteh s()uat-
tin' there on his haunches. It made me feel bad.
I wisht he was home t' Jug Cove thinkin' of his
soul.
"'Botch,' says I, 'I wisht you was some-
wheres else!'
"'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.'
"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 feehn';
an' I didn't fret for un no more.
"*An', Tumm,' says he, 'I've had a wonderful
grand night. I'll never forget it so long as I
lives.'
"'A what ?' says I. 'Wasn't you cold V
"'I — I — I don't know,' says he, puzzled. 'I
was too busy t' notice much.'
"'Isn't you hungry?'
"'Why, Tumm,' says he, in s'prise, * I believes
I is, now that you mentions it. I believe I'd
like a biscuit.'
• "'I wisht I had one t' shy,' says I.
'"Don't you be troubled,' says he. *My arms
is stuck. I couldn't cotch it, anyhow.*
20
THE WAYFARER
•"Anyhow,' says I, 'I wislu 1 had (mic'
"'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 our,
Tumm,' says he, 'a law o' lifV! Look you!
Tumm,' says he, 'what you aboard that l)erg 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,' snvs he. 'No
coast is kin-' Men lives because they're ahle 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 / got t' die. They don't live, Tumm, an'
they don't breed.'
"'What about you ?' says I.
*** About me ?' says he.
***Ay— that day on the Pillar o' Qoud.*
"'Oh!' says he. * You mean about jA^. Well,
it didn't come t' nothin', Tumm. The women
21
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
folk wasn't able t' find me, an' they cidn't know
which I wanted sove, the mother or the child;
so, somehow or other, both went an* died afore I
got then*. But that isn't got nothin* t* do with
this.*
"Hc! 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'.
"'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 bergj
maybe you'd be like t' starve, an' I'd get so much
as forty cents a day the year round. Thcy'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 somcwheres for such as
me— somewheres for the likes o' me. T' the
s'uth'ard, now, maybe, they'o bf 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 pay for the labor I'm put to ! But here,
you lives, an' I dies. Don't you see, Tumm ?
'Tis the law! 'Tis why a Newfun'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
22
THF WAYFARER
haves legs an' t swile haves flippen. Don't you
see ? 'Tis the law !'
*" I don't quite find you,' says I.
"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.'
'"But tell me,* says I.
"Then, by Botch's regular ill luck, under he
went, an' it took un quite a spell t' cough his vwce
into workin' order.
"'Excuse me,' says he. 'I'm soriy. It come
too suddent t' be ducked.'
"'Sure!' says I. '/don't mind.'
"'Tumm,' says he, *it all comes down t* this:
The thing that lives is the kind o' thing that's best
fit /' live in the place it lives in. That's a law
o' life! An' nobody but me, Tumm,' says he,
'ever knowed it afore!'
"'It don't amount t' nothin',' says I.
""Tis a law o' lif J'
"'But it don't nuan nothin'.'
"'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 some-
body what I thunk out last night if you got clear
o' this ■mess. An' I wanted everybody t* know.
I did so want un t* know— an' t* know that Abra-
« 23
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
ham Botch o' Jug Cove did the thinkin' all by
hisself! But you don't seem able. An', any-
how,' 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 won't^
mind, will you, Tumm ? I wouldn't like you t'
feel bad.'
"'Lord, no!' says I. '/ won't mind.'
"'Thank you, Tumm,' says he. 'For I'm
greatly took by thinkin'.'
"An' so Botch sputtered an' thunk an' kep' his
neck limber 'til he drifted out o' sight in the
snow."
But that was not the last of the Jug Cove
philosopher.
"Next time I seed Botch," Tumm resumed,
"we was both shipped by chance for the Labrador
from Twillingate. 'Twas aboard the dirty little
Three Sisters— z thirty-ton, fore-an'-aft green-
• fish catcher, skippt red by Mad Bill Likely o'
Yellow Tail Tickle. An' poor Botch didn't look
healthful. He was blue an' wan an' wonderful
24
THE WAYFARER
thin. An' he didn't look at all right. Poor
Botch — Svi, poor old Botch! They wasn't no
more o' them fuddlin* questions; they wasn't no
more a' that cock sure, tickled little cackle. Them
big» r 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 do 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 Three Sisters with that devil
of a Mad Bill Likely o' Yellow Tail Tickle for
skipper.
"'Botch,' says I, when we was off Mother
Burke, 'how is you, b'y?*
"*Oh, farin' along,* says he.
"* Ay,* says I; *but how is you, b*y V
25
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
"'Farin' along,' says he.
** * It ain*t a answer,' says I. * Vm askin' a plain
question, Botch.*
"'Well, Tumm,' says he, 'the fac' is, Tumm,
I'm — sort o' — jus* — farin' along.*
"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' care-
less an' happy toward the Labrador. The sea
was sound a ieep; 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* play-
ful an' white; it said, 'Hushl* 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. 'Well take care o' you.^
An' t* win'ward — ^far dF— -black an* low — ^was
Cape Norman o* NewTun'Iand. NewTun'land!
Ah, we're all mad with love o* shel 'Good-
26
THE WAYFARER
night!* says she. *Fair vyge,' says she; *an'
may you come home loaded!' Sleep? Ay; men
could -'ecp that night. They wasn't no fear at
sea. Sleep ? Ay; they wasn't no fear in all the
moonlit world.
"An' then up from the forecastle comes Botch
o' Jug Cove.
"*Tumm,* says he, 'you isn't turned in.*
"*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.'
"*I can't sleep,' says he. *Oh, Tumm, I
can t!
""Tis a wonderful fine night,' says I.
"'Ay,' says he; 'but—'
"'But what?* says I.
"'You never can tell,* says he
"'Never can tell what?*
"'What's goin' t' happen.*
"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 ?*
"'You never can tell/ says he.
"'Good Lord!* says I. 'With Mad Bill
Likely o' Yellow Tail Tickle at the wheel?
Botch/ says I, 'you're gone mad. What's comt
^^
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
along o' you? Where's the if an' the was an*
the will he? What's ccMne o' that law o' life ?'
"*Hist!* says he.
"*Not me!' says I. 'I'll hush for no man.
What's come o' the bw o' life ? What's come o*
all the thinkin' ?'
"•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' he in them old days.'
"•You isn't had a fever, Botch ?' says I.
"'Well,' says he, 'I got religion.'
"'Oh!' says I. 'What kind?'
"'Vi'lent,' says he.
"*1 see,' says I.
"'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 been con-
verted, 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.'
' "'Botch, b'y,' says I, for it made me feel awful
bad, 'don't you go an' trouble about that.*
"*You don't know about hell,' says he.
28
THE WAYFARER
" ' I does know about htll,' says I. * My mother
told me.*
Ay/ savs he; * she told vou. But you doesn't
know.'
"'Botch,' says I, "twould s'prise me if she left
anything out.'
"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.
"'You got a soul, Tumm,' says he.
"*I knows that,' says I.
" ' How ?' says he.
"'My mother told me.*
" 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 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.
"'I got converted,' says Botch, 'by means of a
red-headed parson from the Cove o* the Easterly
Winds. Hf knowed everything, Th^ wasn't
no why he wasn*t able t* answer. "The glory o*
29
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
God," says he; an' there was an end to it. An'
bein' converted of a suddent,' says Botch, 'with-
out givin' much thought t* what might come after,
I 'lowed the parson had the rights of it. Any-
how, 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 that. The
fac' is, he told me so. "Whatever," thinks I,
" che glory o' God does well enough, if a man only
will 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' sanc-
tification if I kep* on in the straight an* narrow
way. So I went no more t* the grounds. For
what was the use 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 mind 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
30
THE WAYFARER
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, thinkir/ about
laws o' life when you got a immonal soul on
your hands. I wanted t' save that soul! Jn* I
wants f save it now!'
"'Well,' says I, 'ain't it sove ?'
"'No,' says he; 'for I couldn't help thinkin'.
An* when I thunk, Tumm — whenever I fell from
grace an* thunk real hard — I couIdn*t believe
some o' the things the red-headed parson said I
had t' believe if I wanted t* save my soul from
hell.'
"'Botch,' says I, 'leave your soul be.*
"'I can't,' says he. 'I can't! I got a im-
mortal soul, Tumm. What's t' become o' that
there soul ?*
"* Don't you trouble it,* says I. 'Leave it be.
'Tis too tender t' trif:e with. An', anyhow,* says
I, 'a man's belly is all he can handle without
strainin'.*
"'But 'tis mine — my soul!'
"'Leave it be,' says L 'It '11 get t' heaven.'
"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 Three Sisters^ which was built by the hands
31
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
()' nun, slippin' across the Straits t' the Labrador,
in the light o' the old, old moon— there stood
Botch like a man in tanure!
"*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, pcepin' 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 fanl'
"'You'd get pretty well singed. Botch,' says I.
"'I'd want t' be singed!' says he.
♦"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.'
"'I can't,' says he.
"'It '11 get t' one place or t'other,' says I, 'if
you on'y bides your time.'
"'How do you know ?' says he.
"'Why,' says I, 'any parson '11 tell you Pol'
"'But how do you know?' says he.
"'Damme, Botch!' says I, 'my mother told
, me so.'
"'That's it!' says he.
"'What's itf
"*Your mother,* says he. "Tis all hearsay
32
THE WAYFARER
with an* me. But I wants t* know for my-
self. Heaven or hell, damnation or salvation,
God or nothin'!' says he. *I wouldn't care if I
on'y knovued. But 1 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, */ tuants f knowP
"'Easy,* says I. 'Easy there I Don't you
say no more. 'Tis mixin* t* the mind. So,*
says I, *I 'low I'll turn in for the night.'
"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 fin-
ger down on the page, an' I got all my nerves
t'gerher — an I looked! Then I closed the
Book. They wasn't much of a message; it
donit t* be sure, but *twasn*t much: for that there
yam 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' 1 cotched poor
33
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
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' they
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' lee-
ward through all eternity. You leave me be,'
says I. * Don't you never say soul t' mc no more!'
" I 'low," Tumm sighed, while he picked at a
\ t 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!"
He sighed again.
*• We fished the Farm Yard," Tumm con-
tinued, "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 an3n)irhere8 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-sh(» gull; but we didn't come up with no
34
THE WAYFARER
fish. Down went the trap, an' up she come:
not even a L npiish or a bbser 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 cry." So we
*Iowed 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.
"Then we started south.
"*Tunim,* says Botch, when we was well
underway, 'we're deep. We*re awful deep.*
35
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
"* lint It ain't salt,' says I; "tis Hsh.'
*"Ay,' says lit; 'but 'tis all the same t* the
schooner. We'll have wind, an' she'll complain/
"We coaxed her from harbor t' harbor so far
as Indian Tickle. Then we got a fair wind, an'
Mad Bill Likely 'lowed he'tl make a run tor 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 Three Sisters 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. Sho'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' 1 knowed Botch an' me would go under,
an' 1 knowed the foothold was slippery with ice;
so I called the fac's t* Botch's attention, an'
aske i on not t' think too much.
.36
THE WAYFARER
"Tve give that up,* says he.
"'Well,' says I, 'you might get another at-
tackr.'
**'N() fear,' says he; * 'tis Mishness t' think.
It don't come t' nothin'.'
"'But you might," says I.
"'Not in a moment o' grace,* says he. 'An',
Tumm,' says he, 'at this instant, my condition,'
says he, 'is one o* salvation.'
"'Then,' savs I, 'von follow me, an* we'll do
a t'dv job with that thtix stays'I.'
'*/\n* out on the jil ' oom we went. We'd
pretty near finished C- \ th when the Three
Sisters stuck her nose into a thimdering 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' s.^lt water. We was still
there w hen the second sea broke. But when the
third fell, an' my eu'> ""i^ shut, an' 1 was grip-
pin' the boom for dear life, 1 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 tuj^n* at my leg like a whale on a
fish-line. I knowed 'twas Botch, without look in',
for it couldn't be nothin' else. An' when \ look-
ed, I seed un l)in' in the foam at th( schooner's
bow, bobbin' under an' up. His head was on a
37
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
pillow o' froth, an' his legs was swingin' in a green,
bubblish swirl beyond.
"•Hold fast!' I yelled.
"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.
"'Hold fast!' says I.
"He nodded a most agreeable thank you. *I
wants t' think a minute,' says he.
"'Take both hands!' says I.
"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.
"'Tumm!' says Botch.
"'Hold fast!' says I.
"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.
" ' Tumm,' says he, ' I — '
"*I don't hear,' says I.
"*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.'
"'Hold fast, you fooll' says I.
"I swear by the God that made me," Tumm
38
THE WAYFARER
declared, "that he was smilin' the last I seed of
his i..te 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."
The story was ended.
A tense silence was broken by a gentle snore
from the skipper of the Good Samaritan. I turn-
ed. The head of the lad from the Cove o' First
Cousins protruded from his bunk. It was with-
drawn on the instant. But I had caught sight
of the drooping eyes and of the wide, flaring
nostrils.
"See that, sir?" Tumm asked, with a back-
ward nod toward the boy's bunk.
I nodded.
"Same old thing," he laughed, sadly. "Goes
on t' the end o' the world."
We all know that.
II
A MATTER OF EXPEDIENCY
SURE enough, old man Jowl came aboard
the Good Samarita i at Mad Tom's Harbor
to trade his fish — a lean, leatheiy 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 Newfound-
land cod should be. Tumm's prediction that he
would not smile came true; his long countenance
had no variation of expression — ^toug^ 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 abnn-
dant 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,
40
A MATTER OF EXPEDIENCY
for she had a baby to nurse, and was pressed for
opportunity. This was tenderness beyond ex-
ample—generous and acute. A clean, pioqs,
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; hav-
ing no sympathy, but a large intent to profit, ul-
timately, whatever the cost. Tumm had bade
me look Jowl in the eye; and to thi$ day I have
not forgotten. . . .
The Good Samaritan 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.
"I 'low," Tumm mused, "/ wouldn't want t'
grow old."
The skipper grinned.
*'Not," Tumm added, "on this coast."
"Ah, well, Tumm," the skipper jeered, "may-
be you won't!"
"I'd be ashamed," said Tumm.
"You dunderhead!" snapped the skipper, who
41
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
was old, "on this coast an oW man's a man!
He've lived through enough," he growled, "t'
show it."
" 'Tis accordin'," said Tumm.
"To what?" I asked.
*'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
man o* the party, an' the swine goes free. But
'tis all just accordin' t' how you looks at it; an'
as for my taste, I'd be ashamed t' come through
fifty year o' life on this coast alive."
"Ay, b'y?" the skipper inquired, with a curl
of the lip.
"It wouldn't look right," dHiwIed Tumm.
The skipper laughed good-naturedly.
"Now," said Tumm, "you take the case o' old
man Jowl o' Mad Tom's Harbor—"
"Excuse me, Tumm b'y," the skipper in-
terrupted. " If you're goin' t' crack off, just bide
a spell till I gets on deck."
Presently we heard his footsteps going aft. . . .
"A wonderful long time ago, sir," Tumm be-
gan, "when Jowl was in his prime an' I was a
lad, we was shipped for the Labrador aboard the
42
A MATTER OF EXPEDIENCY
W I ngs o' the Af omirt. She was a thirty-ton fore-
an'-after, o* Tuggleby's build— Tu^lcby o* Dog
Harbor — hailin' from Witch Cove, an' bound
down t' the Wayward Tickles, with a fair inten-
tion 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 cS 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 fVings o
the Mornin 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
43
EVERY MAN FPU HlM' aE LF
her last, an' begun t' roll under our fe«t, dead as
a log. So we went below have a cup o' tea.
*'* Don't spare the rations, cook,* says the
skipper. 'Might as well go with full bellies.'
"The cook got sick t' oncet.
"'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 ?'
" ' On deck, sir,' says the cook.
***ril call you, b'y,* says the skipper.
"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.
"'You want t' be called, Billy?' says the
skipper.
"'Ay, sir; please, sir,' says the first hand.
"*A11 right, Billy,' says the skipper. *But
you vran*t care enough t' get out.'
"The skipper was next.
"^Toii goin', tool' says Jowl.
"'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.'
"The second hand come down an* 'lowed we'd
better get the pumps goin'.
"'She's sprung a leak somewheies aft/ says he.
44
A MATTER OF EXPEDIENCY
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 wc lashed ourselves handy an'
pumped away— me an' the second hand on one
side an' Jowl on the other. The Wings o the
Mornin 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 notic»i.
"Tm give out,' says the second hand, afore
night.
"'Them men in the forecastle isn't treatin'
us right,' says Jowl. 'They ought t' lend a
hand.'
"The second hand bawled down t' the crew;
but nar a man would come on deck.
"'Jowl,' says he, 'you have a try.*
"Jowl went down aa' 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 ccune back. An' when I went below t'
rout un out cS it, he was stowed away in his bunk,
all out o* sorts an* wonderful melancholy. * Isn't
no use, Tumm,* says he. *h isn't no use.'
45
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
•** Get out o' this!* says the cook. * You woke
me up!'
**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.
" ' They isn't treatin us right,' says Jowl.
"'I 'low you're right,' says I, 'but what you
goin' t' dot
"'What you think?' says he.
"'Pump,' says I.
•"Might's well,' says he. 'She's fillin' up.'
"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 black-
ness o' the sky, was mean — just almighty careless
an* mean. An' pumpin* didn't seem t' do no
good; for why ? ive 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 weather-
ed 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
46
A MATTER OF EXPEDIENCY
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 JowKs 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.
'"What' 's gone along o' you ?' says I.
The swine 1' says he. * Come below, Tumm,*
says he, 'an' we'll give un a dose o' fists an* feet/
"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 back-
bone 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
47
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
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, what-
ever 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 JiJ 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 oeace with our own
stomachs.
"'The swine!' says Jowl. 'Let un drown!'
"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!
"'Me pump!' says he.
"'You better,' says I.
"'For what ?'
"'For your life,' says I.
"'An' save them swine in the forecastle ?' says
he. 'Not met
48
A MATTER OF EXPEDIENCY
"I 'lowed it didn't matter, anyhow, for 'twas
only a question o' keepin' the ^ings o' the
Mormn out o' the grave for a spcl! 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 brcakin' over us, fore an'
aft an' port an' starboard, t' suit their fancy, an'
the wreck o' the ff^ings o' the Momin 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 he had! But / was
busy.
"'Look you, Jowl,' sings I, *you better take
a spell at the pump.'
"'Me.?' says he.
"'Yes, yoiiT
"'Oh no!' says he.
"* You think I'm goin' t' do all this labor single-
handed says I.
""Tis your own notion,' says he.
"Til see you sunk, Jowl!* says I, 'afore I
49
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
pumps another stroke. If you wants t* drown
afore night I'll not {under. C* no, Mister JowTf
says I. ' I'll not be standtn' in your light.*
•"Tumm,' says he, 'I got a idea.'
"'Dear man!' says I.
"'The wind's tnoderafin',' sa\s he, 'at
wo i I r:e long afore rhe sea get^ civil, hut
the ffitiL o' the ^fornin won't ftoat overlcmg.
She'vc been settlin' hasty for the la^ hoar. Still
an' all, I low I got umt t* make a raft, which
I'll do.'
"'Look!' says I
'Off near whi e the ,un was settin' the clouds
broke, "i was but a lit, but it 'et loose a fl od
o' red light. 'Twas a blood\ sky an' st i— re«'
as shed blood, but full o* tiu pronase o peace
which foUws stomi, as the good God directs.
"*I Tow,' says he, *the wind will go down
with the sun.'
"The vessel was makin' heavy I fhoi of
'I bets you,' sa>^ I, 'the ff^tngs o th, M
beats un both.'
"'Time il tell,' says he.
"I give un a haiwJ with the raft. n' ha d
work 'twas; i«ver kno«- -^ no harder, before noi
since, with the seas cOTtan' overside, an' the deck
pttchin' like mad, an' the night droppin' down.
A MAT Ei. OF EXPEDIENCY
E<od! bm 1 isn't able t' tell yo j. I for|^8 what
^ done in the red tight o* that 'Twas
labor ior pams an' devils! Biu we had the raft
i rht watt r afore dark, ridin' in the lee, dF the
hulk u lidn't !()<'' health.. was hy no
iT.tans I ivi' h - /f'/Vj^j- r/ ■ M'.nnn was
aijf ut t* turn ui ate, if thf signs spckc nue,
an' rhe v,M^ only hope in all he brutal
world. ! k ^ t' dK crazy thii i -I *low I
did!
'"'^ onit. jowl I low you ty^t you
g<x " rii t. H that r^^t.*
), s I.
ut you isn't,' sn\s he. ' V m i 't, Tumm,
I'm a sight bigger 'n yuu, an a jld put
yo. oC It isn't in my mind t it — but I
f I "fim^ company, Tumi? =r it looks
' I long Vy'ge, an' I'm 'lowin' t' wm.'
W t aihout the crew ?' says I.
Tl V isn't room for more'n two cm . .^t n^/
" Dear God! Jowl,' says I, 'what you goin'
t' dof
"Tm goin* t* try my level best,' says he, *t'
get home t' my wife an' kid; for they'd ht
rful disappointed if I didn't turn up.'
the crew's fgat wiv^ an' ktckl' says I.
51
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
***An' bad stomachs,' says he.
"'Jowl,' says I, 'she's sinkin' fast.'
"'Then I 'low we better make haste.'
"I started for'ard.
" ' 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 hold 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 that!*
" It made me shiver.
•"No, sir!' says he. *I 'low she won't hold
more'n one.'
" ' Oh yes, she will. Jowl 1* says I. ' Dear man !
yea; she's able for two.*
"'Maybe,' says he.
"'Handy!' says I. 'Oh, handy, man!'
"'We'll try/ says he, 'whatever comes of it.
An' if she makes bad weather, why, you can — '
"He stopped.
" ' Why don't you say the rest ?* says I.
"•I hates to.*
*** What do you mean ?* says I.
"*Why, damme! Tumm,' says he, *I mean
' that you can get off. What else would I mean V
"Lord! I didn't know!
"'Well?' says he.
5»
me
A MATTER OF EXPEDIENCY
" ' It ain't very kind,' says I.
"' What would yau do,' says he, *if you was
"I give un a look that told un, an' 'twas against
my will I done it.
"1!^^"*' ^^"'^ ^^^"^^ then.'
No more I could.
"'Now I'll get the grub from the fowjcastle,
lad, says he, 'an' we'll cast ofF. The fFings o'
the Mormn' isn't good for more'n hatf an hour
more. You bide on deck, Tunmi, an' leave die
swme t' me.'
Then he went below.
"*A11 right,' says he, when he come on deck
Haul m the line.' We lashed a water-cask an'
a grub^x t' the raft. 'Now, Tumm,' says he,
we can take it easy. We won't be in no haste
t iea\e, for I 'low 'tis more comfortable here.
Looks t' me like more moderate weather. I
feeb pretty good, Tumm, with all the work done,
an nothin' t' do but get aboard.' He sung the
long-metre Joxdogy. *Look how the wind's
dropped!' says he. 'Why, lad, we might have
saved the /Tings o' the MorntW if them pigs had
done their dooty last night. But 'tis too late
now— an' it's hcen too late all day long. We'H
have a spell o' quiet,' says he, 'when the sea goes
53
cwFRY MAN FOR HIMSELF
down. Looks f me like the v'y ge might be
pleasant, once we gets through the mght low
The stars '11 be peepin' afore mornm . It 11 be a
comfort t' see the little m.tes. 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 «, then. lU
trust you in the forecastle, Tumm, for I knows
you wouldn't wrong me, an' you'll need that top-
ioat bad afore we're picked up. An if you got
your mother's Bible in your nunny-bag, or any-
thing like that you wants t' save, you better tetch
it ' Tays he. '1 'low we'll get out o this mess,
an' we don't want t'^ have anything t' regret.
"1 got my mother's Bible.
"*Think we better cast off?' says he. ^
"I did. The mngs o' the Mornin was ndin
too low an' easy for me t' rest ; an' the wind had
feU to a soft breeze, an' they wasn't no more ram.
an' no more dusty spray, an' no more breakm
waves. They was a shade on thej^*-"'^. f
shadow o' the night-t' hide whatwe'dleavebchind.
«* We better leave her,* says I.
"•Then all aboardl* says he.
«An' we got aboard, an' cut the cable, an
slipped away on a soft, black sea, far into the
ni^ ... An' no man ever seed the Wings o
A MATTER OF EXPEDIENCY
the Mormn' again. ... An' me an Jowl was pick-
ed up, half dead o' thirst an' starvation, twelve
days later, by oV Cap'n Loop, o' the Black
Bay mail-boat, as she come around Toad Point,
bound t' Burnt Harbor. ...
"Jowl an' me," Tumm resumed, "fished the
Holy Terror Tickles o' the Labrador in the Got
It nex' season. He was a wonderful kind man
Jowl was-so pious, an' soft t' speak, an' honest,'
an wilhn' 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' like that lad o' his— though 'twas but a
young feller t' home, at the time— for Jowl was
forever talkin' o' Toby this an' Tobv 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 Got It was bound home, with all
the load the salt would give her, that Fd sort o'
like t' know the lad that Jowl had.
Why don't you fetch un down the Labrador ?'
says L
5
55
EVER Y MAN FOR HIMSELF
"'His schoolin',' says Jowl.
