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Laa diagrammaa suivants illuatrant la m^thoda. 3 1 2 3 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*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 Eou. 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 hnfn>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 THE MINSTREL 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. . . , 99 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 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. "Dut 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^nattle; 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' 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—