Kitabı oku: «Every Man for Himself», sayfa 6

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 born, and where he lived his life, such as it was, and, in the end, gave it up in uttermost disgust. It was a wretched Newfoundland settlement of the remoter parts, isolated on a stretch of naked coast, itself lying unappreciatively snug beside sheltered water: being but a congregation of stark white cottages and turf huts, builded at haphazard, each aloof from its despairing neighbor, all sticking like lean incrustations to the bare brown hills – habitations of men, to be sure, which elsewhere had surely relieved the besetting dreariness with the grace and color of life, but in this place did not move the gray, unsmiling prospect of rock and water. The day was clammy: a thin, pervasive fog had drenched the whole world, now damp to the touch, dripping to the sight; the wind, out of temper with itself, blew cold and viciously, fretting the sea to a swishing lop, in which the harbor punts, anchored for the day’s fishing in the shallows over Lost Men grounds, were tossed and flung about in a fashion vastly nauseating to the beholder… Poor devils of men and boys! Toil for them, dawn to dark; with every reward of labor – love and all the delights of life – changed by the unhappy lot: turned sordid, cheerless, bestial…

“Ha!” interrupted my chance acquaintance, leaning upon the rail with me. “I am ver’ good business man. Eh? You not theenk?” There was a saucy challenge in this; it left no escape by way of bored credulity; no man of proper feeling could accept the boast of this ingratiating, frowsy, yellow-eyed Syrian peddler. “Ha!” he proceeded. “You not theenk, eh? But I have tell you – I – myself! I am thee bes’ business man in Newf’un’lan’.” He threw back his head; regarded me with pride and mystery, eyes half closed. “No? Come, I tell you! I am thee mos’ bes’ business man in Newf’un’lan’. Eh? Not so? Ay, I am thee ver’ mos’ bes’ business man in all thee worl’. I – Tanous Shiva – I —I!” He struck his breast. “I have be thee man. An’ thee mos’ fool – thee mos’ beeg fool – thee mos’ fearful beeg fool in all thee worl’ leeve there. Ay, zur; he have leeve there – dead ahead – t’ Skeleton Teekle. You not theenk? Ha! I tell you – I tell you now – a mos’ won-dair-ful fun-ee t’ing. You hark? Ver’ well. Ha!” he exclaimed, clasping his hands in an ecstasy of delight. “How you will have laugh w’en I tell!” He sobered. “I am now,” he said, solemnly, “be-geen. You hark?”

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. Ol’ bach. Ver’ ol’ bach. Ver’ rich man. Ho! mos’ rich. You not theenk? Ver’ well. I am once hear tell he have seven lobster-tin full of gold. Mygod! I am mos’ put crazy. Lobster-tin – seven! An’ he have half-bushel of silver dollar. How he get it? Ver’ well. His gran’-father work ver’ hard; his father work ver’ hard; all thee gold come to this man, an’ he work ver’, ver’ hard. They work fearful – in thee gale, in thee cold; they work, work, work, for thee gold. Many, many year ago, long time past, thee gold be-geen to have save. It be-geen to have save many year afore I am born. Eh? Fun-ee t’ing! They work, work, work; but I am not work. Oh no! I am leetle baby. They save, save, save; but I 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?” 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 ver’ good business man.”

His eyes were guileless…

A punt slipped past, bound out, staggering over a rough course to Lost Men grounds. The spray, rising like white dust, drenched the crew. An old man held the sheet and steering-oar. In the bow a scrawny boy bailed the shipped water – both listless, both misshapen and ill clad. Bitter, toilsome, precarious work, this, done by folk impoverished in all things. Seven lobster-tins of gold coin! Three generations of labor and cruel adventure, in gales and frosts and famines, had been consumed in gathering it. How much of weariness? How much of pain? How much of evil? How much of peril, despair, deprivation? And it was true: this alien peddler, the on-looker, had the while been unborn, a babe, a boy, laboring not at all; but by chance, in the end, he had come, covetous and sly, within reach of all the fruit of this malforming toil…

“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 burn down. How? Ver’ well. I tell you. All people want thee gold. All people – all – all! ‘Ha!’ theenk a boy. ‘I mus’ have thee seven lobster-tin of gold. I am want buy thee parasol for ’Liza Hull nex’ time thee trader come. I mus’ have thee gold of ol’ Skip’ Jim. If I not, then Sam Tom will have buy thee parasol from Tanous Shiva. ’Liza Hull will have love him an’ not me. I mus’ have ’Liza Hull love me. Oh,’ theenk he, ‘I mus’ have ’Liza Hull love me! I am not can leeve ’ithout that beeg ’Liza Hull with thee red cheek an’ blue eye!’ (Ver’ poor taste thee men have for thee girl in Newf’un’lan’.) ‘Ha!’ theenk he. ‘I mus’ have thee gold. I am burn thee house an’ get thee gold. Then I have buy thee peenk parasol from Tom Shiva.’ Fool! Ver’ beeg fool – that boy. Burn thee house? Ver’ poor business. Mos’ poor. Burn thee house of ol’ Skip’ Jim? Pooh!”

It seemed to me, too – so did the sly fellow bristle and puff with contempt – that the wretched lad’s directness of method was most reprehensible; but I came to my senses later, and I have ever since known that the highwayman was in some sort a worthy fellow.