"'Oh!' says I. . ^ _ri
"•Ay/ says he; 'his mother's wonderful par-
ticuhr about the schoolin'.' ^
"'Anyhow,' says I, 'the schoolin' wont go on
for all time.' a . t. .1 • »
"'No,' says Jowl, 'it won't. An I m lowin
t' harden Toby up a bit nex' spring.'
"'T' the ice?' says I. ^
"•Ay,' says he; 'if I can overcome his mother.
"•'Tis a rough way t' break a lad,' says I.
"' So much the better,' says he. ' It don't t^ke
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
Secortd t' None, She's a ttght 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.*
"•I'll do it, Jowl,' says I.
••An' I done it; an' afore we was through, 1
wisht I hadn't."
Tumm paused.
56
A MATTER OF EXPEDIENCY
"An* I done it— nex' March— shipped along
o' Tommy Jump o' the Second /' None^ with
Jowl an' his kd aboard," he proceeded.
"*You overcome the wife,' says I, 'didn't
you ?'
""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'. Sfc cried a wonderful
lot; but. Lord! that's only the way o' women.'
"A likely lad o* sixteen, this Toby — blue^yed
an' fair, with curly hair an' a face full o' blush-
es. 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
do — that he'd be took care cS, just for love. But
Jowl wasn't o' my mind.
"'No,' says he; 'the lad's too soft. He've got
t' be hardened.'
"'Maybe,' says I.
"'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 tlwy stood t* lose their lives, Tumm, they'd
push un out o* the way, an' he'd go 'ithottt a
S7
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
whimper. 1 got t' talk t* that lad for his own
good/
"Which he done.
"*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. Don*t 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 bt 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 Secotid
t* None 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 ajjord to.'
"'Yes, sir,' says the boy.
•"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.
58
A MATTER OF EXPEDIENCY
If it comes t* your life or the other man's, you put
him out o' the way afore he has time t' put you.
Don't let un give battle. Hit un so qu^rk as
you're able. It 'II be harder if you wa i'ou
don't have t' be juir. 'Tisn't expei ti u. No-
body'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 can*t think o* your-
self, just you think o' your mother. Ah, lad,"
says he, 'she'd go an' cry her eyes out if anything
happened t' >ou. Why, Toby— oh, my! now,
lad— -why, think o the way she'd sit in her rockin'-
chair, an' put her pinny to her eyes, an' cry, an'
ciy! You're the only one she've got, an' she
couldn't, lad, she eouUWt get along 'ithout you!
Ah, she'd cry, an' cry, an* ciy; 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!*
'"No, sir,* says the lad. 'I'll not, sir!'
"'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 parscm o' you.***
Tumm made a wiy face.
59
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
"Well," he continued, "Tommy Jump kep*
the Second f None beattn' hither an* yon off the
Howe 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 selfsame 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. What-
ever, 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 Second
t* None would sink; said her rimbers was sprung,
an' she'd leak like a basket, an* crush like a egg-
shell, once the ice begun t' drive an' grind an'
rafter— leastwise, he thunk so, admittin' 'twas
open t' argument; an' he wouldn't go so far as t'
pledge the word of a gentleman that she ivould
sink.
"'Whatever,* says he, * we'll stick to her an'
find out.'
"The change o' wind come at diuk — a big
60
A MATTER OF EXPEDIENCY
blow from the sou'west. "I was beyond douln
the ice would go t' sea; go I tipped the wink t'
young Toby Jowl an* told un the time was come.
"'I'll save my life, Tumm,' says he,*if rmable/
"Twas a pityl EcodI 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!
"'You better get somw grub in your pocket,'
says I.
"'I got it,* says he.
"'Well,* says I, 'I 'low you*ve learned!
Where'd you get it ?"
"'Stole it from the cook,' says he.
"'Any chance for me?'
"'If you're lively,' says he. 'The cook's a
fool. . . . Will it come soon, Tunrni ?* says he,
with a grip on my wrist. 'How long will it be,
eh, Tumm, afore 'tis every man for hilself ?*
"Soon enough, God knowed! By midnight
the edge o' the floe was nibbin' Pa'tridge P'int,
an' the ice was troubled an' angry. In an hour
the pack had the bottom scrunched out o' the
Second t* None; an* she was kep' above water-
listed an* dead— only by the jam o* little pans
'bngside. Tommy Jump 'lowed we'd strike
01
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
the big billows o' the open afore dawn an* the
pack would go abroaci an' leave us t* fill an'
sink; said hi couldn't do no more, an' the crew
could take care o' their own lives, which was
what he 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— vnnd 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 Second t' None 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. . . .
"Then we struck the open.
"•Now, lads,' yells Tommy Jump, when he got
all hands amidships, 'you better quit the ship.
62
" I SEED THE SHAPE OK A MAN LEAP VOR MV PLACE "
A MATTER OF EXPEDIEJ^CY
The best tinrt',' says he, 'will be when vou sees
mt gp ovenide. But don't get in my way. You
get your own paw. God the man tbat gect
in my way!*
"Tommy Jump went overside when the ice
opcnt . an' the Second t' None begun t' go down
an' the sea was spread with small pans, floatin'
free. ' fwas 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, Hat beam from the ea», 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 Uj in the v -rid. An' all the ice was in a
tumble o' bl.J water. ... An* the Second t'
None went dcf^\ i ... An* I 'lowed they wasn't
no room on o . p n ,or nobody but me. But
I seed the shap i" a man leap for my place.
An' I cursed un, an' bade un go fa;»her, r>4 I'd
drown un. An' he leaped for the pan that Hed
next, where Jowl wis afloat, with no room t'
spare, ^n' jowl h*; juick an' ; ard. lie was
waitin', with his n...,. 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 1
63
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
"'Dear God!' says I.
"Jowl was now but a shape in the snow.
* That you, Tumm ?* says he. ' What you sayin* ?'
"'Why didn't you take time t' look?' says I.
'Oh, Jowl! why didn't you take time V
"'T' look?' says he.
"'Dear God!'
" ' Whit you sayin' that for, Tumm ?' says he.
' What you mean, Tumm f ... My God!' says he,
* what is I gone an* done ? Who was that, Tumm ?
My God! Tell me! What is I done V
"I couldn't find no words t' tell un.
"'Oh, make haste,' says be, 'afore I drifts
away!'
•"Dear God!' says I, "twas Toby!'
" 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, wh^re 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. . . .**
The Good Samaritan ran softly through the
slow, sleepy sea, bound across the bay to trade
the ports of the shore.
64
A MATTER OF EXPEDIENCY
"I tells you, sir," Tumm burst out, "'tis hell.
Life 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?"
"Not to save their own," said I.
He did not understand.
Ill
THE MINSTREL
SALIM AW AD, 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 nmse; nor would he yield his sorrow to the
music of Nageeh 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
desolatiofi throt^ the darkness of that night,
and throu^ the slow, grimy, unfeeling hours of
day. He dwelt upon Haleema, Khouri's daugh-
ter-she (as he thought) of the tresses of night,
the beautiful one. Salim was in despair because
this Hal^ma had chosen to wed Jimmie Brady,
66
THE MINSTREL
the truckman. ^ bv«d strength more than
the uphfted spirit; and tUs maidens may do, as
Sahm knew, without reproach or injuiy.
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
shufBe and patter of feet of the low-born of his
peoi^, the murmur of voices, soft laughter, the
plaintive cries of children— the dolorous medley
(.f a summer night. Beyond the fire^scape, far
past the roof of the soap factory, lifted high above
the restless Western world, was the starlit sky;
and Sahm Awad, searching its uttermost depths'
remembered the words of Antar, crying in his
heart: "/ pass the night regarding the stars of
night in my distraction. Ask the night of me, and
tt 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."
The band was playing in Battery Park; the
weird music of it, harsh, incomprehensible, an
alien i0ve>song —
"Hello, mah baby,
Hello, mah h<mey,
HcUo, mah rag-time drfr
«7
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
dr^ed in at the open window mth a bieeze from
the sea. But by this unmesnng tumidt the
soul of Salim Awad, being far removed, was not
troubled; he remembered, again, the words of
Antar, addressed to his beloved, repeating: "In
thy forehead is my guide to truth; and in the night
of thy tresses I wander astray. Thy ihsom ts
created as an enchantnufO* O mofGoi preUei it
twr in that perfection! Will fmium ewr, O
dm^kter of Malik, ever Uess me with thy t m-
brace ? TheA tmtdd cure my luart the sonmvs
^ hue."
And again the music of the band in Battery
Park drifted up the murmuring street,
**Just one girl,
Chily just one girl!
ISlMe «re c«hers, I know, but they're not my pearl.
Just one girl,
Only just one girl!
I'd be happy forever with fust one girl!"
' and came in at the open window with idle
bfeeze; and Salim heard nothing of the noise,
km was grateful for the cool fingers of the wind
wd^ {^ing the hair from his damp brow.
THE MINSTREL
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 utter-
itMJrt hei^ of heaven beyond the soap factory,
wat 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 Salitn,
the noble-born, the poet, the lover, the broken-
hearted. Without meditation, as he has said,
without brooding or design, as should occur, but
rather, taking from the starlit infinitude beyond
the soap factoiy, 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 un-
feeling souls, that he trembled in the pres-
ence of this beauty, for the moment forgetting
his desolation, and conceived himself an in-
strument made of men, wrought of mortal
hands, unworthy, which the fingers of angels
had touched in alleviation of the sorroi^ of
love.
Thereupon Salim Awad arose, and he made
haste to Khalil Khayyat to tell him of this
thing. ...
6^
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
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 KhaUl, poet,
whose dehght was in the tender bloom of sorrow
and despair— this old Khayyat, friend of Salim,
the youth, the noble-bom, 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, show-
ing as yet no gray ash, and the water bubbled
by fits and Starrs, and the alien room, tawdry in
its imitation of the Eastern splendor, dirty,
flaring and sputtering with gas, was clouded with
the sweet-snwHing smoke. To the cdFee, per-
fume rising with the steam from the delicate
vessel, nor to the rattle of dice and boisterous
shouts from the outer room, was this Khalil at-
tending; for he had the evening dejection to
nurse. He leaned over the green baize table,
one long, lean brown hand lying upon Kawkah
Elhorriah of that day, as if in aifectionate 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
70
THE MINSTREL
no divine spark in the labor of the day to set
tlie world aflame against Abdul-Hamid, Sultan,
slaughterer.
To him, then, at this moment of inevitable re-
action, the love-lorn Salim, entering in haste.
"Once more, Salim," said Khalil Khayyat,
sadly, "I have failed."
Salim softly closed the door.
"1 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."
Salim turned the key.
"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!"
"Khalil!"
Kluilil Khayyat was thrilled by the quality of
this invocation.
"Khahl of the exalted mission, friend, poet,
6 71
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
teacher of the aspiring," Salim Awad whispered,
leaning close to the ear of Khali! Khayyat, ***
great thing has come to pass."
Khayyat commanded his ecstatic perturba-
tion.
"Hist!" Salim ejaculated. "Is there not one
listening at the door ?"
"There is no one, Salim; it is the feet of Nageeb
the coffee-boy, passing to the table Ab<»amani,
the merchant."
Salim hearkened.
"There is no one, Salim."
"There is a breathing at the key-hole, Khalil,"
Salim protested. "This great thing must not
be known."
"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.?"
"Nay, but, Khalil, I hesitate: the thmg must
not be heard."
" Even so," said Khalil Khayyat, comemptuous-
ly, being still a poet; "the people are of the muck
of the world; they are common, they arc not of
72
THE MINSTREL
our blood and learning. How shall they un-
derstand that which they hear ?"
"Khalil," Salim Awad answered, reassured,
"I have known a great moment!"
"A great moment?" said Khalil Khayyat, be-
ing both old and wise. "Then it is because of
agony. There has issued f rom this great pain,"
said he, edging, in his artistic excitement, toward
the victim of the muse, "a divine poem of love i"
Salim Awad sighed.
"Is it not so, Salim?"
Salim Awad flung himself upon the green
baize table; and so great was his despair that the
coffee-cup of Khahl Khayyat jumped in its saucer.
" I have suffered : I have lost at love," he answer-
ed. "1 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 sat-
isfaction? Nay, but, Khalil, devoted friend,"
he groaned, looking up, "I have known the ulti-
mate 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 1" he
cried, as it may meanly be translated. "Haleema
73
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
— my fleep and waking, night and day of my
desiring soul, my thought and heart-throb! Ha-
lema— gone (oftver from me, tlw poet, the un-
woithy, fled to the arms of the stitmg, the know-
ing, the manager of horses, the one powerful and
controlling! Haleema beautiful one, fasiiti ih J
of God, star (if the ni^ht 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 rest! Haleema, beautiful one, beloved,
lost to me! . . . Haleema! . . . Haleema! . . ."
"God!" Khalil Khayyat ejaculated; "but this
is indeed great poetry!"
Salim Avvad collapsed.
"And from this," asked Khalil Khayyat, cruel
servant <^ art, being hopeful concerning the issue,
"there has come a great poem? There must"
he muttered, "have come a love-song, a heart's
cry in comfort of such as have lost at love."
Salim Awad looked up from the table.
"Aery of patient anguish," said Khalil Khayyat.
"Khalil," said Salim Awad, solemnly, "the
, strings of my soul have been touched by the hand
of the Spirit."
"By the Spirit?"
"TTie lingers of Infinite Woe."
74
THE MINSTREL
To this Khalil Khayyat made no reply, nor
moved one muscle— tave that his hand trembled
a little, and his eyes, which had been steadfatt-
ly 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 contin-
ued in this silence, until presently Khalil Khayyat
drew very close to Salinj Awad.
"Salim," he whispered, "reveal this poem.'*
"It cannot be uttered," said Salim Awad.
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."
"I am tempted!"
"I plead, Salim I, Khalil Khayyat, the poet,
the philosopher — I plead!"
"I may not share this great poem, Khalil,"
said Salim Awad, commanding himself, "save
with such as have suffered as I have suffered."
"Then," answered Khalil Khayyat, trium-
phantly, "the half is mine!"
75
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EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
" Is yours, Khalil ?"
" The very half, Salim, is the inheritance of
my woe!"
"Khalil," answered Salim Awad, rising, "at-
tend!" 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, passionate-
ly, "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!"
Then, indeed, KKalil 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 un-
feeling world — which was surely poetry suffi-
cient 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 tmxel
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
76
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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
m all the world, entering upon the departure of
Salim Awad, was addressed by Khalil Khayyat.
"Nageeb," said this great poet, "I have seen
a minstrel go forth upon his wandering."
"Uponwhat journey does the singer go, Khalil ?"
"To the north, Nageeb."
"What song, Khalil, docs the man sing by the
way f"
" The song is in his heart," said Khalil Khavyat.
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 ?"
Khalil Khayyat was indignant.
"Come!" Abosamara demanded, "how shall
this folly be accomplished .?"
"How shall the deaf understand these things ?"
answered Khalil Khayyat.
And this became a saying. . . .
77
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
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 heart-
lessness— 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.
The punt of Salim Awad, double-reefed in un-
willing deference to the weather, had rounded
78
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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: "Under thy wr* 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 *' —
which had nothing to do, indeed, with a nor'east
gale and the flying, biting, salty spray of a north-
ern 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.
This Salim, poet, maker of the song that t uld
not be uttered, tied up at the stage-head of
Sam Swuth, who knew the sail of that small
79
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
craft, and had lumbered down the hill to meet
him.
"Pup o{' a day," says Sam Swuth.
By this vulgarity Salim was appalled.
"Eh?" savs Sam Swuth.
Salini's pack, stowed amidships, was neatly
and efficien«-ly 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.
"Pup of a day," says Sam Swuth.
"Oh my, no!" cried Salim Awad, shocked by
this inharmony with his mood. "Ver' bad
weather."
" Pup of a day," Sam Swuth insisted.
"Ver' bad day," said Sahm Awad. "Ver*
beeg wind for thee punt."
The pack was hoisted from the boat.
"An the glass don't lie," Sam Swuth promised,
" they's a sight dirtier comin'."
Salim lifted the pack to his ba'^k. "Ver* beeg
C2a," said he. "Ver' bad blow."
"Ghost Rock breakin'?"
"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
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I am have escape," he added, with a proud httle
grin. " I am have escape. I — Salim! Ver' good
sailor. Thee sea have not cotch m#, you bet!"
" Ye'U be lyin' the night in Hapless ?"
"Oh my, no! Ver' poor business. I am mus*
go to thee Chain Teekle."
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 dcK)r to
door, light-hearted, dreaming of Haleema, she
of the tresses (rf" 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 de-
voutly 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.
8i
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
Salitn stopped dead. Jamie grinned painfully
and kicked at the road.
"Hello!" cried Salim.
**'Lo, Joe!" growled Jamie,
Salim sighed. He wondered concerning the
amount Jamie had managed to . Would
it be sufficient to ease his conscienc .ough the
transact' m? The sum was fixed. Jamie must
have the money or go wanting. Salim feared
to ask the question.
"I hnt got it, Joe," said Jamie.
"Oh my! Too bad!" Salim groaned.
"Not all of un," added Jamie.
Salim took heart; he leaned close, whispering,
in suspense : " How much have you thee got ?"
"Two twenty — an' a penny."
"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! 1 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 swilc, 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,*
82
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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 not be three dollar."
Jamie looked up in hope.
"Why not ?" Salim Awad continued, in delight.
" Have thee watch be spoil ? No, thee watch
have be ver' good watch. Have thee price go
dc wn ? No; thee price have not."
Jamie waited in intense anxiety, while Salim
^ . i* 'o enjoy the mystery.
. I then become to spoil thee boy?"
Sau..i demanded. "No? Ver* good. How
then can thee price of thee watch have be two
twenryr ?"
Jamie could not answer.
" Ver' good !" cried the delighted Salim. " Ver',
ver' good! I am have tell you. Hist!" he
whispered.
Jamie cocked his ear.
83
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
"Hisr!" said Salim Awad again.
They were alone— upon a bleak hill-side, in a
wet, driving wind.
"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 mus'
have thee watch. (3h, mygod! how?' I theenk.
I theenk, an' I theenk, an' I theenk. Thee boy
mus' pay fair price for thee watch. Hal Thee
Salim ver' clever. He feex thee price of thee
watch, you bet! Eh! Ver' good. How ?"
Jamie was tapped on the breast; he looked
into the Syrian's wide, delight< d, mocking brown
eyes — but could not fathom the mystery.
"How?" cried Salim. "Eh? How can the
price come down ?"
Jamie shook his head.
**/ have smuggle thee watch t** Salim whispered.
"Whew!" Jamie whistled. "That's sinful!"
"Thee watch it have be to you," answered
Salim, gently. "Thee sin," he added, bowing
courteously, a hand on his hean, "it have be all
my own!"
For a long time after Salim Awad's departure,
Jamie Tuft sat in the lee of Bishf^'s Rock —
84
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until, indeed, the dark alien's punt had Hutrt red
out to sea on the perilous run to Chain i ickle.
It began to rain in great drops i 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 rhe rock. It was hard for him, unused
to gifts, through all his days unknown to favor-
able changes of fortune, to overcome his astonish-
ment — to enter into the reality of this possession.
The like had never happened before: never be-
fore 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-
distoned 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.
Jamie looked up.
"By damn!" he thought, savagely, "'tis— 'tis
— mineP*
85
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
The character of the exclamation is to be con-
doned; this sense of ownership had come like
a vision.
"Why, I got she!" thought Jamie.
Herein was expressed more of ap;oni/t (l dread,
more of the terror that accompanies great pos-
sessions, than of dehght.
"Ecodl" he muttered, ecstatically; "she's mine
— she's mine!"
The watch was clutched in a capable fist. It
was not to be dropped, you may he 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,
ar(»e, moved into the path, stood close to the
verge of the steep, which fell abruptly to the
harbor water.
" I got t' tell mainma," he thought.
On the way to Jamie's pocket went the watch.
"She'll be that ghul," the boy thought, glee-
fully, "that she- she she'll jus' fair cry!"
There was some difficulty with the pocket.
"Yes, sir," thought Jamie, grinning; "mamma
'11 jus* ciy!"
The watch slipped from Jamie's overcautious
hand, struck the rock at his feet, bounded down
86
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thi- steep, splashed into the harbor water, and
vanished forever. ...
A bad time at sea: a rising wind, spray on the
wing, sheets of cold rain — and the sray light of
day departing. Salim Awad looked hack upon
the coast; he savv no waste of restless water he-
tween, no weight and frown of cloud above, but
only the great black gates of Hapless Harbor,
beyond which, by the favor oS God, he had been
privileged to leave a pearl of delight. With the
wind abeam he ran on through the sudsy set,
muttering, within his heart, as that great Antar
long ago had cried: " fVcre I to say thy face is
like the full moon of heaven, ivherein that full
moon is the eye of the antelope F IVere I to say
thy shape is like the branch of the erak treey oh,
thou shamest it in the grace of thy form! In 1
foreheaJ is my guide to truth, and in the night )
thy tresses I wander astray!"
And presently, having won ^'hain T Me. he
pulled slowly to Aunt Amelia's harf, w! ere he
moored the puni, 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
f 87
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
away; beyond the heads of the Tickle — far across
the angry run — the lights of Hapless were shining
cheerily.
" Ver' good sailor — me!" thought Salim. " Ver*
good hand, you bet!"
A gust of wind swept down the Tickle and went
bounding up the hill.
"He not get me!" muttered Salim between
bared teeth.
A second gust showered the peddler with
water snatched from the harbor.
"Ver' glad to be in," thought Salim, with a
shudder, turning now from the black, tumultuous
prospect. "Ver' mos' awful glad to be in!"
It was cosey in Aunt Amelia's hospitable
kitchen. The dark, smiling Salim» with his mag-
ic pack, was welcome. The wares displayed — -
no more for purchase than for the delight of in-
spection — 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, waiUng, sighing, call-
ing — 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 itill. A loud knocking
88
DARK, SMILINU SAl.lM, WllH HIS MAOIC PACK, WAS
WELCOME
THE MINSTREL
then entered tor 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 somehoWf what-
ever come of it!
" Hello, Joe!" cried the one.
Salim rose and bowed.
" Heared tell 't Hapless Harbor you was here-
abouts."
"Much 'bliged," Salim responded, courteously,
bowing again. "Ver' much 'bliged."
"Heared tell you sold a watch t' Jim Tuft's
young one ?"
"Ver' good watch," said Sahm.
"Maybe," was the response.
Salim blew a puff of smoke with light grace
toward the white rafters. He was quite serene;
he anticipated, now, a compliment, and was
89
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
fashioning, of his inadequate English, a dignified
sentence of acknowledgment.
"Anyhow," drawled the man from Catch-as-
Catch-Can, "she won't go no more."
Salim looked up bewildered.
"Overboard," the big man explained.
"Wat!" cried Salim.
"Dropped her."
Salim trembled. "He have — drop thee —
watch?" he demanded. "No, no!" he cried.
"The boy have not drop thee watch!"
"Twelve fathoms o' water."
"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 resolu-
tion. " 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 in-
tention, 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
90
THE MINSTREL
for his folly. "Oh, mygod!" he replied; "you
have not understand. Thee broke her rt of tlice
child! Eh? Wat you know? Oh, th'^e ver'
awful pain of thee broke heart. Eh ? / kiiow.
I am have thee broke heart. I am have bear thee
ver' awful bad pain."
Aunt Amelia put a land on Salim's arm.
"I am mus' go," said the Syrian, defiantly.
"Ye'll notV* the woman declared.
"I am mus' go to thee child."
"Ye'll not lose your life, will ye ?"
The men of Catch-as-Catch-Can were in-
capable 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 doctot,
all as a matter of course; but this risk to ease
mere woe — and that of a child! They were
astounded.
"Oh yes!" Salim answered. "For thee child."
"Ye fool!"
Salim looked helplessly about. He was non-
plussed. There was no encourage . lent cywhere
to be descried. Moreover, he was bewildered
that they should not understand!
"For thee child — ^yes," he repeated.
They did but stare.
" Thee broke heart," he cried," of thee liT child 1"
91
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
No response was elicited.
" Oh, dear me !'* groaned the poet. " You mtu*
see. It is a child!"
A gust was the only answer.
"Oh, mygod!"' cried Saliiii Awad, poet, who
had wandered astray in the tresses of night.
"Oh, dear me! Oh, gee!"
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 — Shaving 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 isol: tion, sang to Abla, his beloved:
*"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."
92
THE MINSTREL
The hand upon the steering-oar of this punt,
cast into an ill-ten: oered, cold, dreary, evil-in-
tentioned 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: '"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 limby slender her waist, love-beaming are
her glances, waving is her form. The lustre of
day sparkles from her forehead, ':nd by the dark
shades of her curling ringlets night itself is driven
away.'*
The lights of Hapless Harbor dwindled; one
by one they went out, a last message of wanness;
but still there shone, bright and promising con-
tinuance, a lamp of Greedy Head, whereon the
cottage of Skipper Jim Tuft, the father of Jamie,
was builded.
"I will have come safe," thought Salim, "if
thee light of Jamie have burn on."
It continued to burn.
"It is because of thee broke heart," thought
Salim.
93
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
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 retf— 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 Hap-
less Harbor at that time; the thing is beyond dis-
pute; '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: "Thy bosom is created as an
enchantment. Oh, may God protect it ever in
that perfection," 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.
" \^er' good sailor," thought Salim Awad, as
he tied up at Sam Swuth's wharf.
'Twas a proper estimate.
94
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"Ver* good," he repeated. "Vcr' beeg good."
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
w^s 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 seal I am
come — I, Salim Awad, broke of thee heart!"
'Twas a surprising thing to the inmates of that
mean, hopeless place. am come," Salim re-
peated, posing dramatically — ^"I, Salim — I am
come!" *Twas no more than amazement he
a>nfn>nted. "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. lam 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 deli^tful. Salim was
wet, cold, disheartened by the night and weather;
95
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
hut tin- rtsp(»nsf rostoreil him. "'rhcc watch
an' thtc h'l' chain, Jamie," said he, with a bow
most pohte, " it is to you.'*
Jamie grabbed the watch.
"Ver* much 'bliged," said Salim.
"Thanks," said Jamie.
And in this cheap and simple way Sahm Awad
restored the soul of Jamie i'utt and brought hap-
piness to all that household.
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 Httle back room of
Nageeb Fiani, the grei'test player m all the world,
with the letter in his hand. Presently he got his
narghile going, and a cup of perfumed coffee be-
fore him on the round, green bai/e table; and
he was very happy— what --Hth 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 cUck
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
96
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his attenticm. He called Nageeb, the little In-
telligent One, who came with soft feet; and he
bade the little one sun^mon to his presence
Nageeh Fiani, the artist, the greatest player in
all the world, who came, deferentially, wondering
concerning this important message from the poet.
"Nageeb," said Khalil Khayyat, "there has
come a letter from the north."
Nageeb assented.
"It concerns Salim," said Khayyat.
" What has this Salim accomplished," ashed Na-
geeb Fiani, " in allev iation of the sorrows of love ?"
Khayyat would not answer.
"Tell me," Nageeb pleaded.
"This Salim," said Khalil Khayyat, "made a
song that could not be uttered. It is well/' said
Khalil Khayyat. "You remember?"
Nageeb remembered.
"Then know this," said Khalil Khayyat, ab-
ruptly, "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 add-
ed, "is the greatest poet that ever lived. He ex-
presses his sublime and perfect compositions in
dear deeds. He is, indeed, a great poet."
Nageeb Fiani thought it great argument for
poetry; so, too, Khalil Khayyat.
97
IV
IHL SJ^UALL
TUMM of the Good Samaritan kicked the
cabin stove into a sputter and roar of flame
so lusty that the black weather of Jump Har-
bor was instantly reduced from arn)gant and
disquieting menace to an impression of contrast
grateful to the heart. "Not bein' a parson,"
said he, roused now fiom a brooding silence by
this radiant inspiration, ** 1 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
98
THE SQUALL
ignorance. It fill 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.
Stt'iind t* me, si., though he bore thf sign o*
the Lord's own haiul, us do us all, that he'd
hut a mean lookout for gracious Itvin', after
all.
"Poor Archibald Shottl
"'Arch, b'y,' says I, 'you got the disposition
a snake.'
" * Is I ?* says he. ' Maybe you're right, Tumm.
I never knowed a snake in a intimate way.'
"'You g(» the soul/ said I, 'of a ill-bom
squid.'
"'Don't know,' said he; 'never seed a squid's
soul.'
"*Your tongue,' says I, *is a flame o' fire; Vis
a wmider t' me she haven't blistered your hps
long afore this.*
"'Isn't my fault,' says he.
"'No?' says I. 'Then who's t' blame?'
"'Well/ says he, 'God made me.'
"'Anyhow,' said I, 'you've took t' the devil's
alterations an' improvements like a imp t' hell
fire.'"
Tumm dropped into an angry muse. . . ,
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EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
We had put in from the sea off the Harborless
Shore, balked by a screaming Newfoundland
northwester, allied \ ith 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 1 sat in the
companionable seclusion of the trader's cabin,
the schooner lying at ease in the shelter ot 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 Archi-
bald 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 stoneVthrow, 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
100
THE SQUALL
commotion, perhaps, flung then against my senses,
I had small power to observe; but I fancied, I re-
call, that a nimble man, pursued by fear, might
scale the Black Bight rlifFs. There was imper-
ative need, however, of knowing the way, else there
might be neither advance nor turning back. . . .
"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 ? 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 / reed why Arch
shouldn't o' wed any maid o' nineteen harbors
an* lived a sober, righteous, an* fatherly life til!
the sea cotched un. But it seemed, somehow,
that Arch must fall in love with the maid o*
Jiunp Harbor that was promised t' Slow Jim
lOI
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
Tool— a lovely lass, sir, believe me: a dimpled,
rosy, towheaded, ripplin' sort o' maid, as soft as
feathers an' as plump as a oyster, with a dis-
position like sunshine an'— an'-weli, flowers.
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.
"'y\rch,' says I, wind bound in the Curly Head
at Jump Harbor, 'don't you do it.'
"'Love,' says he, *is queer.'
"'Maybe,' says I; *but keep off. You go,' says
I, *an' get a maid o' your own.'
Wonderful queer,' says he. "Iwouldnt
s'prise me, Tuir.m,' says he. 'if a man failed m
love with a fish-hook.'
"'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 1, *is a glory; an'. Arch,
says I, 'why, she pities F ^
"'True,' says he; 'but it falls far short.
"'How far?' says I.
"'Well,' says he, 'you left out her muscles.^
"'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 com-
102
THE SQUALL
fortable 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 ?'
** ' Never you mind,' says he.
" ' Speak up !* says L * What you got t* trade ?*
•"Well,* says he, 'I'm clever.*
""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.'
"'You jus' wait an' sec,' says he.
"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 m^, 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,
• 103
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
why, twouldn't be so wonderful s'prism . 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 ah-ays s'prised; never seemed t
expect 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 an t'
wake up an' really feel that kiss-how many days
o' wonder an' s'prise an' doubt-'twould take a
pan^on 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.
dropped a birch billet in the stove.
"Anyhow," said Tumm, moodily, "it didn't
last long."
The fire crackled a genial accompaniment to
the tale of Slow Jim Tool. . . .
"Well, now," Tumm continued, "Slow Jim
Tool an' Archibald Shott o' Jump Harbor was
104
THE SQUALL
cast away in the Dimple at Creep Head o' the
Labrador. Bcin' 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 Shott inanaged
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 could do it.
*Ecodr says he; *now that s*prises me. 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.
'In the Queens name!' 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 got t'. Why,' says he, ' I always have.*
'Now,' says the constable, * don't you make no
trouble.* So Jim was s'prised again; but when
the judge ^ve un a year t* repent an' make brooms
105
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
in chokee t' St. John's he was so s'prlsed, they
says, that he never come to his senses till he land-
ed back at Tump Harbor an' was kissed seven
times bv 'Lizabeth All in the sight o* the folk o*
that place. An* even after that, Fm told— ay,
through a season's fishin'— he pondered a deal
more'n was good for un. Ashore an' afloat,
'twas all thr. same. 'Well, well!' says he. 'Dear
man! I wonders how I done it. Arch,* says he,
•you was aboard; can't you 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?'
♦••Well,' says Arch, "rigmal sm.'
••"Riginal sin!' says Jim. 'Dear man! but
I mus' have got my share!'
" ' You is,' says Arch. ' 'Tis plain in your face.
You looks low and vicious. 'Riginal sin, Jim,'
s.iys he, 'marks a man.' ^ ^
•••Think so?' says Jim. 'I'm sorry I got it.
•••An' look you!' says Arch; 'you better be
wonderful careful about unshippin' wickedness
on 'Lizabeth.'
" ' On 'Lizabeth ?' says Jim. ' What you mean ?
God knows,' says he, 'I'd not hurt 'Lizabeth.' ^
'Then ponder,' says Arch. "Riginal sin is
io6
THE SQUALL
made you a thief an' a jailbird. Ponder, Jim —
ponder r
"Now," cries Tumm, in an outburst of feeling,
"what you think 'Li/.abeth All done ?"
I was confused by the question.
"Why," Tumm answered, "it didn't make no
difference t' she!'*
I was not surprised.
"Not s'prised!" cries Tumm. "No," he
snapped, indignantly, "nor neither was Slow
Jim Tool."
Of course not!
"Nobody knows nothin' about a woman,"
said Tumm; "least of all, the woman, /n',
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 Give an
Take 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 * Mon-
107
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
ey Musk' an' 'Pop 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 dinged
t' that there big, gray-eyed, pink-an'-white Slow
Jim Tooll '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
nie good. 1 '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 vit. Is o'
Archibald Shott; an' then I 'lowed, somehow,
that maybe I was jus' as well off as I was. 1 got
a look in his eyes, sir, a fort the night was done;
an' it jus' seemed t' me that the Lord had give
me a peep mto hell.
"'Twas more'n Archibald Shott could carry.
'Tumm,' says he, nex' day, 'I 'low I'll move.*
"'Where to?' says I.
""Low I'll jack my house down t' the ice,' says
' he, 'an' haul she ovei t' Deep Cove. I've growed
tired,' says he, 'o' fishin' Jump Harbor.'
"Well, now, they wasn't no prayer - meetin*
held t' keep Archibald Shott t' Jump Harbor.
io8
THE SQUALL
The lails o' the place an' the crew o' the Give
an' Take 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 i' 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
t^- 'rt there. You leave that place be. They
is Jthin' there that you'd like t' have. Un-
derstand .'' Dont go pokin' 'round in the dirt
where niy oV house was. 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' see.' 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 enrich feather she'd seed in
109
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
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' gel.'
" ' No trouble ?' says she.
"'Why, no,' says he; *no trouble t* speak of.
I jus* sort o' poked around an' picked it up.'
"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.
"'What you do that for?' says Jim.
"*In the Queen's name!' says the constable.
«*My Godl* says Jim. *What is I been
doin'?'
"'Counterfeitin',' says the constable.
"'Counter-fittin'!' says Jim. 'What's that?'
"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 shilUn's;
for look you! Jim didn't know they was lead."
"And Elizabeth?" I ventured.
"Up an' died," he drawled
"Well, now," Tumm proceeded, "'twas three
year later that Jim Tool an' Archibald Shott an'
me was shipped from Twillingate aboard the Billy
no
THE SQUALL
Boy t' fish the Labrador below Mugford along
o' Skipper Alex Tuttle. Jim Tool was more
slow an' sdemn 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
thii: 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 irks mel* says Arch. "Tisn't a thing a re-
ligious man would practise; an' I'll do something/
says he, *t' stop it!' Howbeit, things was easy
till the Billy Boy 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.
"*Twas after noon of a gray day when the
Billy Boy dropped back in the water. They was
a bank o' blue-black cloud hangin' high beyond
III
E VERY M ^t^ '^'^ =
was out. .t:„Ber- *an* 'twon'l be long
- Ay,' says the skipper, »«
damaged. . i « what vou RO an' do that
" ' Kcod! Jim, says 1, wnat you
fo"^ , T «, said a bad word again'
"*Why, says Jim, ne saw *
the name o' 'Lizabeth^ ^^^j^
"•Never done nothm o the , /
•I was jus' 'bidin' here amidships lookin U
weather.' , ,j .yo^ done it
"♦Yes, you did, Arch, says jwi, y
1 forecastle -W Wednesday. 1 beared
m the torecasiic i »
poor ■Liiab"';; ^„ ,„„e u
112
THE SQUALL
deck sort o' scared ^\ rrew. Made un shy, too;
they hanged ab> ut, backin an' shufflin', hke
kids in a parlor, f i/ Vcchin" al .ng o' awkwardness,
grinnin' a deal w d^r'n was w-alled 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. 1 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 used t' brawls aboard the Billy Boy.
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
dF 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' beared a frosty tinkle
when the broken blade struck the deck. It
"3
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
didn't seem natural, sir; not on the deck o' the
Billy Boy, where we was all friends aboard, raised
in near-by harbors. ,
" /Vnyhow, Slow Jim squealed hke 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 dnilin
holes in Jim with his little green eyes.
"'Ouch!' says Jim; 'that wasn't fair. Arch!
"Arch's lips jus' lifted away from his teeth in a
ghastly sort o' grin. ^
"'Eh?' says Jim. 'What you want t do a
dirty trick like that for ?'
"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 nothm'; nor
no more did nobody else. Wasn't nothin t say.
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 knowed
Archibald Shott an' Slow Jim Tool: knowed un,
stripped an' clothed, body an' soul, an' had, sir,
114
THE SQUALL
since they begun t' toddle the roads o' Jump
Harbor. Knowed u ' ? Why, down along afore
the Lads* Hope went ashore on the Barnyard
Islands, I slep* along o* Jim Tool an* poulticed
Archibald Shott's boils! 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 t atin' grass.
*'*Tumm,' says he, 'you got a knife?*
"'Don't 'low no one,' says I, *t* clean a pipe
*ith my knife.*
*"No,* says he; *a sheath-knife?*
" ' Left un below,' says L 'What you want un
for?*
"'Jus' a little job,' says he.
" ' What kind ot a job ?' says L
"'Oh,' says he, 'jus' a little job I got t* do!'
"Seemed nobody had a knife, so Jim Tool
fetched his own from below.
"5
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
"•Find un?' says I.
"'Not my bes' one,' says he. 'Jus' my second
bes'/
" Skipper Alex 'lowed 'twould snow like goose
feathers afore half an hour was out, but, some-
how, sir, nobody cared, though the wmd was
breakin* off shore in saucy pufFs an' the ice pack
was goin' abroad. ^ ^
" Jim Tool feeled the edge of his knife. Isn t
my b.s' one,' says he. 'I got a new one some-
wheres.' ■ k u
" I 'lowed he was a bit out o' temper with the
knife; an' it did look sort o' foul sir, along o'
overuse an* neglect.
"* 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
helpl* , II*
"Then, sir, knife in hand an' murder hot m
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 olF 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,
ii6
THE SQUALL
sir, havin' come to his senses of a sudden, he let
out a whoop like a siren whistle an' vaulted over-
side. 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.
"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.
"*Hol* on, Jim!' sings I. 'Wait for meP
"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
117
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
north an' south, every m;:n Jack makm 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 it
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 kmfe
in his belt— an' up shinned he!
"* Tim, vou f(M)l!' sings I, when I come below,
*you come down out o that!
"But Jim jus' kep' mountin'.
**"Jimr says I. *You want t' fall an* get
hurted ?' ,
"Up comes the skipper in a proper state o
wrath an* sak water. 'Look you, Jim Tool!
sings he; 'you want t' break your neck ?'
" 1 'lowed maybe Jim was too high up t' hear.
"'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. Coin* easy,' says he, 'you'll beat Shott
ii8
THE SQUALL
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' aims there that can cUnch a argu-
ment.'
"* Ay/ says I; 'but what '11 come o' Archibald ?'
"'Well/ says the skipper, 'it looks t' me as if
he'd be content jus' t' keep on goin'.'
" In this way, sir, I come t* the top o* the clifF.
They was signs o' weather — z 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
would 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
119
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
by space an' that face o' fear, I rdled back o„
the frozen moss, sick an' limp. When I looked
again I seed, so far below that they looked hke
fat swile on the ice, the skipper an' the crew o
the Billy Boy, 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-hpped, wolf-eyed,
his heart as cruel now, sir, his slow mmd as keen,
his muscles as tense an' eager, as a brutes on
the hunt. ^
"'Jim!' says I. *Oh, Jiml
" Jim jus' come on up.
"'Jim!' says I. *Is that you?*
"Seemed, sir, it jus' couldn't be. N(rt Jim/
Why, I nursed Jiml 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, Hke a dream in the gray space below,
I could see Jimmie Tool's yellow head an tat
white le^ an' calico dresses, jus' as they used
' "'Jim,' says I, 'it can't be you. Not you,
Jim,' says l; ' not youF , , o . u
"'Tumm,' says he, Ms he stuck? Cant he
get no farther f*
THE SQUALL
"Jim!
"•If he canV says he, 'I got un! FIl knife
uiiy Tumm/ says he, 'jus' in a minute/
"* Don't try it,* says I.
"'Don't you frei, Tumm,' says he. * Isn't
no fear o' me fallin'. I'm all right.'
"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
121
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
Black Bight cliffs -I wisht, somehow, that little
limmie Tool had never needed t' grow up. ^ ^
"•Jimmie," says I, 'what you really goin t
do ?' . ,
"'Well,* says he, 'jus* a minute.
" • Veiy well,' says I ; ' but you better leave poor
Arch alone.'
*' ' How's his grip V says he.
"•None too good,* says 1; 'a touch would dis-
lodge un.* , , L » u
"If I cotched un by the ankle, then, says ne,
'1 'low I c 'M jerk un loose.'
"•You h I't better try,* says Arch.
"* Jim,' says I, 'does you know how high up
you really is ?'
"Jim jus' reached as quick as a snake tor
Archibald She 's foot, but come somewhat short
of a grip. • ^ oot it!' says he, ' I can on'y touch
un with my finger. I'll have t' climb higher.'
"Up he come a inch or so. ^ ^
"*You try that again, Jim,' says Arch, an
I'll kick you in the head.'
"•You can't,' says Jim; 'you dassn't move a
foot from that ledge.'
"•Try an' see,' says Arch.
"•I can see very well, Arch, b'y,' says Jim.
•If you wriggles a toe, you'll fall*
122
THE SQUALL
"Then, str» I cotched cr o' the skipper singin'
out from below. Scdned so far down when my
eyes dropped that my fingers digged theirsclvcs
deep in the moss and clawed around for bcrter
grip. They isn't no beach below, sir, nor brok( ri
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. Lordl it made me
shiver t* watch the course o' that ol* cloth cap!
Blow I Oh, ay — blowin'l 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 'n his wake. Sort o*
made me laugh, sir; they looked so round an*
squat an* short-legged, 'way down below, sprawl-
in' over the ice in mad haste t* board the Billy
Boy afore she drifted off in the gale. Laugh ?
Ay, sir! I laughed. Didn't seem t' me, sir, that
Jim Tool really meant t' kill Archibald Shott.
123
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
111
ii
l4 1
Jus' seemed, somehow, like a rough game, with
sonH hodv like t' get hurted if they »^^p' it up.
So I laughed; but I gulped that laugh back t
my stomach, sir, when I slapped eyes again on
Archibald Shott! t n / rr
"•Don't do that, Arch,' says I. \ ou 11 f^di!
"'Well,' says he, 'Jim says I can't kick un m
the head.' , , »
" • No more you can,' says Jim; an you dassn t
'^"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 bem'
able t' see lim, that the minute he reached out a
foot he'd be corched an' ripped from his hold, if
Tim 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,
ius' 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 Arc' -eel them fingers dosm' in than
he kicked out for life an' got loose. The wrench
104
THE SQUALL
near overset Jim. He made a quick grab for the
rock an' got a hand there jus' in time. Jim
lauded. 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 chc t k when poor Jim wasn't
lookin'. Must o' hurt |iin. When his head
fell hack, his face was all screwed up, jus' like a
child's in pain. I seed, too, that his muscles was
slack, his knees ifivin' way, an' that his right hand,
with the fingers spread out crooked, n<.' clawin'
for a hold, ecodi out in the air, where cL / wasn't
nmhin' 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.
"When I looked again, sir, Archibald Shott
had both feet toed back on the ledge, an' Slow
Jim Tool, below, was still stickin' Kke a barnacle
t' the cliff.
" ' Jim,' says I, ' if you don't stop this foolishness
I'll drop a rock on you.*
"'This won't do,' says he.
"'No,' says I; 'it won't!'
'low, Tumm,' says he, 'that I better swarm
above an* come down.*
"•What for?' says L
EVE RY MAN FO RJ^lMSELF
"'Step on his fingers,' says he.
"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 Hight
over the barren-a great leap into space Blu^
black clouds, low an' thick, rushin' over the chff,
spilt dusk an' snow below. 'Twas as though the
LotA had cast a black blanket o' night m 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. Jwasnt a
minute afore sea an' shore was wiped from sight
an' Tim 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 1 heard a cry, a dogs 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, tar
off an' hid in w 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 m breasts
' 126
THE SQUALL
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.
"'Twas Jim Tool that roused me.
"'That you, Jim?' says I.
"*Ay,* says he; 'you been waitin' here for me,
Tumm ?*
"*Ay,* says I; 'been waitin*.*
"'Hred?* says he.
*"No,* says I; *not tired.'
"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 was kind
t' me, Tumm.'
"*Oh no,' says I; 'not kind.*
"*Tumm/ says he, kickin' at a rock in the
snow, *I done it,' says he, *by the ankle,'
"'Then/ says I, 'God help you, Jim!'
"He come clcse t' me, sir, jus' like he used t'
do, when he was a lad, in trouble.
"'Keep off, Jim!' says I.
"'Why so?' says he. 'Isn't you goin' t* be
friends *ith me any more?*
" I was afraid. * Keep clearl* says L
"*Oh, why so V says he.
127
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
-aon't know!' says I. 'God help us
all, I don't know!'
"Then he failed 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, '/
wisht I hadn't done it!'
"Ah, poor little Jimmie Tool!
"I looked away, sir, west'ard, t' where the sky
had broken wide its gates. Ah, the sun had
washed the crimson bio d-drip from the cloudsl
»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; towhcaded 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 1, when 1 looked in his clear gray
THE SQUALL
eyeS) *thc world '11 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 cliiFs 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 /'m Tool
an' put a hand on his shoulder.
"'Jimmie!' says L
**He would not take his hands from his eyes.
"'Hush!' says I, for I had forgot that he was
no more a child. 'Don't cry!*
" He c(Mched my hand, sir, jus' like he used
t' do.
"*T' me,' says I, 'you'll always be the same
little lad you used t' be.'
"It eased un: poor little Jimmie Tool!"
Tunun's face had not relaxed. HVas 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
129
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
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 buret
in upon my musing, misled, perhaps, by this
ancient sorrow, "I'm glad / didn't make this
damned world! An', anyhow," he continued,
with a snap of indignation, "what happened after
that was all done as among men. Wasn't no
cryin'— least of all by Jim Tool. When the
Billy Boy 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 ought to. But
Skipper Alex wouldn't hear to it. Wasn't no
time, says he; the crew couldn't aiFord 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
130
THE SQUALL
drivin' theirselves, an' would jus' order un hanged
as soon as convenient, why, he'd be 'bliged.
An'—"
Tumm paused.
"Well?" I interrogated.
"The jury," Tunun answered, "jtu' wouUn't
do itr
"And Jimmie?"
"Jjis' fishin'."
Poor little Jimmie Tool!
V
THE FOOL OF SKELETON TICKLE
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 bom, and where he lived his
life, such as it was, and, in the end, gave it up in
uttermost disgust. It was a wretched Newfound-
land settlement of the remoter pans, isolated
on a stretch of naked coast, itself lying unap-
preciatlvely 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 in-
crustations 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.
132
THE FOOL OF SKELETON TICKLE
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, fret-
ting the sea to a swishing lop, in which the har-
bor 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. . . .
"Hal" 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 feel-
ing 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 NewPun'lan'." He threw back his head;
regarded me with pride and mystery, eyes half
closed. "No? Come, I tell you! I am thee
mos* bes' business man in Newf'un'lan'. £hf
133
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
Not so ? Ay, I am thee ver* mos* bes* business
man in all thee wori'. I— Tanous Shiva— W /"
He struck his breast. "I have be thee man. An*
thee mos' fool— thee mos' beeg fool— thee mos'
fear-ful 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. Hal" he ex-
claimed, clasping his hands in an ecstasy of de-
light. "How you will have laugh w'en I tell!"
He sobered. "I am now," he said, solemnly,
"be-geen. You hark?"
I nodded.
"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,
d' 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 grand-
father work ver* hard; his father work ver* hard;
all thee gold come to this man, an' he work ver*,
ver* hard. They work fear-ful— in thee gale, in
thee cold; they work, work, work, for thee gold.
134
THE FOOL OF SKELETON TICKLE
Many, many year ago, long time past, thee gold
beo^n to have save. It be-geen to have save
many year afore I am born. Eh ? Fun-ec
t'ing! They work, work, work; but / am not
work. Oh no! I am leetle baby. They save,
save, save; but / 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'."
My glance, quick, suspicious, was not of the
kindest, and it caught his eye.
"You theenk I have get thee gold f** 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 steal 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 wr* good business
man."
His ^es were guileless. . . .
ns
EVERY MAN FOR MIMSELF
A pum 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 im-
poverished in all things. Seven lobster-tins of
gold ccHn! 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, labor-
ing not at all; but by chance, in the end, he had
come, covetous and sly, within reach of all the
fruit of this malfonning toil. ...
"Look!"
I followed the lean, brown finger to a spot on a
bare hill — a sombre splash of black.
" You see ? Ver' well. One time he leeve
there — this grea' beeg fool. His house it have
be bum 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
136
THE FOOL OF SKELETON TICKLE
for 'Li/.a Hull ncx' time thee trader come. I
mus' have thee gold ot ol' Skip' Jim. If 1 not,
tlum Sam Tom will have buy thee parasol from
Tanotis Shiva. Xiza Hull will have love him
an' not nie. I mus* have 'Liza Hull love me.
Oh,' theenk he, *I mus' have 'Li/a Hull love me!
I am not can leeve 'ithout that beep; 'Liza Hull
with thee red cheek an' blue eye!' (Ver' poor
taste thee men have for thee girl in Newf'un'lan'.)
'Hal' theenk he. 'I mus' have thee gold. I am
bum thee house an' get thee gold. Then I have
buy thee peenk parasol from Tom Shiva.' Fool I
Ver' beeg fool — that boy. Burn thee house ? Ver'
poor business. Mos' poor. Bum thee hmise of
ol' Skip' Jim .? Pooh!"
It seemed to me, too — so did the sly fellow
bristle and puff with contempt — that the wretch-
ed lad's directness of method was most repre-
hensible; but I came to my senses later, and I
have ever since known that the hig^hwayman was
in some sort a worthy fellow.
"Ver' well. For two year I know 'bout thee
seven lobster-tin of jrold, an' for two year I make
thee great frien' alc-.^^ o' Skip' Jim — thee greates'
frien*; thee ver' greates' frien' — for 1 am want
thee gold. Aie! I am all thee time stop with
Skip* Jim. I am go thee church with Skip* Jim.
137
EVERY M^.N FOR HIMSELF
I am knicl thti- piayei wirh Skip' Jini. (I am
ver' good man about tht^ prayer -ver' good busi-
ness man.) Skip' Jim he theenk me thee Jew.
Pooh I I am not care. I say» 'Oh yem. Skip*
Jim; I am mos* « . i a! (iut what thee Jews done.
Bad Jew done iii.it. 'You good Jew, Tom,'
he say; 'I am mn 'un m to t' ce 'count. Of-
no, T(»m; y'^u g( 'd jtw.* hv s.tv. *^ou uoiihi
not do what thee bad U^a .Ifjie. H >h no. Skip'
Jim,' I say, *I am ver' gixid man — ver', ver*
good man.'"
The peddkr was gravely silent for a space.
"I am hemes' man," he continued. I am
thee mos' hones' business man in Newf'un'lan'.
So I mus* havt wait for thee i^old. Aii, " he
sighed, "it have be mos' hard ,o wait. I am
almos' break thee heart. Hut 1 am hone ' man
— ver*, ver* hones* man — an* I mus* have wait.
Now I teli you what have ha^>en: I am come
ashcne one night, an' it is th( > n ' night after
thee boy have burn thee house ot Skip' Jim (or
the peenk parasol.
"'Where Skip' Jim hous( I say.
"'Burn down,' they say.
"'Burn down!' I say. 'Oh, my! 'Tis sad.
Have thee seven lobster-tin of g<^ be hm' V
"*AU spoil,* they say.
138
THE FOOL OF SKELETON TICKLE
*'I am not flieenk ^stt they meafi. *CMi,
dearr Isay. '^VI ..p' f im ?'
You fin' SJ^ Jiffi at tlMe Skip' Btt Tm^'n
hovtsc*
"*Oh, my!' I say. 'I mi s' sad. 1 au.
go 4ffvc !ice f e ti Sk ,im."*
Th= t( g was i t tn- . f^. We had come
close to Skekton Tickk i downcast cot-
tages were more a^mm' "t^ar ^ Im^ been —
infiniteh nvrc isolat
'^ I fin' Jim. fe sit in
th Ih r-'i ul of c f:' Bill Ti^sc)i , house.
A he( •. d is gotnl! Nolxidy there.
Wiiat h.i ci H lold! Ciold! 1 he heap of
gold! The btcg heap of gold! I am nt -
can Tr\\ jfmf*
Th nan «^ i^atbii^ je gasps; in tl^ pause
fcs jaw dr .lis Wcm eyes were distended.
"Ha!" ' iculai "So I am thank thee
dear i^oi ; I ar ; not come thee ton lare.
violu Cii id T^^c heap of gold! I am pray
' r' rd to ue go* d business man. 1 am close
ee X e pmy thce good God I am be ver*
go* J bte*n€s . man for one hour. *Jus' one
hour, O ■ n^idf' I pray. 'Leave me be ver*,
ver' gooi aess roan for jus' one leet-tle ver*
small ho^. i am geeve one hun'red hfty to
139
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
thee Orth'dox Church in Washington Street, O
my God/ I pray, * if 1 be mos' ver' good busi-
ness 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.
"'Oh, Skip' Jim!' I say. 'Fear-r-ful! How
have your house cotch thee fire ?'
"'Thee boy of Skip' EHsha,' he say.
"*Oh, Skip' Jim,' I say, 'what have you do
by thee wicked boy?*
"'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.'
" 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 8«,
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 ban'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.
"'Oh, Tom Shiva,' he says, ' I am ruin'!'
"•Ver* sad,' I say. 'Oh, dear!'
140
THE FOOL OF SKELETON TICKLE
"'I am ruin' — ruin*!' he sav. *Oh, I am
ruinM What have I do?'
"'Ver', ver' sad,' I say. 'Oh, Skip' Jim,' I
say, ' 'tis ver' sad !'
"'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.*
"I am not know what he mean. 'Not be
rich no more ?' I say. 'Not be rich no more ?*
"'Look!' he say. 'Look, Tom Shiva! Thee
gold! Thee seven Iobster>tin ^id!'
"'I am sec, Skip' Jim,' I say.
"'Ah,' he say, in thee mos* awful, thee ver'
mos' awful, speak, 'it is all spoil'! It is all
spoil'! I am ruin'!'
"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'
heeg 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 gdd? No, spoil' gdd! No good no
»4i
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
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!'
"'Spoil', Skip' Jim ?' I say.
"'All spoil', Tom Shiva,' he say. 'Thee gold
no good.'
"*Ver' sad to be ruin',' I say. 'Oh, Skip' Jim,
ver* sad to be ruin'. I am ver', ver* sad to see
you ruin'.'
*"Tom Shiva,' he say, 'you ver* good man.'
"'Skip' Jim,' I say, 'I have love you ver*
much.*
***Oh, Tom Shiva,* thee beeg foo' say, 'I am
thank you ver' hard.'
'"CMi yessy Skip' Jim,' I say, 'I am love you
ver', ver' much.'
" He shake my ban'.
"'I am love you ver' much, Skip' Jim,' I say,
*an' I am ver' good man.'
"My han' it pinch me ver' sore. Skip' Jim
shake it so hard with thee beeg, black han' he
142
THE FOOL OF SKELETON TICKLE
have. Thee han' of thee feesherman is ver', ver'
beeg, ver' strong. Thee ver' hard work make it
ver' beeg an' strong.
"'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 buy thee spoil' gold.'
'"Buy thee gold?' he say. *Oh, Tom Shiva.
All spoil'. Lookl All n.elt. Thee gold no
good no more.'
"'I am buy thee gold from you,' I say, 'Skip'
Jim, my friend.'
"•Ver* good friend, you, Tom Shiva,' he say;
*ver* good friend to me.*
"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,' 1 say —
"Then I stop.
"'What you geeve me for thee spoil' gold ?* he
say.
"*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.*
"Then he get ver' good business man in the eye.
•"Oh nol' he say. 'I am want one hundred
dollar '
' i s'.ake my head. 'Oh, Skip' Jim!' I say.
* Sh;^.iie to have treat thee friend sol I am j^reat
H3
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
friend fo you, Skip' Jim,' I say. 'But,' I say,
'business is business. Skip' Jim,' I say. Met us
have pray-'
"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' rehgious. Pray ?
Oh, I know him. Pray? You bet he pray!
You ask Skip' Jim to pray, an* he pray— oh,
he pray, you bet i ' 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!*
"I get ver* tired with thee prayin*. I am ver*
good business man. I am want thee gold.
"'Skip' Jim!' I vvhis-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' I whis-pair. 'Queek! I
am c^er seventy-five dollar.*
144
THE FOOL OF SKELETON TICKLE
"Then he get up from thee knee. Ver' ob-
stinate 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!
"'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.'
**'Ver' well,' I say. 'I am geeve you eighty.*
***Come,' he say; 'ninety will have do.*
"*Ver* well,* I say. *You are my friend. I
geeve you eighty-five.*
♦''Ver* well,* he say. 'I am love you ver'
much, Tom Shiva. I take it. Ver* kind of
you. Torn Shiva, to buy all thee spoil' gold
an' silver. I am hope you have not lose thee
money.'
"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 New-
Pun'lan*. I am too hones* to say thee lie.
"'I am take thee risk,* I say. 'You are my
friend. Skip' Jim,' I spy. *I am take thee risk.
H5
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
I am geeve you eighty-five dollar for all the
spoir gold an' silver — half cash, half trade. . . .
I am have mos' wonderful suit clothes for ver'
cheap. . .
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 op-
portunity, 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 wait south to
St. John's, where he converted the spoiled coin
into a bank credit of ten thousand dollars, con-
tent that it should be so. And thereupon he set
out again to trade. ...
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 ia dumb wretchedness, like men
of sodden patience who wak without hope. A
146
THE FOOL OF SKELETON TICKLE
punt put out from shore — came listlessly toward
the steamer for the mail.
"Ho! Tom Timms!" the Syrian shouted.
"That you, Tom Timms ? How Skip' Jim All ?
How my ol', good friend Skip' Jim All ?"
The boat was under the quarter. Tom
Timms shipped his oars, wiped the rain from
his whiskers, then looked up — without feel-
ing.
"Dead," he said.
"Dead!" The man turned to me. "I am
thank thee good God," he whispered, reverently,
"that I am get thee gold in time." He shud-
dered. "O, my God!" he muttered. "What if
I have come thee too late!"
" Ay, dead," Tom Timms repeated. " He sort
o* went an* jus* died.**
" Oh, dear! How have he come to die ? Oh,
my poor friend, ol' Skip* Jim! How have he
come by thee death ?"
"Hanged hisself."
"Hanged hisself! Oh, dear! Why have thee
ol' Skip' Jim be so fearful wicked ?"
It was an unhappy question.
"Well," Tom Timms answered, in a colorless
drawl, ** he got a trap-leader when he found out
what you done He just sort o* vnm an' got a
«47
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
trap-leader an' hanged hisself in the fish-stage —
when he found out what you done."
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.
" Business,** he sighed, " is business.**
The words repeated themselves interminably
— a monotonous dirge. Business is business.
. . . Business is business. . . . Business is busi-
ness. . . .
VI
A COMEDY OF CANDLESTICK COVE
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 bring-
ing tog, rain, breaking seas, drift-ice, dispiriting
cold. From Nanny's Old Head the outlook was
perturbing: the sky was bid, 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 melanchc^ fog, hanging low,
which curtained the beyond.
The hands of the men of Candlestick Caw
H9
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
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 o( Candlestick Cove were
alert with apprehensive caution: tense, quick to
move, clear and hard under drawn brows. With
a high sea perversely continuing biyond the
harbor tickle, there was no place in the eyes of
men for the light erf humor or love, which thrive
in security. Windy weather, indeed! 'Twas a
time for men to be men!
"I Mow I ne\'er seed nothin' like it," Jonathan
Stock complained.
The sea, breakinjj; upon the Rock o* Wishes,
and the wind, roaring past, confused old l oni Lull.
"What say ?" he shouted.
"Nothin' like it," said Jonathan Sfock.
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.
150
A COMEDY OF CANDLESTICK COVE
"Me neither," said he.
They were drawing near Herring Point, within
the harbor, where the nmse of wind and sea, in
an easterly gale, diminishes.
"I 'low I never seed noihin' Ultc it," said
Jonathan Stock.
"Me neither, Skipper Jortathan."
"Never seed nothin' like it."
Thty pulled on m silence— until the froth of
Puppy Rock was well astern.
"Me neither," said Tom.
/ never seed nothin' like it," Jonathan
grumbled.
Old Tom wagp;ed his head.
"No, sir!" Jonathan declared. "Never seed
nothin like it."
"Me neither."
"Not like this,'* said Jonathan, testily.
"Me neither," old Tom agreed. "Not like
this. No, sir; me neither, b'y!"
'Twas a grand, companionable exchanj-ic of
ideas! A gush of talk! \ whirlwind of opinion!
Both enjoyed it — were relieved by it : rid of the
gathered thought of long hours alcme on tlw
grounds. Jonathan Stock had expressed him-
self freely and at length; so, too, old Tom Lull.
Twas hesuctoiing — this easy sociability. Tom
II 151
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
Lull \v;is glad rluii Ik- had waited in the lee of
the Ro, k o' Wishes; he had felt the need o( con-
versation, and was now gratified; so, too, J(»na-
than Stock. Hut i i\v, «|uitc exhausted of ideas,
they proceeded in silence, pulling inei hanically
through the dripping mist. From time to time
old Tom Lull wagged his head and darkly mut-
tered; but the words invariably got Km in his
mouth.
Presently both punts came to Jonathan Stoclc's
stage.
**I 7o;t," Jonathan exclaimed, in parting, "I
never seed nothin' like it!"
Old Tom lifted his oars. He drew his hand
over his wet beard. A nuHnent 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 he-
wilderment— turned as if ahout to deliver him-
self of some vast original conception, which might
leave ncxhing more to be said.
'* Me neither!" he chuckled, as his oars struck
the water and his punt moved off into the mist.
Windy weather! Moreover, it was a lean year
— the leanest of three lean years. The flakes
were idle, unkempt, dripping the fog; the stages
A COMEDY OF CANDLESTICK COVE
were emptv, rlu bins lull >t salt; the splitting-
knives were ru.sttd: tiiis rhoci^h men and punts
and nets were worn out with toil. There was
no fish: wherdbie, rlie feeling men of Candlestick
Cove kept clear of the merchant of the place,
who had outfitted diem all in the ^ting of the
year, and was now contemplatii^ the reckon-
ing at St. John's wkh much terror and wmt ill-
humor.
It w a lean year — a time (»f' uneasy dread.
From Cape Norman to the Funks and 'ueyond,
the clerg)', acutely aware of the prospect, and
perceiving the c^portunity to be even more use-
ful, preached from comforting texts. **1ht Lord
\M provide" was the tli^.-^f^ of g^nde Parson
Cir*. 4 of Doubled Arm; an ". ..'iscourse culmi-
nated in a passionate ali; < r "Yet have 1
never seen tin seed of ti i^ .teous begging
bread." Parson Stump of Isurnt Harbor — a
timid little man vrith ^nder gray eyes — tr»ted
"Your Heavenly Father fenieth them" with in-
spiring faith.
By all this the apprehensior, the folk was
hilled; r was admitted even by the unrighteous
that rhiic were times when 'twas better to be
with tiian without the clergy. At Little Harbor
Shallow, old Skipper Job Sutler, a man lac tk.ing in
153
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
understanding, put out no more to the grounds
off Devil-may-Gire.
"Skipper Job," the mail-boat captain warned,
"you better get out t'the grounds in civil weather."
" Oh," quoth Job," the Lard 'II take care o'wf /"
The captain was doubtful.
"An', anyhow," says Job, "if the Lard don't,
the gov'ment's got to!"
His youngest child died in the famine months
of the winter. But that was his fault
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 patter-
ing 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 ' as 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 sus-
pended from the main rafter showered the shelves
and counter and greasy floor with light. Skipper
Jonathan's clothes of moleskin steamed mth the
rain and spray of the day's toil.
»54
A COMEDY OF CANDLESTICK COVE
"No, John/' said the trader, sharply; "she
can't have un — it can't be done."
Jonathan slowly examined his wrist; the band-
age had got loose. " No ?" he asked, gently* his
eyes still fixed on the salt-water sore.
"No, sir."
Jonathan drew a great hand over his narrow
brow, where the rain still lay in the furrows.
It passed over his beard — z gigantic beard, bushy
and flaming red. He shook the rain-drops from
his hand.
"No; Mister Totley," he repeated, in a patient
drawl. "No— oh no."
Totley hummed the opening bars of "Wrecked
on the Devil's Finger." He broke off impatient-
ly — and sighed.
"She can%" Jonathan mused. "No — sht
can't."
The trader began to whistle, but there was no
heart in the diversion; and there was much
p<)ij;nant distress in the way he drummed on
the counter.
"I wouldn't be carin* so much," Jonathan
softly persisted — ^"ik>, not so much, if 'twasn't
their birthday. She told un three year ago they
could have un — when they was twelve. An*,
dear manl they'll be twelve two weeks comt
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
Toosday. Dear man!" he exclaimed again, with
a fleeting Iktle snuie, **how the young ones
grows!"
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.
" An' the other little thing ?" Jonathan inquiRK).
"Was you 'lowin' my woman could have — the
other little thing? Shi've her heart sort o' sot
on that. Sort o' sot on havin' — that there little
thing."
"Can't do it, Jonathan."
"Ay," Jonathan repeated, blankly. "She was
sayin' the day 'twas soft o* giddy of her; but she
was 'lowin' her heart was sort o* s(a on havin' —
that little thing."
Totley shook his licad.
"Her heart," Jonathan sighed.
"Can't do it, John."
"Mm-m-m! No," Jonathan muttered, scratch-
ing his head in helplessness and bewilderment;
"he can't give that little thing t' the woman,
neither. Ckn't give she that."
Totley shook his head. It was not an agree-
156
A COMEDY OF CANDLESTICK COVE
able duty thus to deny Jonathan Stock of Can-
dkstick 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 — no
fishy God help us all I There would be famine
at Candlestick 0)ve — famine, God help us all!
The folk of Candlestick Cove — Totley's folk-
must he fed; there must be no starvation. And
the creditors at St. John's — Totley's creditors —
were wanting fish insistently. IVantitig fishy 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, bv the Lord! would go out of the store.
Jonarhan pusht-d back his dripping cloth cap
ami sighed. '* 'Tis fallin' out wonderful," he
ventured.
Totley whistled to keep his spirits up.
•57
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
"Awful!" said Jonathan.
The tone continued.
"She lom," Jonadum went am, *'tfaat if it
keeps (Ml at this rate she won't lum none Itk by
spring. That's what she 'lows wS happen."
Totley proceeded to the chorus.
"No, sir," Jonathan pleaded; "she'll have itar
a one!"
The trader avoided his eye.
"An* k makes her feel sort o* bad," Jonathan
protested. **! tells her that with or without she
won't he no different t* me. N(« t' me. But
she sort o' feels bad just the same. You sees,
sir," he stammered, abashed, "she — she — she's
only a woman!"
Totley jumped from the counter. " Look you
Jcmathan!" said he, decisively, "she can have
it."
"She can have what she wants for herself,
look you! but she can't have no oil-skins for the
twins, though 'tis their binhday. 'Tis hard times,
Jonathan, with the wind glued t' the east; an'
the twins is got t' go wet. What kind she want ?
Hi ? I got two kinds in the case. I don't rec-
< i wWPCT a m — I o tnem.
JemiAm a r mchcd his head.
158
A COMEDY OF CANDLESTICK COVE
"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."
Jonathan agreed.
"Skipper Jonsrthan," 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 in-
stead o* six, I'd thank you. The young ones is
growin', I knows; but — well, Fd thank you,
Jonathan, I'd thank you!"
" Mister Totley, sir," Jonathan Stock replied,
solemnly, "I will 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."
"Thank y<^ Jonathan."
"An* . . . you wouldn't mind lad^in' this bit
o' cotton on my wrist, would you, sir ? The
sleeve o' my jacket sort o' chafes the sore."
"A bad hand, Jonathan!"
" No — oh no; it 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 W/"
The wrist was bound anew. Jonathan ttum-
159
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
bled down the 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 did want- that little thing. The
wind was high -the rain sweeping out of the
cast. He turned the bow of the punt toward a
point of light shining cheerily far ofF in the dark,
tumultuous night.
Jonathan Stock had no more than got off his
soggy boots, and washed his hands, and combed
his hair, and drawn close to the kitchm Hre
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 f^ce with a white handkerchief,
and jovially rubbed his hands tc^ether. 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 wear-
ing a gigantic yellow chain hanging from pocket
to pocket of the waistcoat, and wilted collar
and cuffs, and pnrent-leather shots, w hich were
muddy and cracked and turned up at the toes.
lOo
A COMEDY OF CANDLESTICK COVE
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.
'Twas always comforting to have Pars<ni Jaunt
drop in. Wherever he went anumg 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, ami-
able intimacy, his quips and questions, his way
with children — these made him beloved. Ay,
there was always a welcome for Parson Jaunt I
"Ha, ha! Yes," the parson proceeded, "the
brethren will be here on the next mail-boat for
the district meeting. Ha, ha! Well, well, -low!
And how's the baby getting along. Aunt Tibbie ?
Hut! you little toad; don't you laugh at meT'
But the baby would.
"Ha-a-a, you rat! Y'ou will 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. . . . Lh f Get out, you squid!
Slop that laughing!"
i6i
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
The baby could not.
"Stop it, I say!"
The baby doubled up, and squirmed, and
wiggled his toes, and gasped with glee.
* Yes," the parson continued, "that you might
manage Parson All of Satan's Trap."
"T* be sure!" cried Skipper Jonathan. " We'll
manage un, an' be glad!"
Aunt Tibbie's face fell.
"That's good," said the parson. "Now, that
IS 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 will, 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!"
Aunt Tibbie's face was beaming. Anxiety
and weariness were for the moment both forgot.
- Twas good, indcod, to have Parson Jaunt drop in!
"Eh, woman?" Jonathan inquired.
"Oh, ay!" she answered. "We've always a
pillow an' a bite t' eat for the Lard's anointed."
162
A COMEDY OF CANDLESTICK COVE
"The Lord's anointed!" the parson repeated,
quickly. "Ah, that's it, sister," said he, the
twinkle goro from his upturned eyes. **rve
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 over-
much 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."
Aunt Tibbie was taken by an anxious thought.
"What do he fancy," she asked, "for feedin' ?"
"Ha, ha!" the parson exploded, in his delight-
fully jocular way. "That's the woman of it.
Well, well, now! Yes, indeed! There speaks
the good housewife. Eh, Skipper Jonathan?
Ton re well looked after, I'll warrant. That's
rather good, you know, coming from yuu. Aunt
Tibbie. Ha, ha! Why, Aunt Tibbie, he eats
anything. Anything at all! YouMl want very
163
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
little extra — veiy, very Iktle extra. But he'll
tell you when he comes. Don't worry about
that. Just what you have for yourselves, you
know. It it tlocsn't agree with him, he'll ask
for what hi- tltsircs."
•'Sure, sirT said Skipper Jonathan, heanily.
"Just let un ask for it."
"Ay," Aunt Tibbie echoed, blankly; "just let
un ask for it. Sure, he can speak for hisself."
** Of course!" tried the parson, jovially. "Why,
to he sure! That's the hospitaUty for me! Noth-
ing formal about that. That's just what makes
us Newfoundlanders famous for hospitality.
That's what I like. 'Just let un ask.'"
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 n.in out of harmony with
the parson's jovial spirit: sweeping in froin the
black sea where Jonathan must toil at dawn.
"Ay," he sighed, indifferently.
Aimt Tibbie gave him an anxious glance.
"Yes, indeed! Ha, ha!" the parson laughed.
"Let me see, now," he rattled. "To-morrow.
Yes, yes; to-morrow is Tuesday. Well, now, let
164
A COMEDY OF CANDLLSTICK COVE
me see; yes -mm-m-m, of course, that's right —
you will have the privilege of entertaining Brother
All for four (lays. 1 wish it was more. I wish
for your sake," he repeated, honestly, heiiig un-
aware of the true situation in this case, "that it
could be more. But it can't. I assure you, it
can't. He must get the mail-lxxit north. Pity,"
he continued, "the brethren can't linger. These
district meetings are so helpful, so inspiring, so
refreshing. Yes, intleed! And then the social
aspect — the relaxation, the flf)w of soul! We
parsons are busy men — cooped up in a study,
yw 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," be concluded, with an odd
touch of pomposity, "is hard labor."
"Ay," said Skipper Jonathan, sympathetically;
"you parsons haves wonderful hard lines. I
wouldn't like t* he one. No, sir; not mel"
In this — in the opinion and feeling — Skippt r
Jonathan was sincere. He most properly loved
Parson Jaunt, and was sorry for him, and he
must not be lau[;hed at.
"But," the parson argued, "we have the
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EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
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 enter-
tain the clergy at the parsonage on Thursday
evening. Yes, indeed! She's planned the re-
freshments already." The parson gave Aunt
Tibbie a sly, sly glance, and burst out laugh-
ing. "Ha, ha!" he roared. "1 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 whis-
per, "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. "She's got a dozen bananas
from St. John's! Eh Ha, ha! And she's going
to slice 'em and put 'em in a custard. Ha, ha!"
i66
A COMEDY OF CANDLESTICK COVE
The twins gasped.
"Ha, ha!" the parson roared.
They were all delighttd — 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
Hved his life as best he could — earnestly, diligent-
ly, 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.
"Yes, indeed!" the parson laughed. "And
look here, now — why, I must be off! Where's my
umbrella ? Here it is. . . . Will 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 Aaw, 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
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
Lord will provide. Good- night. God bless
you!"
"You'll get wonderful wet, sir," said Aunt
Tibbie, with a little frown of anxiety.
" I don't mind it in the least," cried the parson.
"Not at all. Fm used to it/*
Skipper Jonathan shut the djor against the
wind.
" Will it never stop blowin'l" Aunt Tibbie com-
plained.
Outside, vind and rain had their way with the
world. Aunt Tibbie and Skipper Jonathan ex-
changed glances. They were thinking of the
dawn.
" I'm wantin* t' go t' bed, Tibbie,*' Jonathan
sighed, "for I'm wonderful tired."
"An' I'm tired, too, dear," said Aunt Tibbie,
softly. "Leave us all go t' bed."
They were soon sound asleep. ...
Parson All turned out to be a mild little old
man vnth 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
i68
A COMEDY OF CANDLESTICK COVE
the night and wet and vast confusion of that
place — Parson AU 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 not 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.
At once they sat down to supper.
"Fm glad t* have you, parson," said Jonathan,
his broad, hairy face shining with soap and de-
light. "That I is. Fm glad t' have you."
The parson's smile was winning.
"Jonathan haves a wonderful taste for com-
pany," Aunt Tibbie explained.
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."
169
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
"They's more in the pot," Aunt Tibbie put in.
The parson's gentle eye searched the table —
as our eyes have often done. A bit of hopeful
curiosity — nothing mor : 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 lay n an, to wish for more; for the
Lord endowed them IxMh 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. An^ still the mild eyes con-
tinued full of benevolence and satisfaction. He
was a man — that panon!
"Windy weather," said he, with an engaging
smile.
Never seed nctthin' lih it !" Jonathan declared.
170
A COiviEDY OF CANDLESTICK COVE
The twins were by this time busy with their
forks, their eyes darting little glances at the
parson, at the parson's ovedoaded plate, at the
ruin of the mountain.
"Wind in the east," the parson remarked.
Jonathan was perturbed. "You isn't very
hearty the night," said he.
"Oh, dear me, yes!" the parson prot^ed.
"I was just about to begin."
The faces of the twins were by this overcast.
"Don't spare it, parson."
The parson gulped a mouthful with a wry
face — an obstinately wry face; he could not
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 was!
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!
"That ain't hearty," Aunt Tibbie coinplained.
"To be frank," said the parson, in great hu-
miliation — ^*to be perfectly frank, I like brewis,
but—"
The happiness faded from Aunt Tibbie's eyes.
" — I don't find it inspiring," the paistm cwi-
duded, in shame.
171
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
The twins promptly took advantage of the
opportunity to pass their plates for mote.
"Dyspepsey?" Aunt Tibbie inquired.
"It might be called that," Parson All replied,
sweeping the board with a smile, but yet with a
flush of guih and shame, " Sy a physician."
"Poor man!" Aunt Ti» sighed.
There was a brief silf — expectant, but not
selfishly so, on the pan of the parson; somewhat
despairing on the part of the hosts.
"Well, parson," Skipper Jonathan said, dogf-
gedly, "all you got t' do is ask for it you
wants."
"No, no!"
"That's all you got t* do," Jonathan persisted.
" Most kind of you, sir! But— no, no!"
"Please do!" Aunt Tibbie begg^.
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,
sonuthing had to be done. He would yield— he
must 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
172
A COMEDY OF CANDLESTICK COVE
rebellion against the Lord —no, not rebellion:
merely rebellious questionings. But he is to be
forgiven, surely; for he wislMd meet eaniMtly
that he might eat brewis and tive— just as you
and I might have done.
''Now, Parson All," Jonathan demanded,
"you just got t* tell."
And, well, the parson admitted that a little
bread and a tin of beef— to be taken sparingly —
would be a grateful diet.
" But we've none!" cried Aunt Tibbie. "An*
this night you'll starve!"
"To-night," said the parson, gently* "my
stomach— is a bit out — anyhow."
Presently he was shown to his bed. . . .
" 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."
"He — he — he've just got t' have more."
" He've a weak stomach," Aunt Tibbie apolo-
gized. "Poor man!"
"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
173
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
wouldn't change places with a pat:iony woman,
for aU the worid!''
Aunt Tibbie nodded absoitly.
*'I 'low," said Jonathan, "I'd better be gettin'
under way for the shop."
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 per-
ceive the labor of the way. . . . And the trader
was sitting ;:lone i.i 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.
"You got a parson, Jonathan," said he, ac-
cusingly. "Yes, you is."
"Ay," Jonathan admitted, "I got one."
"An* that's what brings you here."
"It be," Jonathan replied, defiantly.
The silence was disquieting.
"I'm 'lowin'," Jonathan stammered, "t' — t* —
t' sort o' get four tins o' beef."
The trader beat his calf.
"An* six pound o* butter," said Jonathan,
"an* some pickles."
"Anything else ?" the trader snapped.
"Ay," said Jonathan, "they is."
m
A COMEDY OF CANDLESTICK COVE
The trader sniffed.
"The parson haven't said nothin', but Tibbie's
got a notion thar he's wonderful fond o' canned
peaches," Jonathan ventured, diffidently. "She
'lows they'll keep his food sweet."
"Anything else
"No — oh no!" Jonathan sighed. "I 'low you
wouldn't give me three pound o* cheese?" he
asked. "Not that the parson mentioned cheese,
but Tibbie 'lows he'd find it healthful." The
trader nodded. "About four cans o* peaches,"
said Jimathan.
" I see," said the trader.
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.
"Oh, dear!" he sighed.
"Jonathan," said the trader, sharply, "you're
a fool. I've long knowed it. Buc I loves a fool;
an* you're the biggest dunderhead I ever knowed.
You can have the cheese; you can have the beef;
you can have the peaches. You can have un all.
Bui — ^you got t' pay."
"Oh, ay," said Jonathan, freely. "I'll pay!"
"You'll go without sweetness in your tea," the
trader burst out, " all next winter. Understand ?
»75
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
No svvtttnt'ss in your tea. That's how you'll
pay. If you takes these things, mark you,
Jonathan I — an' hearken well — if you tukts these
things for your parson, there'll be no molasses
measured out for you. You'll take your tea
straight. Do you understand me» J(»iathan
Stock ?"
*"Tis well," said Jonathan.
"An'—"
"The other?" Jonathan interrupted, anxious-
ly. "You wasn't 'lowin' t' have the woman give
up that, was you ? 'Tis such a little thii^."
The trader was out of temper.
"Not that!" Jonathan pleaded.
"Just that!" Totley e.xclaimed. "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."
"But she — she — she*s only a woman! An*
she sort o' feels bad. Nm that 'twould make any
difference t' me — not t* me. Oh, I tells her that.
But she 'lows she wants it, anyhow. She sort
o' hankers for it. An' if you could manage — **
" Not I !" Totley was very much out of temper.
" Pay for your own parson," he growled.
"Ah, well," Jonathan sighed, "she 'lowed, if
you made a p'int of it, that she'd take the grub
176
A COMEDY OF CANDLESTICK COVE
wi* do without— the other. Ay, do without— the
other."
So Jonathan went home with what the parson
needed to eat, and he wu happy.
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 Candle-
stick Cove. From Nanny's Old Head the out-
look 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 Candles' 'ck Cove
were not healed. There was no fish; e coast
hopelessly faced famine; men and wc.nen and
children would all grow lean. Thf. winter, ap-
proaching, was like an ='igry cl . ' rising from
the rim of the sea. 1 n^ faces of the men of
Candlesitck Cove were drawn— with fear of the
sea and with dread of what might come to pass.
In the meeting-house of Candlesrick Cove, in
district meeting assembled, the Black Bay dei^
engaged in important discussitms, with which the
177
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
sea and the dripping rocks and the easterly wind
had nothing to do. . . .
The Black Bay parsons were exchanging fare-
wells 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.
"How was you fixed, brother?" he whispered,
anxiously. "I haven't had time to ask you
before."
Parson All's eyebrows were lifted in mild m-
quiry.
"Was you comfortable? Did you get enough
to eat ?"
There was concern in Parson Jaunt's voice —
a sweet, wistful consideration.
"Yes, yes!" Parson All answered, quickly.
"They are very good people — the Stocks."
"They're clean, but — "
"Poor."
"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
178
' YOU WAS HXKU ALL RIGHT ?" PARSON JAUNT ASKKU
A COMEDY OF CANDLESTICK COVE
might fare rather badly. But there was nothing
eke to do. I sincerely hope — •**
Parson All raised a hand in protest.
"You was fixed all right ?" Parson Jaunt asked.
"Yes, brother," answered Parson All, in genu-
ine appreciation of the hospitality he had received.
"It was touching. Praise the Lord! I'm glad
to know that such people live in a selfish world
like this. It was very, very touching.**
Parson Jaunt's face expressed some surprise.
" Do you know what they did ?" said Parson
All, taking Parson Jaunt by the lapel of the
coat and staring deep into his eyes. "Do you
know what they did
Parson Jaunt wagged his head.
"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!"
Parson Jaunt stared. "What a wonderful
thing Christianity isl" he exclaimed. "What a
wonderful, wonderful thing! By their fruits,"
he quoted, "ye shall know them."
The Black Bay clergy were called aboard.
Parson Jaunt shook off the mild old Parson All
179
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
and rushed to the Chairman of the Distnct, his
black coat-tails flying in the easterly wind, and
wrung the Chairman's hand, and jovially laughed
until hb joUy Uttle paunch shook Uke jelly. . . .
That night, in the whitewashed cottage upon
which the angry gale beat, Skipper Jonathan and
Aunt Tibbie sat together by the kitchen hre.
Skipper Jonathan was hopelessly m 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 anc
all the rest of the Uttle crew were tucked awaj
and sound asleep.
Skipper Jonathan sighed. , , a.
"What was you thinkin' about, Jonathan?
Aunt Tibbie asked.
"Jus' ponderinV* «a»d he.
"Ay; but what upon?"
"Well, Tibbie," Jonathan answered, in en
barrassm'ent, "I was jus'— ponderin'."
"What is it, Jonathan?" .
"I was 'lowin', Tibbie," Jonathan admi
ted, "that it wouldn't be so easy— no, n.
so easy—t' do without that sweetness m n
tea."
Aunt Tibbie sighed.
i8o
A COMEDY OF CANDLESTICK COVE
"What you thinkin' about, dear?" Jonathan
asked.
"I got a sinful hankerin'," Aunt Tibbie an-
swered, repeating the sigh.
" Is you, dear ?"
"I got a sinful hankerin','' said she, "for that
there bottle o' hair-restorer. For I don't want
t' go bald! Cod forgive ine," she cried, in an
agony of humiliation, "for this vanity!"
"Hush, dear!" Jonathan whispered^ tenderly;
"for I loves you, bald or not!**
But Aunt Tibbie burst out crying.
IP
VII
ijiia
'if T
BY-AN'-BY" BROWN OF BLUNDER COVE
B
Y-AN'-BY" BROWN he was called at
Blunder G)ve. And as " By-an*-by*' Brown
he was known within its fishing radius: Grave
Head to Blow-me-down Billy. Momentarilv, on
the wet night of his landing, he had been "Mis-
ter" Brown; then— just "By-an'-by" Brown.
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. Non-
sense! It Was not " By-an'-by*s.** It never had
been. Name.? Tweak. Given name? She.
What! Well, then, Age? Recent— some-
wheres 'long about midsummer. Blunder Cove
was nmazed, but, being used to sudden peril, to
misfortune, and strange chances, was not in-
credulous. Blunder Cove was sympathetic: so
sympathetic, indeed, so quick to minister and to
assist, that "By-an*-by" Brown, aged fifteen,
l82
BY.AN--BY- 8ROWN
having taken hut transient shelter for the child,
remained to rear it, forever proposing, however,
to pr<7ceed — 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.
"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 ever 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 impover: hed settle-
ments by the way. And thereafter he remem-
bered the bleak and lonely reaches of Back Yard
Bight as a stretch of coast where he had been
considerably alarmed.
It had been a wet night when "By-an'-by*'
183
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
Brown and the baby put irtto Blunder Cove —
wind in the east, the sea ih a tumble: 4 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— wel-e kitM-deep in a flood of
darkness. "By-an-by*' Br&wh 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 dif-
fidently at the first kitchen door; and (presently
he stood abashed in a bUrst of wami lig^t fVom
within.
Shelter? Oh, ay! T' be sure. But (in <Juick
and resentful suspicion):
"B'y," Aunt Phoebe Luff demanded, "what
ye got in them ile-skins ? Pups ?**
"By-att*-by" Brown observed that th^Te were
embers in the kitcheh stove, that steam was
faintly rising from the spOut erf" the kettle.
" Baby," said he.
Aunt Phoebe jumped. "What!" cried she.
"Jus' a baby," said "By-an'-by" Brown.
** fFell! — ^you give that there baby here."
184
"BY-AN'-BY" BROWN
fee gUd t*. mtW «ii4 yftiing "By-m'-
by" 6rown> in childish tendemeM» still with-
holding the bundle from the woman't OEtcmiefi
arms, "but not for keeps."
"For keeps!" Aunt Phoebe snorted.
"No, ma'am; not for keeps. I'm 'lowin' t'
fetch it up myself," said "By-an'-by" Brown,
"by-an'-by/*
"Dunderhead!" Aunt Phcebe whispered* softly.
And "By-an'-by" Brown, familiar with the
exigenqr, obediently went in.
Thfti there were lights in the cottages of
Blunder Cove: instantly, it seemed, And com-
pany—and tea ifi4 hard hread and chatter— in
Skipper Tom LtfBTs Me whitf kitchen. A roar-
ing fire in the stove: a k«tt|e that sang and
chuckled and danced, glad once more to be en-
gaged in the real bpsiness of life. So was the
cradle — glad to be useful again, though its ac-
tivity had been but for an hour suspended. It
W«S!t to work in a business-like way, with never
a cr^ak) in r^ponse to the gentle toe of "By-an*-
hy" Brown's tt^boot. There was an inquisi-^
tion, too* through which "By-an'-by" Brown
crooned to the baby, "Hush-a-by!" and ab-
sently answered, "Uh-huh!" ^nd " By-an'-by 1" as
185
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
placid as could be. Concerning past troubles:
Oh, they was -yesterday. And of future dif-
ficulties: Well, thev was— by-an'-hy. "Hush-
a-by!" and "By-an'-by!" So rhcy gave him a
new name — "By-an'-by" Broun because he
was of those whose past is forgot in yesterday
and whose future is no more inimical than—
well, jus' by-an'-by.
"By-an'-by" Brown o' Blunder Cove— paddle-
punt fishin' the Blow-me-down grounds
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 Phorbe 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: // "By-
an'-by " Brown tor ' the child t' raise, why, then,
nobody else would fiave 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 Pha?be's fostering
care was no longer imperative "Bv-an'-by"
"BY-AN'-BY * BROWN
Brown said Now for the first time in his life,
and depaned with the baby. By that time, of
course, there was an establishment: a white-
washed cottage by the water-side, a stage, a flake,
a punt— all the achievement oS "By-an -by's"
own hands. A new acctmnt, too: this on the
ledger of WuII & Company, trading the French
Shore with tht Always Loaded, putting in ofFand on.
"By-an'-by's" baby began to grow petcepti-
bly. "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 ob-
servers from a more knowing and appreciative
world, he was Magnificent. The splendor con-
sisted, it was said, in bulk, muscle, and the like,
somewhat, too, perhaps, in poise and glance; but
Blunder Cove knew that these external and rel-
atively insignificant aspects were transcended by
the spiritual graces which "By-an'-by" Brown
displayed. He was religious; but it must be
ridded that he was amiabie. A great, tender,
devoted dog: "By-an'-by" Brown. This must
be said for him: that if he by-an'-byed the un-
pleasant necessities into a future too distant to be
troublesome, he by-an'-byed the appearance of
evil to the same far exile.
187
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
After all, it Rlty bt a VilttM to ptMlilt dM tft
of by-an'-bving.
As for the baby at this period, the age of seven
years, the least said the lesjs conspicuous the
failure to say anything adequate. Language was
never before so helplessly mocked. It mky be
ventured^ ho^Mreverj to prove the poverty of words,
that dispassionttely viewed through the eyes
"By-an'-by" BroWn, she was angelic. "Jils* 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 <^ delicate
fashioning, exquisite feature — a maid of im*
pulsive afiecti ins. Exact in evetything; and ex-
acting, 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 devel-
opment. "By-an*-by's" baby was used to say-
ing, You told me so. Also, But you ptomhei.
The particular difficulty confronting "By^an*-
by" Brown was the baby's insistent Curiosity, nt»t
inconsistent with the age of seven, concerning
the whereabouts of her father and the time and
manner of his return.
i88
"BY-AN'-BY" BROWN
Brown had piqued it info bt^ng: jutt by «ay-
Ing— "By-an'-by!"
**Ay" si^s «hei "but when will he he coimn*
b^k r
** Wby/* he answcred.bewildered by-an'-by 1"
It was a familiar evasion. The maid frowned.
**h yoM turef" she demanded, sceptically.
**Ye bet yel" he was prompt to reply, feeling
boun4 now, to convince her, whatever came of it;
"he'll be comin' back — by-an'-by."
"Well, then," s»id the maid, relieved, "I
s'pose so."
Brown h^d n^er disclosed the brutal de-
linquency ^ L(mg Bill Tweak. Not to the
maid, because coidd not wound her; not to
Blunder Cove, beci||ise ht would not shanM her.
The revelation must be made, of course; but not
now — by-an'-by. The maid k'^ew that her
mother was dead beyond recall : no ystery wcs
ever made of that; and there ended the childish
wish ^nd wonder concerning that poor woman.
But her father ? Here was :in inviting mystery.
No; he was not what you might call dead — jus'
sort o' gone away. Would he ever come back
Oh, surel no need o' frettin* about that; he'd
be back — by-an'-by. Had "By-an'-by" Brown
said Never^ the problem would have been dis-
189
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
posed of, once and for all: the fretting over with,
once and for all. But what he said was this un-
courageous and specious by-an'-by. So the maid
waited in interested speculation: then impatient-
ly. For she was used to saying. You told me so.
Also, But then you promised.
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.
"But," says the maid, "* by-an'-by* is never."
"Oh, my, no!" he protested.
She tapped the tip of his nose with a lonfj little
forefinger, and emphasized every word with a
stouter tap. "Yes — it — isl" said she.
"N<« never,* cried "By-an'-by" Brown.
"Then," says she, "is it to-morrow?"
Brown violently shook his head.
" Is it nex' week ?"
"Goodness, no!"
"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 ?"
"Maybe."
She touched the tip of her white little nose to the
sunburned tip of his. "But is it V she persisted.
"Uh-huh," said "By-an'-by" Brown, reck-
190
"BY-AN'-BY" BROWN
iessly, quite overcome, committing himself beyond
redemption; "nex* year.**
And **By-an*-by*s" baby remembered. . . .
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! Hith-
erto 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 promised! So "By-an'-by" Brown
was downcast as never before; but bdbre the
day was spent he concdived that the unforeseen
might yet fortuitously issue in the salvation erf"
himsdf and the baby.
191
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
'Maybe," thought he— "by-j|n%hy!"
As January progressed the maid grew more
eager and still more confident. He promised,
thinks she; also. He told me so. There v/ere
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.
"Anyhow, he will come," says she, quite con-
fidently, "by-an'-by."
*'Uh-huh!" Brown n^wst respond.
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. Sus-
picion 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 p* spmethin' pr
other. It was a childish indisposition) perhaps
— but come with fever and pal.or and a poignant
restlessness. "By-an'-by'" Bn v/n had never be-
fore known how like to a black clpu4 the f^t^r§
J 92
"BY-AN'-BY** BROWN
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 P And there
was no cure an3rwhere 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!
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."
"Vh-huhl" the maid exclaimed.
Brown sighed. "I s'pose," he muttered.
"Is he comin' ?" she demanded.
**0h— by-an'-byl"
"I wisht *twas now" said she. "That I
does!"
Brown listened to the wind. It was blowing
high and bitterly: a winter wind, with snow from
the northeast. "By-an'-by" was troubled.
»93
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
"I 'low," said he, hopelessly, "that you'll love
un a sight, won't ye ?— when he comes V
"Ye bet ye!" the maid answered.
"More'n ye love— some folks?"
"A lot,'* said she.
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.
"Will ye love un more?" he asked, anxiously,
turning his face from the child, "than ye loves
mer He hesitated. "Ye won't, will ye?" he
implored.
"'Twill be different," said she.
"Will it?" he asked, rather vacantly.
"Ye see," she explained, "he'll be my father."
"Then," suggested " By-an'-by," "ye'U begoin'
away along o' he ?— when he comes ?"
"Oh, my, no!"
"Ye'U not? Ye'II stay along o' me?"
"Why, ye see," she began, bewildered, "I'll—
why, o' course, I'll— oh," she complained, "what
ye ask me that for ?"
"Jus' couldn't help it," said "By-an'-by,"
humbly.
The maid began to cry.
194
"BY-AN'-BY- BROWN
"Don't!" pleaded "By-an'-by" Brown. "Jus*
can't stand it. I'll do anything if ye'll on'y stop
cryin'. Ye can have your father. Ye needn't
love me no more. Ye can go away along o' h^ ,
An' he'll be comin' soon, too. Ye'll see if he
don't. Jus* by-an'-by — by-an-by!'*
" 'Tis never,** the maid sobbed.
"No, no! By-an*-by is soon. Why,'* cried
"By-an'-by" Brown, perceiving that this intelli-
gence stopped the child's tears, "by-an'-by is —
wonderful soon."
" To-morrow ?"
"Well, no; but—"
"'Tis never!** she wailed.
"*Tis nex* week!" cried "By - an* - by**
Brown. ...
When the dawn of Monday morning con-
fronted "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 must be fetched: for here was the maid,
chirpin' about the kitchen — turned out early,
ecodi t' clean house against her father's coming.
195
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
Cured? Ay; hat 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.
Long Bill Tweak begged the maid, with a
bristle-whiskered twitch — a scowl, mistakenly de-
livered as a smile — for leave to lie the night in
that place.
The maid was afraid with a fear she had not
known before. "We're 'lowing for company,"
she objected.
"Come in!" "By-an'-by" called from the
kitchen.
The maid fled in a fright to the inner room,
and closed the door upon herself; but Long Qilj
Tweak swaggered in.
"Tweak!" gasped "By-an'-by" Brown.
196
**BY-AN*.BY" BROWN
"Brown!" growled Long Bill Tweak.
There was the silence of uttermost amaze-
ment; but presently, with a jerk, Tweak in-
dicated the door through which " By-an'-by's "
baby had fled.
" It ?*' he whispered.
Brown nodded.
" 'Low I'll be goin' on," said Long Bill Tweak,
making for the windy day.
"Ye'll go," answered "By-an'-hy" Browttj
<)Uietly, interposing his great body, ' when ye'te
let: not afore."
Long Bill Tweak conremed himself with the
hospitality of " By-aii'-by" Brown. . . .
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 hin^, dwelling the while,
in deett distress, upon the agtieement he had
Wrfested by threat and purchase from Long Bill
Tweak. The maid was still awake because of
terror; she was glad, indeed, to have caught si^ht
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
197
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
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 sin^.ple
act — loath to come nearer to the evil necessity rtf
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, vciy dear
hand, and that he would wish to touch it often,
when he could not.
Presently Brown sighed : then, taking heart, he
joined issue with his trouble.
"I 'low," he began, "that you wisht your
father was here."
The maid did.
"I 'low," he pursued, "that you wisht he was
here this very minute."
That the maid did!
"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."
"No," the maid answered, sharply.
"Ye doesn't?"
"Ye bet ye — no!" said she.
"Eh ?" gasped the bewildered Brown.
198
"BY-AN*-BY" BROWN
The maid sat upright and stiff in bed. "Oh,
my!" she demanded, in alarm; '*he isni, is he?"
"No!'- said "By-an'-by" Brown.
"Sure?"
" Isn't I jus' tol* ye so ?" he answered, beaming.
Long Bill Tweak followed the night into the
shades of forgotten time. . . .
Came Wedne:;day 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
action! 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 house-
wifely 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 con-
fidently 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
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
t
obliging man. Thty jus' haJ t' be a father,
didn't they ? But they u'asn't no father no more.
Well, then, ecod! make one. Had t' be a father,
somehawy didn't they? And— weil—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 hke this, ecod! You see
if he didn't!
Brown made ready for Candlestick Cove.
"But," the maid objected, "what is 1 t' do if
father comes afore night ?**
"Ah!" drawled " By-an'-by,*' blankly.
" Kb r" she repeated.
"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."
"An' if he doesn't know me ?" she protested.
"Oh, sure," "By-an'-by" affirmed, "the ol*
man 'U know you, never fear. You jus' give un
a cup o' tea an' say I'll be back afore dark."
"Well," the maid agreed, dubiously.
"I'll be off," said Brown, in a flush of em-
barrassment, "when I fetches the wood t' keep
your father cosey. He'll be thirsty an' cold when
20O
"BY-AN'-BY" BROWN
he comes. Ye*li take good care un, won't
yc ?"
"Ye bet ye!"
"Mind yt- get them there uV feet warm. An*
jus' you fair pour the tea into un. He's used t'
his share o' tea, ye bet! / knows un."
And so "By-an'-by" Brown, travelling over
the hills, came hopefully to Jim Turley of Candle-
stick 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! /V/'bligeye! There
was no service difficult or obnoxious to the self-
ish sons of men that Jim Turley would not per-
form for other fol'- -i*" only he might 'blige. Ye
jus' go ast Jim Turkey; he*U 'blige ye. And
Jim Turley would with delight: for Jim had a
passion for 'bligin' — assiduously seeking oppor-
tunities, even to the point of intrusion. Beam-
ing Jim Turley o' Candlestick Cove: poor, shift-
less, 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
20I
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
delighty come any fortune; his mild» unse' '■con-
scious, sympathetic blue eyes, looking out upon
the world in amazement, perhaps, but yet in
kind and eager inquir)' concerning the affairs
of other folk; his blithe "Yo-ho!" at labor, and
"Easy does itt" Jim Turley o' Candlestick Cove
— an* obligiii' man!
" In trouble ?" he asked of" By-an'-by ** Brown,
instantly concerned.
"Not 'xactly trouble," answered "By-an'-by."
"Sort o' bothered ?"
"Well, no," drawled " By-an'-by" Brown; "but
I got t' have a father by Satu'day night.'*
" For yerself ?" Jim mildly inquired.
"For the maid,*' said "By-an*-by** Brown;
"an* I was 'lowin'," he added, frankly, "that
you might 'blige her."
"Well, now," Jim Turley exclaimed, "I'd
like t' wonderful well! But, ye see," he object-
ed, faintly, "bein' a ol' bachelor I isn't s'posed
"Anyhow," "By-an'-by" Brown broke in,
" I jus* got t* have a father by Satu*day night.**
"An* I'm a religious man, an' — "
"No objection t' religion," Brown protested.
"I'm strong on religion m'self. Jus' as soon
have a religious father as not. Sooner. Now,"
202
"BY-AN'-BY * BROWN
he pleaded, "th^ isn't nobody else in the worid
t' 'blige me."
"No," Jim Turley agreed, in distress; "no —
I 'low not."
"An' 1 jus' got,'' declared Bruwn, "t' have a
father by Saturday night."
"Coune you is!" cried Jim Turiey, instantly
siding with the woebegcme. "Jus' got t't"
"Well?"
"Oh, well, pshawl" said Jim Turley. "/'//
*blige ye!"
The which he did, but with misgiving: arriving
at Blunder Cove after dark of Saturday, un-
observ<^ by the maid, whose white little nose
was stuck to the frosty window-pane, whose ^es
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: ^or 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 di recent develop-
ments, and whence the salty 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
203
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
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.
An obligin' man, jini Turley: but still a re-
ligious nan — knowing his master.
"I got qualms," said he.
" Stummick ?" Brown demanded, in alarm.
"This here thing," Jim Turley prmested,
"isn't a religious thing to do."
"Maybe not," replied "By-an'-by" Brown,
dojjgedly; "but I promised the maid a father by
Satu'day niglit, an' I got t' have un."
"'Twould ease my mind a lot," Jiin Turley
pleaded, "t' ask the parson. Come, now!"
"By-an'-by," said "By-an'-by" Brown.
"No," Jim Turley insisted; "now."
The parson laughed: then laughed again, with
his h( :k1 thrown back and his mouth fallen open
very wide. Presently, though, he turned grave,
and eyed "By-an'-by" Brown in a questioning,
204
"BY-AN'-BY" BROWN
anxious way, as though seeking to discover in
how far the oig man's happiness might be
chanced: v hereupon ht laughed once more,
quite reassi.re.i. He vas a pompous bit of a
parson, this, uscu U. < 'mmanding tlie conduct of
Blunder Cove; to controlling its affairs; to shap-
ing the destinies of its folk with a free, bold hand:
being in this both wise and most generously con-
cerned, 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 noth-
ing 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 fur-
ther 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.
"Bdn* a religious man,*' said Jim Turley,
solemnly, "he'll mend it."
When the parson came hack there was nothing
205
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
nothing within her comprehension, which was
quite sufficient to her need. " By-an*-by" Brown
was sent home, with a kindly God-bless-yef and
an injunction of the most severe description to
have done with by-an'-bying. He stumbied into
his own kitchen in a shamefaced way, prepared,
hke 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 q£ comfort
and cheer.
206
"BY-AN'-BY" BROWN
The big man's big toe got all at once furiously
interested in its artistic occupation.
"Ah-ha!" says "By-an'-by's" baby, "/ found
you out!'*
"Uh-huh!'* she repeated, threateningly, **I
found you out.'*
"Did ye?" "By-an'-by" softly asked.
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 re-
viving delight of "By-an'-by" Brown — she tap-
ped his nose with a long little forefinger, em-
phasizing every word with a stouter tap, saying:
"Yes— I— did!'*
"Uh-huh!** he chuckled.
"An'," said she, "I don't ivant no father.**
"Ye don't?" he cried, incredulous.
"Because," she declared, "I'm 'lowin' t' take
care o' you — an' marry you.'*
"Ye is ?" he gasped.
"Ye bet ye, b'y," said "By.an*-by's" baby—
"by-an*-byl"
Then they hugged each other hard.
207
VIII
THEY WHO LOSE AT LOVE
AXD old Khalil Kha)^at, simulating courage,
i went out, that the reconciliation of Yusef
Khouri with the amazing marriage might surely
be accomplished. And returning in dread and
bew'ldered haste, he came again to the pastry-
shop of Nageeb Fiani, where young Saiim Awad,
the light of his eyes, still lay limp over the round
tabl*^ 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 grovm gray
as death : the magic of great despair had in a twin-
kling worked the change of cheer to age and
shabbiness and frigid gloom. But the laughter
and soft voices in the c^uter room were all un-
208
THEY WHO LOSE AT LOVE
changed, 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 pnrter 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.
Khayyat smiled in compassion: being old, used
to the healing of years, he smiled; and he laid a
timid hand on tiie head of young Salim Awad.
"Salim, poet, the child of a poet," he whis-
pered, "grieve no more!"
"My heart is a gray coal, O Khaiil!" sighed
Salim Awad, who had lost at love. "P or a mo-
ment it glowed in the breath of love. It is
turned cold and gray; it lies forsaken in a vast
night."
"For a moment," mused Khaiil Khayyat,
sighing, but yet smiling, "it glowed in the breath
of love. Ah, Salim," said he, "there is yet the
memory of that ecstasy 1"
"My heart is a brown leaf: it flutters down the
wind of despair; it is caught in the tempest of
great woe."
"It has known the sunlight and the tender
breeze."
209
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
Salim looked up; his face was wet and white;
his black hair, fallen in disarray over his forehead,
was damp with the sweat of t;nef ; his eyes, soul-
ful, 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 night and heaviness, O Khalii) my
friend!"
" It is like a seed sown," said Khalil Khayyat.
"To fail of harvest!"
"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, diat
the perfume and color of hi^ compassion may
glorify the harvest of ambitious strife; and prog-
ress 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
210
THEY WHO LOSE AT LOVE
heart is a seed sown gladly, to flower in this
beauty. Blessed," Khalil Khayyat concluded,
smiling, "oh, blessed be the Breaker (rf" Hearts!"
"Blessed," asked Salim Awad, wondering,
"be the Breaker of Hearts?"
"Yea, O Salim," answered Khalil Khayyat,
speaking out of age and ancient pain; "even
blessed be the Breaker of Hearts!"
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 m a radiant
cloud, compassionate and glorious.
"What is my love ?" he whispered. " Is it a
consuming fire? Nay," he answered, his voice
rising, warm, tremulous; "rather is it a litde
blaze, kindled brightly in the night, that it may
comfort my beloved. What is my love, O Ha-
leema, 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
211
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
but a resting-place. A resting-place," he re-
peated, 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 ..."
"Poet!" Khalil Khayyat gasped, clutching the
little round table, his eyes flashing. "The child
of a poet, taught of a poet, which am I!"
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, chan^d 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 cart
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
THEY WHO LOSE AT LOVE
every hair of his unshaven beard stood restlessly
on end. And Salim Awad, looking up, perceived
these throes: and thereby knew that some pro-
phetic word was immediately to be spoken.
" They who lose at love," Khayyat muttered,
"must . . . They who lose at love . . ."
"Khaliir
The Language Beautiful was for once per-
verse. The words would not come to Khalil
Khayyat. He gasped, tapped the table with
impatient fingers - and bent again to the task.
"They who lose at love ..."
"Khalil!" Salim Awad's voice was plaintive.
"What must they do, O Khalil," he implored,
"who lose at love? Tell me, Khalil! fFhat
must they do ?"
"They who lose at love . . . They who lose at
love must . . . They who lose at love must . . .
seek ..."
"Speak, Khalil, concerning those wretched
ones! And they must seek ?"
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 de-
claimed, "must seek . . ." He paused abruptly.
There had been a warning in the young lover's
213
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
eyes; after all, in exceptional cases, poetry might
not wisely be practised.
"Come, Khaiiil" SaUm Awad purred. "They
who lose at lov«? What is left for them to
dor
"Nay,*' answered Khalil Khayyat, looking
away, much embarrassed, "1 will not tell you."
Salim caught the old man's wrist. "What is
the quest he cried, hoarsely, bending close.
"1 may not tell."
Salim's fingers tightened; his teeth came to-
gether with a snap; his face flushed — a quick
flood of red, hot blood.
"''^at is the quest?" he demanded.
" Jare not tell."
"The quest?"
"I will not tell!"
Nor would Khalil Khayyat tell Salim Awad
what n t st 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 I^ve to Lali, which the blind
214
THEY WHO LOSE AT LOVE
prince had made, long, long ago, before he died
of love; and in the r-'»h and wail and passionate
complaint of that dead woe the despair of Salini
Awad found voice and spent itself; and he
looked up, and gazing deep into the dull old
eyes of Khali! Khayyat, new light in his own, he
smiled.
"Ytr, O Khalil," he whispered, "will I go
upon that quest!"
Now, Salim Awad went north to the hitter
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 sunht 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, bhndly seeking that which the losers at
love must seek; for Khalil Khayyat had told him
ss 215
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
that the mysterious Thing was to be found in
that place.
With a jolly wind abeam — a snoring bree/c
from the southwest — the tight little Bidly Boy^
fore-and-affcr, thirty tons, Skipper Josiah Top,
was footing it through the moon h'ght from Tutt's
lickl'^ to the I>alira(lor: hound down north for
the first Hshing of that year. She was tearing
through the sea -eagerly nosing the slow, hiack
waves; and they heartily slapped her hows, 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-evtd 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 dis-
tant open; the night turned clammy and thick;
the Bully Bny \\niv<\ hers' If in a mess of dirt\^
weather. Near dawn, being then close inshore,
off the Seven Dogs, which growKd to leeward,
she ran into the ice — the first of the spring floes:
a field r*" pans, slowly drifting up the land. And
216
THEY WHO LOSE AT LOVE
when the air was gray she struclt on the Devils
Fingtr, ripped her keel out. and filled like a sieve;
and she sank in sixty seconds, as men say — eveiy
srrand and splinter of her.
liut hrst she spilled her crew upon the ice.
The men had leaped to port and starboard,
fore and aft, in unthinking terror, each des-
perately concerned with his own life; they were
now disMii)iitcd upon the four pans which had
been with... leaping distance when the Bully
Boy settled: white rafts, float .-n 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
217
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
whether he lived or died; for he had loved his
schooner, the work of his hands, his heart's
child, better than his life.
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.
"Dad," he called to his father, disconsolate,
" I wisht — I wisht — I was along o' you — on your
pan."
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."
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 clinch-
sd, 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
218
THEY WHO LOSE AT LOVE
then to the L '^'I, 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.
"No, b'y," the cook repeated, "you isn't.
You sees, Tommy lad," he added, brightening,
as with a new idea, "you isn't along o' me."
Tommy rubbed his eyes, which were now wet.
"I wisht," he sobbed, his under lip writhing, "I
was — along o' you!'*
"I isn't able t' swim t* you. Tommy," said the
cook; "an', ah, Tommy!" he went on, reproach-
fully, wagging his head, "you isn't able t* swim
t' me. I tol' you. Tommy — when I went down
the Labrador las' year — I tol' you t' I'arn t'
swim. I tol' you. Tommy — don't you mind the
time ? — when you was goin' over the side o' th'
ol* Gahri^s Trumpet, 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 must I'arn t' swim afore another season.
Now, see wiiat's come t' you!" still reproachfully*
219
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
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."
Tommy bc^n to bawl.
"Never you care, Tommy," said the cook.
"The wind's blowin' *.ve ashore. You an* me *ll
be saved."
"I wants t' be along o' you!" the boy sobbed.
"Ah, Tommy! Tou isn't alone. You got
the Jew."
"But I wants youP'
"You'll take care o* Tommy, won't you,
Joe ?';
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."
"Oh/* said the cook, patronizingly, "you're
able for it, Joe."
" I am can try eet," Salim answered, courteous-
ly bowing, much delighted. "Much 'bliged."
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.
220
THEY WHO LOSE AT LOVE
"What you about. Tommy?" the cook de-
manded. ** Is you goin* t' swim ?**
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 sur-
face Saiim Awad hauled him inboard.
"You isn't gotn' t' try again, is you, Tommy ?"
the cook asked.
"No, sir."
Salim Awad began to breathe again; his eyes,
too, returned to their normal size, their usual place.
"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."
The jacket and boots were teased back.
Tommy resumed the jacket.
"Tommy," said the cook, severely, "isn't you
got no more sense 'n that ?"
"Please, sir," Tommy whispered, "I forgot."
" Oh, did you ! Did you forget .? I'm thinkin*.
Tommy, I hasn't been bringin' of you up very
well."
Tommy stripped himself to his rosy skin. He
wrung the water out of his soggy garments and
with difficulty got into them again.
aai
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
"You better be jumpin' about a bit by times,"
the cook advised, "or you'll be cotchin' cold.
An' your mamma wouldn't like that,'" he con-
cluded, "if she ever come t' hear on it."
"Ay, sir; please, sir," said the boy.
They waited in dull patience for the wind to
blow the jfloe against the coast.
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 favor-
able 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 peo-
pled a world of ice and water, all black and
white: heaving, confined. They huddled, cover-
ing 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
222
THEY WHO LOSE AT LOVE
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 dis-
tant mothers; foi in all the world there is no rest
serene — no rest remembered — like the first rest
the spirits of men know.
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.
Tommy Hand shivered.
"Ah, Tom-ee!" Salim Awad said, anxiously.
"Run! Jump! You weel have — what say? —
cotchseek. Ay— cotch thee seek. Eh? R-r-run,
Tom-ee!"
"Ay, ay/* Tommy Hand answered. "I'll be
jumpin' about a bit, I'm thinkin', t' keep warm
— as me father bid me do.**
"Queek!" cried Salim, laughing.
"Ay," Tommy muttered; "as me father bid
me do.**
223
EVERY MAN FOR HIM5ELF
" Jump, Tom-ee!" Salim clapped his hands.
"Hi, hi! Dance, Tom-ee!"
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 I" 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 fisher-
boy'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 un-
stable 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 overweight-
ed — 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 im room for
both.
224
THEY WHO LOSE AT LOVE
"Tom-ee," Salim Awad gasped^ his breath
indrawn, quivering, "I am— mus'—gol'*
The boy stretched out his hand— an instinctive
movement, the impulse of a brave and generous
heart — to stop the sacrifice.
"Hushr* Salim Awad whispered, hurriedly,
lifting a finger to command peace. "I am — for
one queek time— have theenk. Hush, Tom-cel"
Tommy Hand was silent.
And Salim Awad heard rgain 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 Na^eeb Fiani's pastry-
shop near the Batteiy, 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
225
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
thou arise In my absence/' Hie 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 sc^t, 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 be-
cause of the desert, gloomy and infinite, lying
bej^nd.
"Tom-ee," Salim Awad repeated, smiling
now, "I am — mus' — go. Goo'-bye, Tom-ee!"
"No, no!"
In this hoarse, gasping protest Salim Awad
perceived rare sweetness. He smiled again — de-
light, approval. "Ver' much 'bliged," he said,
politely. Then he rolled off into the water. . . .
226
THEY WHO LOSE AT LOVE
One night in winter the wind, driving up from
die Battery, whipped a gray, soggy snow past the
door of Nageeb Fiani's pastry-shop in Washing-
ton 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 Washing-
ton Street, sat unheeding in the little back room;
and the coal on the narg^le 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.
Tanous, the newsboy — the son of Yusef, the
fadier of Samara, by many called Abc^ama-
ra — threw Kawkab Elhwriah cm the cook's
counter.
"News of death!" cried he, as he hurried im-
portantly on. "Kawkab! News of death!"
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
si^, to die big, black book.
227
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
"News of death!" cried Nageeb Fiani, in the
outer room. "What is this?"
The death of Sahtn Awad: being communicat-
ed, 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 SaUm Awad, he made haste to
KhaUl Khayyat, holding Kawkab Mlhorriah open
in his hand.
"There is news of death, O Khalil!" said he.
"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."
"No, Khahl."
Khayyat looked up in alarm. "The Turks
have not shed blood in Beirut ?"
"No, Khalil."
"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."
"No, Khalil."
"Nageeb," Khayyat demanded, quietly, "of
whom is this sad news spoken f"
228
THEY WHO LOSE AT LOVE
"The news is from the north."
Khayyat closed the hook. 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 hig, black book, and
hegan 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 po^^t was gieat
"Salim Awad," Khayyat muttered, "is dead."
"Salim is dead. He died that a little one
might live."
"That a little one might live?"
"Even so, Khahi — that a child might have
life."
Khayyat smiled. "The quest is ended," he
said. " It is well that Salim is dead."
It is well .? The people marvelled that Khalil
Khayyat should have spoken th s cruel words.
It is well ? And Khalil Khayyat had said so
"That Salim should die in the cold water?"
Nageeb Fiani i( tested.
"That Salim should die — the death that he
did. It is welL"
229
r /FRY MAN FOR HIMSELF
The w(}fd was soon to be spoken; out of the
mtiid and heart of Khatii Khayyat, the poet»
great wkdom would appear. There was a
crowding at the door: the people pressed c' >st r
that no sii.) ' - < I meaning might be lost; the iiaric
faces turn< t( yet snore eager; the silence tkepent d,
until th< niii?H»d rurtlc of trucks, lumbering
through che snowy night, and the roa of the
Elevated train were pkin to he heard What
would the poet say? What word of eternal
truth would peak ?
"It is well r" Nageeh Fiani whispered.
"It is well."
Tl.L time was nor . t come. ic piople still
crowded, still shuffled -still hreaiiu d. I he poet
waited, having the patience of potts.
"Tell us, O Khrfar Nageeb Fiani implored.
" They who lose at love," said Khalil Khayyat,
fingering the leaves of the big, bh k book, **must
patiently seek some high death."
Then the peopk knrw, beyond peradvenrure,
that Khalil Khayyat was indeed a great poc*
IX
THE RFVOLOTrOh Al SATAN'S TRAP
1 1 HOSH \PH - i RU ^ of S«an's Trap v «
»J TV- -able ^ od su a gigantic
^ tn 'ne am i ir re, if a famtty
* is*. vicunce, I) srill as shy as
a < ' i -ovt , , ne had rhc sad hah'r . mx-
't "nt tense eyelids, an absent, poi^ mt
ga/€, a et^ctual pucker between the br w. .
H» fiice ^'u brown and big^ framed m way,
soft hail nd beard, and spread with a u
veb o ikies, &f»un by the weather — a
cou vc, npit . kindly, apathetic.
w>' -ifl 'd iiH' whites of his eyes
tui tile nm-, blood red; but the wells in the
ttH^ =vere deep and clear and cool. Reserve,
ourageouit methodical diligence at the fisb-
im a rukk, tremulous concern upon salutatios
These s%ns the folk of his harbor had long
ag perataded that he was a foolj and a fod
231
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
he was, according to the convention of the New-
foundland 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 ha J 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 wzys the Lord's own
business. He was shy, anxious, and preoccupied;
wherefore he was called a fool, and made no an-
swer: for doubtless he was a fool. And what did
it matter He woulc' fare neither better nor worse.
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 awn concerns.
Old John Wull, the trader, with v/iuHa (and no
other) the folk might barter their fish, personified
all the abuses, as a matter of course. But —
"I Mow I'm too busy t' think," Jehosphaphat
would reply, uneasily. "I'm too busy. I — I —
why, I got t' tend my fish!"
This was the quality of his folly.
It chanced one summer dawn, however, when
the sky was flushed with tender light, and the
232
THE KEVOLUTION AT SATAN'S TRAP
shadows were trooping westward, and the sea
was placid, that the punts of Timothy Yule and
Jehoshaphat Rudd went side by side to the Tomb-
stone grounds. It was dim and very still upon
the water, and solemn, too, in that indifferent
vastn^s between the gloom and the rosy, swelling
light. Satan's Trap lay behind in the shelter
and shadow of great hills laid waste — ^ lean, im-
poverished, listless home of men.
"You dunderhead!" Timothy Yule assured
Jehoshaphat. "He've been robbin' you."
** Maybe," said Jehoshaphat, listlessly. " I been
givin' tl^e back kitchen a coat o' lime, an* I isn't
had no time t' give t* thinkin'.**
'* An* he've been robbin' this harbor for forty
year."
"Dear man!" Jehoshaphat exclaimed, in dull
surprise. " Have he told you that ?"
"Told me!" cried Timothy. " No," he added,
with bitter restraint; "he've not"
Jehoshaphat was puzzled. "Then," said he,
"how come you t* know?"
"Why, they says so."
Jehoshaphat's reply was gently spoken, a com-
passionate rebuke. "An I was you, Timothy,"
said he, " I wouldn't be harsh in judgment. 'Tisn't
quite Qiristianh."
233
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
** My God !" ejaculated the disgusted Timothy.
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 pro-
fani^. The light grew and widened and yel-
lowed; the cottages of Satan's Trap took defi-
nite outline, the hills their ancient form, the sea
its familiar aspect. Sea and sky and distant
rock were wide awake and companionably smil-
ing. The earth was blue and green and yellow,
a glittering place.
" Look yout Jehoshaphat," Timothy demXQjd-
ed; 'Ms you in debt V*
"lis."
An' is you ever been om o' debt V*
"I isn't."
" How come you t' know ?"
"Why," Jehoshaphat explained, "Mister WuU
told me so. An' whatever, he qualified, "father
was in dd>t i^en he died, an' Mist^ WuU txM
me I ought t' pay. Father was my father,"
Jehoshaphat argued, "an' I 'lowed I wmdd pay.
For," he concluded, "'twas right."
" Is he ever give you an account ?"
"Well, no — no, he haven't. But it wouldn't
m
THE REVOLUTION AT SATAN'S TRAP
do no good, for I've no leamtn', an' can't
read."
"No," Timothy burst out, "an' he isn't give
nobody no accounts."
"Well," Jehoshaphat apologized, "he've a good
deal on his mind, lookin' out for the wants of
us folk. He've a wonderful lot o' brain labor.
He've all diem letters t* write t* St. John's, an*
he've got a power of 'rithmedc t' do, an' he've got
the writin' in them big books t* trouble un, an* — '*
Timothy sneered.
"Ah, well," sighed Jehoshaphat, "an I was
you, Timothy, I wouldn't be harsh in judgment."
Timothy laughed uproariously.
**Not harsh," Jehoshaphat repeated, quietly —
"not in judgment.'*
"Damn unl" Timothy cursed betweoi his
teeth. " The greedy squid, the deviUfish's spawn,
with his garden an' his sheep an' his cow! Tou
got a cow, Jehoshaphat? rou got turnips an'
carrots ? Tou got ol' Bill Lutt t' gather soil, an'
plant, an' dig, an' weed, while you smokes plug-
cut in the sunshine ? Where*s your garden, Je-
hoshaphat ? Where's your onions ? The green
lump-fish! 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'
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
all the other poor folk o' Satan's Trap. 'Tis
from the fish, an' he never cast a Hne. 'Tis
from the fish that we takes from the grounds while
he squats like a lobster m 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 doc-
tor from Sniffle's Arm for your woman! Is you
able t' feed your kids with cow's milk an' baby-
food ?"
Jehoshaphat mildly protested that he had not
known the necessity.
"An* what," Timothy proceeded, "is you ever
got from the grounds but rheumatiz an* salt-
water sores V
"I got enough t' eat," said Jehoshaphat.
Timothy was scornful.
"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.'*
"Enough!" Timothy fumed. "'Tis kind o'
the Satan's Trap trader t' give you that! /*// tell
un," he exploded; "Til give un a piece o* my
mind afore I dies."
"Don*t!" Jehoshaphat pleaded.
236
THE REVOLUTION AT SATAN'S TRAP
Timothy snorted his indignation.
"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."
"Jus' you wait," said Timothy.
"D<m*t you do it, lad!" Jehoshaphat begged.
"*TwouId make such a wonderful fuss in the
world!"
"An' would you think o' that ?"
"I isn't got time t' think," Jehoshaphat com-
plained. "I'm busy. I 'low I got my fish t' cotch
an' cure. I isn't got time. I — I — I'm too busy."
They were on the grounds. The day had
broken, a blue, serene day, knowing no disquie-
tude. 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 ranainty.
"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."
237
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
"Of what?** Timothy wcmderedi.
"Well/* Jehoshaphat explained, "'tis your
first."
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 en-
h'ghtenmem came.
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 cur-
tain. 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 upmi the hills
beyond.
It was his business to supply the needs of the
238
THE REVOLUTION AT SATAN S TRAP
folk in exchange for the fish they took from the
Ma — die barest need, the whole of the catch.
Upon diis he insisted, because he conscientiouslt'
believed, in his own way, that upon the fruits o*'
toil omimercial enterprise should feed to satiety,
and cast the peelings and cores into the back
yard for the folk to nose like swine.
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' jooir}- next."
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 wcrniMi and human litters of the Trap
for nothing at all, through which he was courage-
ous, 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 diought d* their young ones, and begged him
to forget their complaint. His only disquie-
^39
r:very man for himself
tude was the fear di hell: ^i^reby he wai 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 Tr^p might learn to read and write in
the winter months. 'Rtthmetic he condemned,
but tolerated, as being some part of that unholy,
imperative thing called I'arnin'; but he h%d no
feeHng against readin' and writin*.
There was no other trader within thirty miles.
"They'll trade with me," John WuU would
8^ to himself, and be comforted, "or they'll
starve."
It was literally true.
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, mon^,
philoK^hy, the hopes of Satan's Trap, the vari-
ous agonies of the young, were insignificant.
Currents and winds and frost had no know' dge
of th^m. It was a late season: the days were
240
THE REVOLUTION AT SATAN'S TRAP
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 snll 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 sea-
son, impiously, it may be, into conspiracy with
him. By-and-by, in the cottages, the store of
food, which had seemed syflicient when the first
snow flew, was exhausted. The flour^banels 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.
John WuU, fn»n the little office at the back of
the shop, where it was warm and still, watched
the fisherman breast the white wind.
"Mister Wull," said Jehoshaphat, when he
stood in the office, "I 'low I'll be havin'another
barrel o' flour."
341
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
WuU frowned.
"Ay/* Jehoshaphat repeated, perplexed; "an-
other barrel."
Wull pursed his lips.
"O' flour," said Jehoshaphat, staring.
The trader drummed on the desk and gazed
out of the window. He seemed to forget that
Jehoshaphat Rudd stood waiting. Jehoshaphat
ftlt awkward and out of place; he smoothed his
tawny beard, cracked his fingers, scratched his
head, diifted 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.
"Flour," he ventured, weakly— "one barrel/'
WuU turned. "It's gone up," said he.
"Have it, now!" Jehoshaphat exclatnted. "I
Mowed last fall, when I paid tight," he proceed-
ed, "that she'd dumb as high as she could get
'ithout fallin'. But she've gone up, says you?
Dear man!"
"Sky high," said the trader.
"Dear man!"
The stove was serene and of good conscimce.
It labored joyously in response to the clean-
souled wind. For a moment, while the trader
watched the snow through his bushy brows and
242
THE REVOLUTION AT SATAN'S TRAP
Jdiodiaphat Rudd hopdessly scratched his head,
its hearty, honest roar was the only voice lifted
in the little office at the back of John Wull't
shop.
"An* why?" Jehoshaphat timidly asked.
"Scarcity."
**Ohf** said Jehoshaphat, as thou^ he tinder«
stood. He paused. Isn't you ^t as much
as yoa had ^* he inquired.
The trader nodded.
"Isn't you got enough in the storehouse t' last
till the mail-boat runs ?"
"Plenty, thank God!"
"Scarcity," Jehoshaphat mused. "Mm-m-ml
Oh, I sees,** he added, vacantly. "Well, Mister
Wull," he si^ed, "I 'low I'll take one of Early
Rose an' pay the rise."
WuU whistled absently.
"Early Rose," Jehoshaphat repeated, with a
quick, keen glance of alarm.
The trader frowned.
"Rose," Jehoshaphat muttered. He licked
his lips. "Of Early," he rdterated, in a gasp,
"Rose."
"All right, Jehoshaphat."
Down came the big key from the nail. Je-
hoshaphat's round face beamed. The trader
243
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
ilapped his I« dgtr shur, moved toward the door,
hut stopped dead, and ^azed »>ut of the window,
w hile his brows fell over his eyes, and he fingered
the big kty.
"Gone up I* eighteen," said he, without turn-
ing.
Jehoshaphat stared aghast.
"Wonderful high for Aour," the trider con-
tinued, in apologetic explanation; "but flour's
wonderful scarce."
"'Tisn't ri^ht!" Jehoshaphat declared. " Eigh-
teen dollars a barrel for Early Rose ? 'Tisn't
right!"
The key was restored to the nail.
"I can't pay it. Mister WuU. No, no, man,
I can't do it. Eighteen! Mercy o' God! Tisn't
right! 'Tis too wuch for Early Rose."
The trader whccltd.
"An' 1 uioii't pay it," said Jehoshaphat.
"You don't have to," was the placid reply.
Jehoshaphat started. Alarm — a sudden y'mon
of his children — quieted his indignation. "But,
Mister Wull, sir," he pleaded, " I got t* have it.
I — why — I just got t* have it!"
The trader was unmoved.
"Eighteen!" cried Jehoshaphnt, flushing.
"Mercy o' God! 1 says 'tisn't right."
244
THE REVOLUTION AT SATAN'S I HAi
***Tis the price."
"'Tisn't right!"
Wull's eyes \V( re w>w H;ishifi^. His lips were
drawn thin over his teetli His brows had fallen
again. From the ambush they made he glared
at Jehoshaphnt.
I say/' said he, in a passionless voice, "that
the price o' fietir at Span's Trap is this day
eighteen "
Jehoshaphnt v .ts in woful perplexity.
"Eighteen, ' snapped VVull. "Hear me
They looked into each other's eyes. Outside
the ^orm raged, a clean, frank passion; for nat-
ure is a fair and honest foe. In the little office
at the back of John Wull's shop the witheied
body of the trader shook with vicious aflger.
Jehoshaphat's roui; ' . own, simple face was
gloriously flushed; hi . • was thrown hack,
his shoulders were sq. .r.d, i.is eyes were sure
and fearie«(.
*"Tis robber)'!** he burst out.
Wull's wrath exploded. "You bay-noddy i"
he began; "you pig of a punt-fishennan ; you
penniless, ragged fool; you ri ui without a i oppe ;
you sore-handed idiot! W'h ^ ou whinin' about ?
What right you got t' yelp in my office?'*
Of habit Jehoshaphat quailed.
-^45
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
"If you don't want my flour," roared WuU,
fetching the counter a thwack with his white fist,
"leave it be! *Tk mine, isn't it ? I paid for it.
I got It. There's a law in this land, you pauper,
that says so. There's a law. Hear me ? There's
a law. Mine, mine!" he cried, in a fren^, Ufting
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'£ no law t'
make me sell t' you. An you'll pay what Fm
askin', or you'll starve."
"You wouldn't do that, sir," Jehoshaphat
gently protested. "Oh no — no! Ah, now, you
wouldn't do that. You wouldn't throw it t' the
fishes, would you? Not flour! 'Twould be a
sinful waste."
"'Tis my right."
"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 enou^ t' get
us through the winter."
Wull's response was instant ..nd angry. "Get
you out o* my shop," said he, "an' come back
with a civil tongue!"
"I'll go, Mister Wull," said Jehoshaphat,
quietly, picking at a thread in his faded cap.
"I'U go. Ay, I'll go. But— I got t' have the
246
THE REVOLUTION AT SATAN'S TRAP
flour. I — I— just got to. But I won't pay," he
concluded, "no eighteen dollars a barrel."
The trader laughed.
"For," said Jchoshaphat, "*tisn*t right."
Jehodiaphat went home without the flour,
ccnnpiaiiiing of the injustice.
Jchoshaphat 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 rec-
cmipense, 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 mystifkd and deeply
troubled.
Sometimes by day Jeh(»haphat strode to the
window and looked out over the harbor ice to
ihe 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
«» 247
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
to bed, nor would he speak, nor would he
move.
In the night of the third day the children awoke
and cried for food. Jehoshaphat roic from kis
chair, and tcood diaking, witb breath suspend-
ed, hands clinched, eyes wide. Um heaid their
mother rise and go crooning from cot to cot.
Prowntly 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 whSe to hear
the children crying in the little rooms above.
He began to pace the floor, back and forth, back
and forth, now slow, wm in a fury, now with list-
less 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.
At noon of that day Jehoshaphat Rudd was
in the little office at the back of the shop. John
Wall was alone, perched on a high stool at the
desk, a pen in hand, a huge book open before
him.
"Tm come, sir," said Jehoshaphat, "for the
barrel o' iour/*
a48
THE REVOLUTION AT SATAN'S TRAP
The trader gave him no attention.
"I'm come, sir," Jehoshaphat repeated, his
voice rising a little, "for the flour."
trader dipped his pen in ink.
"i fays, sir," said Jehoskaf^at, laying a hand
wth some passion upon the counter, "that I'm
come for that there barrel o' flour."
"An* I s'pose," the trader softly inquired,
eying the page of hi-^ ledger more closely, "that
you thinks you'll gtt it, eh ?"
"Ay, sir."
Wtdl dipped his pmi md scratched away.
"Mister WuUr
The trader turned a leaf.
"Mister WuU," Jehoshaphat cried, angrily, "I
wants flour. Is you gone deaf overnight ?"
Impertinent question and tone of voice made
old John WuU wheel on the stool. In the forty
years he had traded at Satan's Trap he * ^ never
befcMre met with impertinence diat was not
timidly offered. He bent a scowling face upon
Jehoshaphat. "An' you thinks," said he, "Uiat
you'll get it?"
"I does."
"Oh, you does, does you ?"
Jehoshaphat nodded.
"It all depmds," said Wull. "You're won*
249
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
derful deep 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 Hvin' an' Christmas presents, that I been
thinkin' I might do the business a injur/ by givin'
you moee credit. I C3m*t tiuidc o' myself ^ Jehos^
aphat, in diis matter. *Tis a kii«ne»i nutter;
an' I got t' think o' the business. You sees,
Jehoshaphat, eighteen dollars more cfectit — **
"Eight," jehoshaphat corrected.
"Eighteen," the trader insisted.
Jehoshaphat said nothing, nor did his face ex-
press feeling. He was looking stolidly at the
big key of the storehouse.
"The flour depends," Wull proceeded, after
a thou^itful pause, through which he had regard-
td the gigantic Jehoshaphat with startled curios-
ity, "on what I thinks the business will stand in
the way o' givin' more credit t' you.'*
"No, sir," said Jehoshaphat.
. Wull put down his pen, slipped from the high
XocAf smi cmme close to Jehoshaphat. He was
m^^anical slow in these movenwnts, at
though all at once perplexed, given some new
view, which disclosed many ind strange possibili-
ties. For a moment he leaned against the coun-
250
THE REVOLUTION AT SATAN'S TRAP
ter, legs crossed, staring at the floor, with his
long) scrawny right hand smoothing his cheek
and chin. It was quiet in the office, and warm,
said well-dispcraed, and sunlight came in at the
window.
Soon the trader stirred, as though awakening.
"You was sayin' eight, wasn't you?" he asked,
without looking up.
"Eight, sir."
The trader pondered this. **An* how,** he
inquired, at last, "was you makin* that out V*
" *Ti8 a fair price."
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 woe-btgone and very pale. " Je-
hoshaphat," he asked, turning upon the man,
"would you mind tellin* me just how you*re
*Iowin* t* get my flour against my will ?**
Jehoshaphat looked away.
"I'd like t' know,'* said Wull, "if you wouldn't
mind tellin' me."
"No," Jehoshaphat answered. "No, Mister
Wull — I wouldn't mind tellin'."
"Then," Wull demanded, "how?"
"Mister Wull," Jehoshaphat e.xplaincd, "Pm
a bigger man than you.**
as*
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
It was very quiet in the office. The wind had
gone down in the night, the wood in the stove was
buraed 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 liis 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 s(juare of sun-
light 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
252
THE REVOLUTION AT SATAN'S TRAP
with which the mighty could he put down. He
felt that he must be generous, tender, that he
must not misuse his strength.
The patch of yellow light had perceptibly
moved before the trader spoke. " Jehoshaphat,"
he asked, "you know much about law ?"
"Well, no, Mister Wull," Jehoshaphat an-
swered, with simple candor; "not too much."
"The law will put you in jail for this."
Constables and jails were like superstitious
terrors to Jehoshaphat. He had never set eyes
on the brass buttons and stone walls of the law.
"Oh no — no!" he protested. "He wouldn't!
Not in jail!"
"The law," Wull warned, with grim delight,
"will put you in jail."
" He couldn*tP* Jehoshaphat complained. " As I
takes it, the law sees fair play atween men. That's
what he was made for. I 'low he ought t' put you
in jail for raisin' the price o' flour t' eighteen; but
not me — not for ^v!lat I'm bound t' do, Mister
Wul!, law or no law, as God lives! 'Twouidn't
be right, sir, if he put n.e in jail for that."
"The law will."
"But," Jehoshaphat still persisted, doggedly,
"'twouidn't be right r
The trader fell into a muse.
*53
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
"I'm come," Jehoshaphat reminded him, "for
the flour."
"You can't have it."
"Oh, dear!" Jehoshaphat sighed. "My, my!
Pshaw! I 'low, then, us '11 just have t* faki it."
Jehoshaphat went to the door of the shop.
It was cold and gloomy in the shop. He <^ned
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 m 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 sub-
sided. 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.
John Wall faced them.
" I 'low, Mister WuU," said Jehoshaphat, dif-
fidently, "that wc wants the storehouse key."
The trader pat the ktv in his pocket.
"The key," Jehoshaphat objected; "we wants
that there key.'*
254
THE REVOLUTION AT SATAN'S TRAP
"By the Almighty!" old John Wull snarled,
"you'll all go t' jail for this, if they's a law in
Newfoundland."
The threat was ignored.
"Don't hurt un, lads," Jehoshaphat cautioned;
"for he's so wcmderful tender. He*vt; not been
bred the way ^ve was. He's wonderful old an'
lean an' brittle," he added, gently; "so 1 'low
we'd best be careful."
John Wull's resistance was merely technical.
"Now, Mister Wull," said Jehoshaphat, when
the big key was in his hand and die body of the
trader had been tenderiy 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 explain-
ed, impressively, "o' Satan's Trap. We got
together, Mister Wull,*' he continued, feeling
some delight in the oratoiy which had been thrust
upcm 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
ass
i '^.RY MAN FOR HIMSELF
one like you, r' do what )«»u l)ttn tloin , so is wi-
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 whetlu : )()u 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 '11 put more billets on the
fire for you, an' you'll he wonderful comfortable
till we gets thrf)ugh. I'll see that accoiuit is
kep' by Tim Yule of all we rakes. 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 pUas* dm't you go an* have
no hard feelin'."
The trader would say nothing.
"Now, lads," said Jehoshaphat, "us '11 go,*'
In the storehouse there were two interrup-
tions to the transaction of business in an ordeiiy
fashion. Tom Lower, who was a lazy fellow and
256
THE REVOLUTION AT SATAN'S TRAP
wasteful, as Jehoshaphut knew, demanded thirty
pounds of pork» and Jehoshaphat knocked him
down. Tinuxhy Yule, the anarchist, proposed
to sack the place, and htm Jehoshaph:it knocked
down twice. There was no further tlifficulry.
"Now, Mister Willi," said Jthoshaphat, 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."
The trader would not look up.
"It makes such a wonderful fuss in the world,"
Jthoshaphat complained, "that the crew hadn't
no love for the job. But it— it — ^it jus' had t' be
done."
Old John Wull scowled.
For a fcmg time, if days may be long, Jehosh-
aphat 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 ex-
pectation of his revenge. Jehoshaphat Rudd
lowed he'd stand by, anyhow, an' go t' jail, if
*twas needful t* maintain the rights o* man. Ay,
hid go t' jail, an' be whipped .m' starved, as the
imi^natt<m prcnnised, but he'd be jiggered if
257
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EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
he'd "Apologize." Old John WuU 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 house-
keeper feared his false teeth would by some
dreadful mischance vanish within him. Jail ? ay,
he'd put Jehoshapbat 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 Wuil was glad that the imprudence
of Jehoshapbat Rudd had provided him with
power to restore the ancient peace to Satan's
Trap.
One day in the spring, when the bergs and
great floes of the open had been blown to sea,
258
THE REVOLUTION AT SATAN'S TRAP
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
oniy 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 stiiF 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 WuII 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.
Old John Wull was adrift, and bound out.
**Ahoy, you, Jehoshaphat!'' he shouted. " Je-
hoshaphat! Oh, Jehoshaphat!"
Jehoshaphat came to the door <^ his cotts^
on Daddy Tool's Point.
259
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
"Launch that rodney,'" WuU directed, "an*
put me on shore. An* lively, man,'* he com-
plained. "1*11 be cotchin* cold out here."
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.
"Timothy, lad," Jehoshaphat whispered, "I
'low you better stay here."
Timothy kept to the ice.
"You been wonderful slow," growled Wull.
"Come 'round t' the lee side, you dunderhead!
Think I wants t' get my feet wet ?**
"No, sir,'* Jehoshaphat protested. "Oh no;
I wouldn't have you do that an I could help
it."
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,
•A rodney is a small, light boat, used for getting about
tunong the ice packs, chiefly in seal-hunting.
260
THE REVOLUTION AT SATAN'S TRAP
they smiled behind their hands, they chuckled
inwardly.
Jehoshaphat pulled to the lee side of the pan.
"Come 'longside," said Wull.
Jehoshaphat dawdled.
"Come 'longside, you fool!" Wull roared.
"Think I can leap three fathom ?"
"No, sir; oh no; no, indeed."
"Then come 'longside.*'
Jehoshaphat sighed.
"Come in here, you crazy pauper!" Wull
screamed, stamping his rage. "Come in here
an' put me ashore!"
"Mister Wulir
Wull ^cd the man in amazement.
"Labor," said Jehc^haphat, gently, "is gone
up."
Timothy Yule laughed, but on Haul-Away
Head ?nd Daddy Tool's Point the folk kept
silent; nor did old John Wull, on the departing
pan, utter a sound.
"Sky high," Jehoshaphat concluded.
The son was broadly, wannly shining, the sky
was blue; but the wind was rising smartly, and
far off over the hills of Satan's Trap, bey<Mid the
wilderness that was known, it was turning gray
and tumultuous. Old John Wull scowled, wheel-
261
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
ed, and looked away to sea; he did not see the
cuninous color and writhing in the west.
"Wc don't want no law, Mister Wull," Jehosh-
aphat continued, "at Satan's Trap,"
Wull would not attend.
"Not law," Jehoshaphat repeated; "for we
knows well enough at Satan's Trap," said he,
"what's lair 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."
The trader's back was still turned.
"An', Mister Wull," Jehoshaphat entreated,
his face falling like a ciiild's, "don't you have no
hard feelin' over this. Ah, now, don*tI** 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,
don't want them things, for hey 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 hcs^ so far as I
knows, sir, an' don't know nothin' about them
26a
THE REVOLUTION AT SATAN'S TRAP
that hasn't. An' wc don't want un here at Satan's
Trap. We won't have un! We— we — why,
ecodi we— we can't '/ow it! We'd be ashamed
of ourselves an we 'lowed you t* fttch die 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 is! You think, John WuU,"
he continued, in wrath, "that you can do what you
like with we 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 *lmv it."
It was an incoidiary spe^h.
"No, you can't!" Timothy Yule screamed
from the ice, "you robber, you thief, you whale's
pup! /'// tell you what I thinks o' you. You
can't scare me. I wants that meadow you stole
from my father. I wants that meadow—"
"Timothy," Jehoshaphat interrupted, quietly,
"you're a fool. Shut your mouth I"
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 have your
red house; I'll have your wool blankets; I'll have
you.—"
"Tom Lower," Jehoshaphat roared, rising in
* 263
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
wrath, " I'll floor you for tlisti Tb*t I will— next
time I cotch you out."
John Wull turned half-way around and grinned.
"Mister Wull," Jehoshaphat asked, pfopitiat*
ingly, "won't you be put ashore 1"
"Not at the price."
"I 'low, then, sir," said Jehos^ at, in some
impatience, "that you might a„ well be com-
fortable while you makes up your mind. Here!"
He cast a square of tarpaulin on the ice, and
char :ing to discover Timothy Yule's jacket, he
added that. "There!" he grunted, with sati
faction; "you'll be sittin' soft an' dry while you
does your thinkin'. Don't be long, sir — not
overlong. Please don't, sir," he begged; "for
it looks t' me — it looks wonderful t' me — like
a spurt o* weather.**
John WuU spread the tarpaulin.
"An* when you gets throu^ 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.
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
264
THE REVOLUTION AT SATAN'S TRAP
windward. Jehoshaphat paddled patiently in the
wake of the ice. Often he raised his head, in ap-
prehension, to read the signs in the west; and he
sighed a deal» and sometimes muttered to him-
self. Old John Wull was squatted on the tar-
paulin, 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 with-
ered old fellow was as lean and blue and rigid and
staring as a frozen corpse.
The wind had freshened. The look and smell
of the world foreboded a gale. Overhead thi sky
turned gray. There came a shadow on the i sa,
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,
fr '— v, changed from gray to deepest black
a»' ^>le; and high up, midway, masses of
do with torn and streaming edges, rose
sM^iftly toward the zenith. It turned cold. A
great flake of snow fell on Jehoshaphat's check,
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.
"I low. Mister WuH," said he, doggedly,
265
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
"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 i' give the meadow back."
John Wull was unmoved.
"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 got to. Mister Wullj
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 likes cheese. She 'lows she never could get
enough o' cheese. She 'lows she wished she could
have her fill afore she dies. An' you got t' give
her a whole pound for herself."
They were drifting over die Tombstone grounds.
"Whenever you makes up your mind," Je-
266
THE REVOLUTION AT SATAN'S TRAP
hoihaphat suggested, diffidently, "you lift your
litde inget—jm* your little finger."
There was no response
"Your little finger," Jehoshaphat repeated.
"Jus' your little finger — on'y that."
Wall faced about. "Jehoshaphat," said he»
with a grin, "you wouldn't leave me."
"Jus* wouldn't I!"
"You wouldn't"
"You jus* wait and see."
"You wouldn't leave me," said Wull, "be-
cause you couldn't. I knows you, Jehoshaphat
— knows you."
"You better look out."
"Come, now, Jehoshaphac, is you goin* t'
leave an old man drift out t' sea an' die ?"
Jehoshaphat was embarrassed.
"Eh, Jehoshaphat r
"Well, no," Jehoshaphat admitted, fnnkly.
"I isn't; leastways, not alone."
"Not alone?" anxiously.
"No; not alone. I'll go with you, Mister
Wall, if you're lonesome, an' wants company.
You sees, sir, I can't g^ve in. I jus' can*t! I'm
here. Mister Wull, in this here cranky rodney,
beyond die TombstiHie grounds, with a dirty
gale from a point or two south o' west abcnit t'
267
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
break, because Fm 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 right"
"Well, / won't give in."
"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 kind**
It was not. The black clouds, torn, stream-
ing, 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 beymid the most co*junigeou8 hope.
The wind broke from the shore in straight lines
— a stout, agile wind, loosed for riot up<»i 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.
"You better give In," old John WuU warned.
"No," Jehoshaphat answered} "noj oh no!
I won't give in. Not in"
268
THE REVOLUTION AT SATAN'S TRAP
A gust turned the black sea white.
**Tou better give in," taid Jehothaphat.
John WiUl thfygged hit thotiiden and turned
his back.
"Now, Mister Wull," said Jehos' aphat, firm-
ly, "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, ecodl the beat t' harbor isn't pleasant t'
think about."
"You better go home," sneered old John
Wull.
"I 'low I u,iU," Jehoshaphat declared.
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 ?**
Jehoshaphat looked away.
"An' leave meV demanded Jdhn Wu.i.
"Leave m^? Me?"
"I got t' think o' my kids."
"An' you'd leave me t* die ?'
"Well," Jehoshaphat complained, "'tis long
past supper-time. You better give in."
"I won't!"
The coast was hard to distingutsh from the
black sky in the west It began to snow. Snow
369
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
and night, allied, would bring Jehoshaphat Rudd
and old John Wull to cold death.
"Mister Wull," Jehoshaphat objected, "'tis
long past supper-time, an* I wants t* go home."
"Go — an' be damned!"
"I'll count ten," Jehoshaphat threatened.
"You dassn't!"
"I don't know whether I'll go or not," said
Jehoshaphat. "Maybe not. Anyhow, I'll count
ten, an* see what happens. Is you ready ?"
Wull sat down on the tarpaulin.
"One," Jehoshaphat began.
John Wull seemed not to hear.
"Two," said Jehoshaphat. "Three— four-
five — six — seven."
John Wull did not turn.
"Eight."
There Was no si^ of relenting.
"Nine."
Jehoshaphat paused. "God's mercy!" he
groaned, "don't you be a fool, Mister Wull," he
pleaded. " Doesn't you what the weather is ?"
A wave— the lop raised by the wind — ^broke
over the pan. John Wull stood up. There
came a shower of snow.
"Eh?" Jehoshaphat demanded, in agony.
"I won't give in," said old John Wull.
270
THE REVOLUTION AT SATAN'S TRAP
"Then I got t* say ten. I jus' got to."
"I dare you."
"I will, Mister Wull. Honest, I will! I'll
say ten an you don't look out."
"Why don't you do it?"
"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!"
The coast had vanished.
"Look," cried Jehoshaphat, "we're doomed
men!"
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.
"Say ten, you fool!" screamed old John Wull.
"Ten!"
John Wull came to the edge erf" 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.
"I give in!" he shouted.
Jehoshaphat managed to save the lives of both.
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 house-
271
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
keeper hovering near — old John WuU 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 cdmplain 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.
And within three years John Wull possessed
again all that he had yielded, and the world of
Satan's Trap wa^d on as in the days before
the revolution.
27a
THE SURPLUS
O the east was the illimitable ocean, laid
1 thick with moonlight and luminous mist;
to the west, beyond a stretch of black, slow heav-
ing water, was the low line of Newfoundland, an
illusion of kindliness, the malignant character of
its ja^ed rock and barren interior transformed by
the gentle magic of the night. Tumm, the clerk>
had the wheel of the schocmer, and had heea
staring in a rapture at the stars.
"Jus* readin', sir," he explained.
I wondered what he read.
"Oh," he answered, turning again to con-
template the starlit sky, "jus' a little psa'm from
my Bible."
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
273
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
wind blowing without menace, a sky of infinite
depth and tender shadow, the sea asleep under
the moon. With a gentle, aimlessly wandermg
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 Goorf
Samaritan ran on, wing and wing, through the
moonlight, bound across from Sinners Tickle to
Afterward Bight, there to deal for the first of the
"Them little stars jus* will wink!" Tumm
complained.
I saw them wink in despite.
"Ecod!" Tun.m growled.
The amusement of the stars was not by this
altered to a more serious regard: everywhere tfiey
winked. , , • j
"I've seed un peep through a gale o wmd, 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 schoon-
er 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, th .
What d'ye make o' that?— winkin' still, the
heartless little cusses!"
274
THE SURPLUS
There were other crises, I rt-alled — knowing
little enough of die labor df the sea — up<Mi "vdiicli
they winked.
"Ay," Tumm agreed; "they winks when lov-
ers kiss on the roads; an' they winks jus' the
same," he added, softly, "when a heart breaks.'*
"They're humoroui little beggars," I observed.
Tumm laughed. "They been lookin' at this
here damned thing so long,'* he drawled — mean-
ing, no doubt, upon the spectacle of the world —
"that no wonder they winks!"
This prefaced a tale.
"Somehow,** Tumm began, his voice fallen
rather despondent, I fancied, but yet ccmtinuing
mo&t 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 me^n f.uth o'
life: 'Dust t' dust; ashes t' ashes' — an' make the
best of it, ye sinners an' young folk! vVhen ol'
Bill hove alongside, poor man! Fd il ink no
more o* maids an* trade, o* which Fm 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
275
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
o' God, so old was Bill Hulk that when he*d
board me Fd 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
He."
Tumm paused.
"Seemed t' me, somehow," he continued,
"when the Quick as fVink was lyin' of a Sunday
t' Gingerbread Cove — seemed t* me somehow,
when Fd hear the church bell ring an* echo
across the water an* far into the hills— when Fd
cotch sight o* ol* Bill Hulk, with his staff an' braw
black coat, crawHn' 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 KUch
trouble with his legs. An' Fd wish by times that
he'd stumble an' fall in, an' be covered up in a
comfortable a -•' decent sort o' fashion, an' stowed
away for good an' all in the bed where he be-
longed.
"'Uncle Bill,' says I, *you at it yet?'
" * Hangin* on, Tumm,* says he. ' I isn't quite
dirough.*
276
THE SURPLUS
"'Accordin' t* the signs/ says I, 'you isii*t got
much of a grip left.'
"'Yes, I is!' says he. 'I got all my fishin'
fingers exceptin' two, an' I 'low they'll last me
till I'm through.'
"Ecodl sir, but it made me think so mean o'
t!.e world that I 'kmed I'd look away.
"'No, Tunun,' tays he, *I isn't quite through/
"'Well,' says I, 'you must be tired.'
"'Tired,' says he. 'Ohno,b'y! Tired.? Not
me! I got a little spurt o' labor t' do afore /
goes.*
*" An' what's that, Uncle Bill ?' says I.
"'Nothin* much,' says he.
"'ButwhatiVitf
'"Nothin* much/ says he; 'jus* a little spurt
o' labor.*
"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 't^vas
nice an' warm an* still; an' he kep' his house as
neat an* white as a oI* 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
277
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
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 dme*
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 ^rou^ 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' BUI 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 .hat 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.' *
"But—
"'Tumm,' says he, 'how many books is kep'
by traders in Newf'un'land ?'
278
THL SURPLUS
«(<'
I 'lowed I didn't know.
'C^II it a round million,* says he.
'Wiiat of it ?' says I.
'Nothin' much,' says he.
' But what of it ?' says 1.
^ 'Well,' says he, 'if you was t' look them mill-
^^^>' P'ease an'
maricin off eveiy line o' every page with your
forefinger, what d'ye think would come t' pass ?'
"I 'lowed I couldn't tell.
*'*Eh?' says he. 'Come, now! give a guess.'
*"I don't know, Bill,' says I.
"'Why, Tumm,' says he, 'you wouldn't find
a copper agin the name o' ol' Bill Hulk!'
"'That's good livin',' says I.
"*Not a copper!' says he. *No, sir; not if
you looked with spectacles. An' so,' says he, *I
'low I'll jus* keep on payin* my passage for the
httle 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.'
"'More labor. Uncle BiH?' says I. 'God's
sake!'
"'Nothin' much,' says he; *jus' a little spurt
afore I goes in peace.'
279
ml
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
"Ah, well! ht'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 s(jueakin' through the Tickle
in his punt. 'Leave un go in peace!' thinks I.
'I isn't got no love for a world diat sends them
bon^ t' sea in an easterly wind. Ecod I' thinks I ;
*but he've earned quiet passage by jus* livin' t*
that ghastly agt — ^jus' by h.^ngin' on off a lec
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 ivas through.
Seemed t' me he might jus' stop where he was an*
leave the friends an' neighbors finish up. Hsn'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 lenvi" the crew t' wash the table an'
swab the deck an' throw the livers in the cask.
2S0
THE SURPLUS
"•Vou beobligin', Bill/ says 1, ' ,m' «,uir.'
Isn't able,' says he, 'till I'm through.'
So the bones o' d' BiU Hulk rattled an*
squeaked right on till it made me fair ache when
1 thunk o Gingerbread Cbve.
«
^ "About four year after thin I made the Cove
m the spring o' the year with supplies. 'Well '
Ainks I, 'they won't be no B.II Hulk this season.
With that pam in his back an* starboard leg, this
winter have finished he; an' I'U hy 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
T B^r^^^' ***** ^*
^'**It £an*t be you. Uncle Bill!' says I.
"*Tumm,* says he, *I isn't quite throu ii—
yet.' *»
"'You isn't goin' at it this season, is you?*
"'Ay,' says he; 'goin' at it again, Tumm.*
"'What for.?' says I.
"'Nothin' much,' says he.
"*But what fort
''•Well,* says he, *I*m savin' up.'
"'Savin' up?* says I. 'Shame /o you! What
you savin* up forf*
281
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
"*Oh,* says he, 'jus' savin' up.*
"'But what /or?' says I. *What*s the sense
of it ?'
"'Bit o' prope'ty,' says he. Tm thinkin'o'
makin' a small investment.'
"'At your age, Uncle Bill!' says I. 'An' a
childless man!'
" ' Jus' a small piece,' says he. * Nothin* much,
Tumm.*
'"But it won't do you no goody says I.
"'Well, Tumm,' says he, 'I'm sort o' wantin*
it, an' I Mow she won't go t' waste. I been
fishin' from Gingerbread Cove foi 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.'
"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-
hearled parson came near churchin' un for the
whopper; but Bill Hulk wouldn't repent. 'You
isn't been here long enough t* knowy parson,' says
he. "Tis goin* on three hundred year, I telk
you! I'll haul into my fourth hundred,' says he,
*come forty-three year from Friday fortnighL*
382
THE SURPLUS
Anyhow, he'd been castin' lines on the Ginger-
bread 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 weath-
ered. 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.
"'Lord!' says they. 'If there ain't Bill Hulk
putan' out again! Won't nothin' ever happen
t'he?'"
I thought it an unkind imputation.
"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."
It might have been.
"Four or five year after that," Tumm pro-
ceeded, "the tail of a sou'cast gale slapped me
mto 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 msan pullin' agin the wind, but
I fetched the stage-head 't last, an* went crawlin'
a83
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
up the hill. Thinks I, 'They's no sense in knock-
in* in a gale o' wind like this, for Bill Hulk's so
wonderful hard o' hearin' in a sou'east blow.'
"So I drove on in.
"'Lord's sake, Bill!' says I, "what you up to?'
"'Nothin' much, TuTim,' says he.
"'It don't look right,' says L 'What is it ?*
"*Nothin* much,* says he; *jus' countin* up
my money.*
"'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.
"'You been gettin' rich?* says L
"'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 ?'
"'I isn't,' says I.
"'Well,' says he, 'they's as much as fourteen
dollar! An' what d'ye think o' that ?'
"I 'lowed I'd hold my tongue, so I jus' lifted
my eyebrow, an* then sort o' whistled, 'Whew!*
"'Fourteen,' says he, *ar,' morel*
"'fFhewT says I.
"'An', Tumm,' says he, 'I had twenty-four
sixty once — about eighteen year ago.*
284
THE SURPLUS
"'You got a heap now,' says I. 'Fourteen
dollar! Whew!'
"'No, Tumml* cries he, all of a sudden. 'No,
no! I been lyin* t' you. I been lyinM* says he!
'Lyin'!'
*"I don't care,' says I; 'you go right ahead an'
he.'
^^"/They isn't fourteen dollar there,' says he.
'I jus' been makin' believe they was. See that
there Uttle 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 wish they was fourteen.*
"'Never you mind,* says I; 'you*U get that bit
o prope'ty yet.'
"'I got to,' says he, 'afore I goes.'
"'Where does it lie?' says I.
"*Oh, 'risn't nothin' much, Tumm,' i.,x, i he.
'"But what wit?*
"'Nothin' much,* says he; *jus* a small piece.*
"'Is it meadow?' says I.
"'No,' says he; "tisn't what you mi^t call
meadow an' be right, though the grass grows
there, in spots, knee high.'
"'Is it a potato-patch ?'
'"No,* says he; 'nor yet a patch.'
"'Tisn't a fiowfr garden, is it ?* says I.
a85
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
"'N-no,' says he; 'you couldn't rightly say so
— though they grows there, in spots, quite free
an* nice.*
"* Uncle Bill,* says I, 'you isn't never told me
nothin* about that there bit o* prope*ty. What's
it held at?'
"'The prope'ty isn't much, Tumm,' says he.
*Jus' a small piece.*
"'But how much is it?'
"'Tom Neverbudge,' says he, *is holdin* it at
twenty-four dollar; he*ve come down one in the
las* seven year. But Fm on*y *lowin' t' pay
twenty-one; you sees Tve come up one in the las*
four year.'
""Twould not be hard t' split the difference,*
says I.
"'Ay,' says he; 'but they's a wonderful good
reason for not payin* more*n twenty-one for that
there special bit o* land.*
"*What*s that?' says I.
"'Well,' says he, "tis second-handed.*
"'Second-handed!' says I. 'That's queer!*
" ' Been used,* says he.
•"Used, Uncle Bill.?*
"*Ay,* says he; 'been used — been used, now,
for ni^ sixty year.*
"* She's all wore out ?* says I.
286
THE SURPLUS
"'No,' says he; 'not wore our.'
"*Sh/d grow nothin'?' says I.
"'Well,* says he, * nothin* much is expected,
Tumm,* says he, *in that Hne.*
"I give a tug at my pocket, an*, ecod! out
jumped the bottle o' Scotch.
'"Well, well!' says he. 'Dear man! But I
bet ye,' says he, 'that you isn't fetched no pain-
killer.*
"'That I is!* says I.
•"Then,* says he, 'about half an* half, Tumm,
with a dash o* water; that's the way I likes it
when I takes it.'
"So we fell to, or Bill Hulk an* me, on the
Scotch an* the pain-killer.
"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 Quick as Wink bein' free of incumbrance
—'twas a saucy young clerk o' the name o* Bully-
worth— 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 me: 'Twas a fine
Sunday momin* in June when I fetched Ginger-
bread Cove in the d' craft-^rm an* blue an'
287
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
still n' sweet t' sniell. 'They'll be no B.ll Hulk,
thank God!' thinks I, 't' be crawlin' up the hill
meetin' this day; hive 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 trom
the deck, ecodl when I looked up from shavin ,
an' Skipper Jim was washin' up in the fore-
castle, 1 cotched sight o' ol' Bill Hulk, bound up
the hill through the sunshine, makin tolerable
weather of it, with the wind astern, a staff m his
hand, and the braw black coat on his back.
"•Skipper Jim,' sings I, t' the skipper below,
'you hear a queer noise V
"'No,' says he.
'•'Nothin' like a squeak or a rattle r'
"'No,' says he. 'What's awry ?' ^
"'Oh, nothin',' says I: ' on'y ol' Bill Hulk 8 on
the road.*
"I watched un crawl dirough 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 felt un, anyhow, which is jus' as hard to
beir 'Well,' thinks I, 'he've kep' them bones
above ground, poor man! but he's never it it
288
THE SURPLUS
yet. He've knocked off for good,* thinks I; *he'Il
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.
"'So,* says I, *you is at it yet ?*
"*Ay, Tumm,' says he; *isn*t quite through —
yet. But,' says he, 'I'm 'lowin' t' he*
"'Hard at it. Uncle Bill says I.
'"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. Xhey*s on*y
one o* them fishin' there nowadays, an* she
'lowed she didn't care.'
'"An* when,' says I, 'is you 'lowin* t' knock
off.?'
"'Jus' as soon as I gets through, Tumm,' says
he. *I won't be a minute longer.'
"Then along come the lean-cheeked, pig-eyed,
scrawny-whiskered son of a squid which owned
the bit o' property that Bill Hulk had coveted for
thirty year. Man o' the name o' Tom Budge;
but as he seldom done it, they called un Never-
289
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
budge; 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
— z 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' sun-
shine, where a man might lay his head on the
young grass an* go t* sleep> not mindin* about
nothin' no more, d* Bill Hulk liked it wonder-
ful 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.
"'Sight rather have that, Tumm,' says he,
'than a half-acre farm.'
"'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.
"'Ay,' says he, 'an' a thirty-foot potato-patch
throwed inl'
290
THE SURPLUS
"Tis yours at the price,* says Tom Never-
budge.
"'//,' says Bill Hulk, ' 'twasn't a second-handed
plot. See them graves in the sou'west comer,
Tumm ?'
"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.
•"Been there nigh sixty year,* says Bill. *Pity,*
says he; 'wonderful pity.*
"'They won't do you no harm,' says Never-
budge.
"*' •,' says Bill; 'but I'm a bachelor, Tom,
use. 'eepin* alone,' says he, 'an' I'm 'lowin' I
WOUIU41 1 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.*
"'You'd soon get used t' thaty says Never-
budge. 'Any family man '11 tell you so.'
"'Ay,' says Bill; 'but they isn't kin o' mine.
Why,' says he, 'they isn't even friends!'
"*That don't matter,' says Neverbudge.
"'Not matter!* says he. 'Can you tell me,
Tom Neverbudge, the names o* them children Y
"'Not me.'
"'Nor yet their father's name?'
"'No, sir.'
291
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
"'Then,* says Bill, 'as a religious man, is you
able t' tell nic they was bom to a proper an*
perfeckly religious manner?'
"'I isn't,' says Neverbudge. 'I guarantees
nothin'.'
"'An' yet, as a religious man,' says Bill, 'you
stands there an' says it doesn't matter V
"'Anyhow,' says Neverbudge, *it doesn't mat-
ter much.*
"'Not much!' cries Bill. 'An' you a religious
man! Not much t' lie for good an' all,' says hci
'in the company o' the damned ?'
"With that Tom Neverbudge put off in a rage.
"'Uncle Billy,' says I, 'what you wantin*
that plot for, anyhow ? 'Tis so damp 'tis fair
swampy.'
"'Nothin* much,* says he.
"'But what fori" says I.
"'Well,' says he, 'I wants it.'
"'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.'
"'Well,* says he, 'I wants it.'
"'You isn't got no friends in this neighbor-
hood,' says I; 'they're all put away on the north
side. An' the sun,' says I, 'doesn't strike here
last.'
292
THE SURPLUS
"'I wants it,' says he.
"'What for?' says I.
"*Nothin' much,' says he; 'but I wants it.'
"•But what/w-r iays I.
"*WelI,' says he, in a temper, 'I got a hank-
erin for it!*
"'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 dis-
turb your rest.*
"'Hushr says he. 'Don't— </on'/ say that!'
"'Graves o* children/ says I.
"'Don't say no more, Tumm,* says he.
"'Jus' on'y poor little kids,' says I.
"'Stop!' says he. 'Doesn't you see I'm
crym ?
"Then up come Tom Neverhudge. 'Look
you. Bill Hulk!' says he, 'you can take that plot
or leave it. Fll knock oflF seventy-five cents on
account o* the risk you take in them children.
Come now!' says he; 'you take it or leave it.'
'"Twenty-one fifty,' says Bill. 'That's a raise
o' fifty, Tom.'
"'Then,' says Tom, 'I'll use that plot meself.'
" Bill Hulk jumped. ' You !' says he. ' Nothin'
gone wrong along o' you, is they, Tom ?'
"'Not yet,* says Tom; 'but they might.*
293
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
"*No chill,' says Bill, ' an* no fever ? No ache
in your back, is they, Tom ?*
"*Nar a ache'
"'An' you isn't give up the Labrador P
"*Not ; »er .
"•cm, well,' says Bill, feclin' easy apm, 1
Mow you won't never need no graveyard/
"Tom Neverbudge up canvas an' went ofl
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, warn
sun, the long shadows, the fresh youth an* greet
o' leaves an* grass, the tinkle o* bells on the hilb
the reaches o* sea, the peace o' weather an
Sabbath day. I remembers it well: the wheez
an' groan o' ol' Bill— crawlin' home, sunk dee]
in the thought o' graves -an' the tender, bedtim
twitter o' the new-mated birds in (he aiders
When we rounded Fish Head Rock— 'tis hall
way from the graveyard— I seed a lad an* a mai
flit back from the path t' hide w hilst we crep' h)
an* they was a laugh on the lad's lips, an' a smil
an' a sweet blush on the maid's young face, i
maids will blush an' lads will laugh when lo\
lifts un high. 'Twas at that spot I cotched eJ
of a sound I knowed quite well, bavin' made
meself, thank God! many a time an* gladly.
294
THE SUnPLUS
" Bill Hulk stopped dead in the path. * What's
that?' says he.
"'Is you not knowin'?' says I.
"*rve heared it afore,' says he, 'somcwheres.*
""Twas a kiss,' says I.
"'Tumm,' says he, in a sort o' scared whisper,
*is they at that yet in the world ?'
"'Jus* as they used t' be,' says I, 'when you
was young.'
"'Well,' says he, 'jig mel*
"Then I knowed, somehow, jus' how old ol'
BiU Hulk must be.
"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 Nevcrbudge'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
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
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 oflF blindness from the aged. An' I jus' got
t* have pork t* keep my ol* bones warm. I don't
want 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.'
"'You stick t' pork,' says L
"*I was thinkin',' says he, 'o' makin' a small
investment in a few bottles o* Hook's Vigor.
Clerk o' the Free for Ally says he, "lows 'tis a
wonderful nostrum t' make the old feel young.'
"'You stick t' pork,' says I, 'an' be damned
t' the clerk o' the Free for All.'
"'Maybe I better,' says he, 'an' build up my
shoulders. 1 hey jus' got t' be humored.'
"Or 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
296
THE SURPLUS
o' went an' snapped/ says he, 'jus' as I was
pullin' in the Tick'e* an' she isn't been o* much
use t* me since LJceu ro^in' with my shoulders
for a little bit p st/ say. he, ' an' doin' very fair in
southerly went, i ; Lut 1 jot a saucy warnin','
says he, 'that they won i 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,* ssys 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 whefezes,
Tumm, as you knows, an' they labors in a fog,
an' aches all the time, but chances is they'll last,
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 toldl'
'"Liver,* says I, 'is a ticklish business.*
""Lowin* a man d dn't overeat,* says he,
'think he could spurt along for a spell on his
liver?'
'I does,' says I.
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EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
"'That's good/ says he; *for Fm countin' a
deal on she.*
'"Never you fear/ says 1. 'She'll stand
you.'
"'Think she will?' says he, jus' like a child.
'Maybe, then,' says he, 'with my own iabor,
Tumm, I'll buy my own grave at last!*
"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.
"'Jus' where I was nine year ago,' says he,
'iackin* thirty-four cents.*
"'Never you fear,* says I
'"My God! Tumm,* says he, 'I got t' do better
nex* season.***
Tumm paused to gaze at the stars.
"Still there," I ventured.
" Winkin' away," he answered, "the wise little
beggars!**
The Good Samaritan dawdled onward.
"Well, now, sir,** Tumm continued, "winter
tumbled down on Gingerbread Cove, thick an*
heavy, with nor*east gales an' mountains o* snow;
298
THE SURPLUS
but <A* Bill Hulk weathered it out on his own
hook, an' by March o' that season, I'm told, had
got so far along ^th his shoulder muscles that
he went swilin' [sealing] with the Gingerbread
men at the first ofF-shore 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:
they knowed it an' he 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*. Mi^t 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 oflF 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 fwiles, for the warmdi of the life
299
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
they'd had, but hard put to it t' keep the spark
alight in his own chilled breast.
"'Maybe I'm through,' says he, when they'd
got un ashore; 'but I'll hang on so long as I'm
able.'
"'Uncle Billy,' says they, 'you're good for
twenty year yet.'
"'Nbtellin',' says he.
*"Oh, sure!* says they; 'you'll do it.*
"'Anyhow,' says he, 'now thai you*ve fetched
me t' land,' says he, 'I got t* hang oft till the
Quick as Wink comes in.*
"'What for?' says they.
"'Nothin' much,' says he; 'but I jus' got to.'
*"Y»u go t* bed,' says they, 'an' we'll stow
them swile in the stage.*
"TU lie down an' warm up,* says he, 'an* rest
for a spell. Jus' a little spurt,* says he, 'jus* a
little spurt — o' rest.'
"'You've made a wonderful haul,* says they.
"'At last!' says he.
"'Rest easy,' says they, 'as t' that.'
"*Twas the women that put un t* bed.
"'Seems t* me,* says he, 'that the frost has bit
my heart.'
"So ol' Bill Hulk was flat on his back when
I made Gingerbread Cove with supplies in the
300
THE SURPLUS
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' weanness he looked back
at me!
"'I been waitin', Tumm,' says he, 'Does
you hear ?*
" I bent close t' hear.
"Tm in a hurry,* says he. 'Isn't got no
chance t' pass the time o* day. Does you hear ?*
"'Ay,' says L
"*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.'
"'How much you got in that sock ?' says I.
"'Nothin' much,' says he. 'Jus' a little left
over.'
'"But Aow much r
"Tm not wantin' t* tell,* says he, 'lest you
ch^t me with kindness. Fd have you treat me
as a man, come what will.*
3QI
EVERY MAN FOR H1MSH|[|^
"'So help me God! then. Bill Hulk,' says I,
*ril strike that balance; fair/
"'Tumm!' he called.
"I turned in the door.
"'Oh, make haste!' says he.
"I measured the swile oil, neither givin' nor
takin' a drop, an' I boarded the Quick as fVinky
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.
"'Tumm,' says he, 'is it a honest balance?'
"*It is,' says I.
"*Wait a minute!' says he. *Jus* a minute
afore you tells me. I isn't quite ready.*
"I watched the sun drop into the sea while I
waited.
"'Now,' says he, 'tell me quick!'
"'Nine eighty-three,' says I.
"'Add t* that,' says he, 'the twelve ninety-
three in the sock. Quick, Tumm!' says he.
"I scribbled it out.
"'Wait!' says he. 'Just a minute, Tumm,
till I gets a b^ter grip.'
302
THE SURPLUS
lit
•I seed 'twas growin* quite gray in the west.
"Now!* says he.
•'Uncle Billy,' roars I, "tis twenty-two sev-
enty-six!'
"'Send for Torn Neverbudge!' cries he: *for
I done it— thank God, I done it!'
"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.
'Is it done?* says he.
•All fast.' says I.
'A plot an' a penny left over!* says he.
*A plot an' a penny,' says I.
'Tumm,* says he, with a little smile, 'I needs
the plot, but you 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.*
"I 'lowed I'd take it an' be glad.
"'Look you! Bill Hulk,' says Neverbudge,
303
«««!
(((
lit
It <
(( < '
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
*il thcin graves is goin' t' trouble you, I'll move
uii an' pay the cost o' labor. There, now!' says
he; 'that's kind enough/
"Bill Hulk got up on his elbow. * fFhat *11
you do along o* my plot ?' says he.
"'Move them graves,' says Neverbudge.
'"You leave my plot be, Tom Neverbudge!*
says Bill. 'What you think 1 been wantin* t' lie
in that plot for, anyhow ?'
"Tom Neverbudge 'lowed he didn't know.
"•Why,' says ol' Bill Hulk, *jus' t' lie along-
side them poor lonely little kids!*
"I let un fall back on the pillow.
'"I'm through, Tumm,' says he, 'an' I 'low
I'll quit.'
"Straightway he quit. . .
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 Good Samaritan dawdled on, wing and wing
to the breeze, bound across from Sinners' Tickl ^
to Afterward Bight, there to deal for the first Oi
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
304
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. Fm not troubled by
fears when you winks down, you're so wonder-
ful wiser'n we. Wink on, you knowin* Httle
beggars!"
This, then, it seemed, was the lesson.
THE END