“Ver’ well. For two year I know ’bout thee seven lobster-tin of gold, an’ for two year I make thee great frien’ along o’ Skip’ Jim – thee greates’ frien’; thee ver’ greates’ frien’ – for I am want thee gold. Aie! I am all thee time stop with Skip’ Jim. I am go thee church with Skip’ Jim. I am kneel thee prayer with Skip’ Jim. (I am ver’ good man about thee prayer – ver’ good business man.) Skip’ Jim he theenk me thee Jew. Pooh! I am not care. I say, ‘Oh yess, Skip’ Jim; I am mos’ sad about what thee Jews done. Bad Jew done that.’ ‘You good Jew, Tom,’ he say; ‘I am not hol’ you to thee ’count. Oh no, Tom; you good Jew,’ he say. ‘You would not do what thee bad Jews done.’ ‘Oh no, Skip’ Jim,’ I say, ‘I am ver’ good man – ver’, ver’ good man.’”

The peddler was gravely silent for a space.

“I am hones’ man,” he continued. “I am thee mos’ hones’ business man in Newf’un’lan’. So I mus’ have wait for thee gold. Ah,” he sighed, “it have be mos’ hard to wait. I am almos’ break thee heart. But I am hones’ man – ver’, ver’ hones’ man – an’ I mus’ have wait. Now I tell you what have happen: I am come ashore one night, an’ it is thee nex’ night after thee boy have burn thee house of Skip’ Jim for the peenk parasol.

“‘Where Skip’ Jim house?’ I say.

“‘Burn down,’ they say.

“‘Burn down!’ I say. ‘Oh, my! ’Tis sad. Have thee seven lobster-tin of gold be los’?’

“‘All spoil,’ they say.

“I am not theenk what they mean. ‘Oh, dear!’ I say. ‘Where Skip’ Jim?’

“‘You fin’ Skip’ Jim at thee Skip’ Bill Tissol’s house.’

“‘Oh, my!’ I say. ‘I am mos’ sad. I am go geeve thee pit-ee to poor Skip’ Jim.’”

The fog was fast thickening. We had come close to Skeleton Tickle; but the downcast cottages were more remote than they had been – infinitely more isolated.

“Ver’ well. I am fin’ Skip’ Jim. He sit in thee bes’ room of thee Skip’ Bill Tissol’s house. All thee ’lone. God is good! Nobody there. What have I see? Gold! Gold! The heap of gold! The beeg, beeg heap of gold! I am not can tell you!”

The man was breathing in gasps; in the pause his jaw dropped, his yellow eyes were distended.

“Ha!” he ejaculated. “So I am thank thee dear, good God I am not come thee too late. Gold! Gold! The heap of gold! I am pray ver’ hard to be good business man. I am close thee eye an’ pray thee good God I am be ver’ good business man for one hour. ‘Jus’ one hour, O my God!’ I pray. ‘Leave me be ver’, ver’ good business man for jus’ one leet-tle ver’ small hour. I am geeve one hun’red fifty to thee Orth’dox Church in Washin’ton Street, O my God,’ I pray, ‘if I be mos’ ver’ good business man for thee one hour!’ An’ I shake thee head an’ look at thee rich ol’ Skip’ Jim with thee ver’ mos’ awful sad look I am can.

“‘Oh, Skip’ Jim!’ I say. ‘Fear-r-ful! How have your house cotch thee fire?’

“‘Thee boy of Skip’ Elisha,’ 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 sit, by thee ’lone; an’ the heap of good gold is on thee table; an’ the candle is burnin’; an’ the beeg white wheesk-airs is ver’ white an’ mos’ awful long; an’ thee beeg han’s is on thee gold, an’ thee salt-sores from thee feeshin’ is on thee han’s; an’ thee tear is in thee ol’ eyes of ol’ Skip’ Jim All. So once more I pray thee good God to be made ver’ good business man for thee one hour; an’ I close thee door ver’ tight.

“‘Oh, Tom Shiva,’ he says, ‘I am ruin’!’

“‘Ver’ sad,’ I say. ‘Oh, dear!’

“‘I am ruin’ – ruin’!’ he say. ‘Oh, I am ruin’! 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 lobster-tin of gold!’

“‘I am see, 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’ beeg fool is he! It have be melt. All? No! Thee gold steek together; thee gold melt in two; thee gold be in thee beeg lump; thee gold be damage’. What this fool theenk? Ah! Pooh! This fool theenk thee gold have be all spoil’. Good gold? No, spoil’ gold! No good no 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 fool say, ‘I am thank you ver’ hard.’

“‘Oh yess, Skip’ Jim,’ I say, ‘I am love you ver’, ver’ much.’

“He shake my han’.

“‘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 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’. Look! All melt. 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,’ I 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 no!’ he say. ‘I am want one hundred dollar.’

“I shake my head. ‘Oh, Skip’ Jim!’ I say. ‘Shame to have treat thee friend so! I am great friend to you, Skip’ Jim,’ I say. ‘But,’ I say, ‘business is business. Skip’ Jim,’ I say, ‘let 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’ religious. Pray? Oh, I know him. Pray? You bet he pray! You ask Skip’ Jim to pray, an’ he pray – oh, he pray, you bet! ‘O God,’ he pray, ‘I am ver’ much ’blige’ for Tom Shiva. I am ver’ much ’blige’ he come to Skeleton Teekle. I am ver’ much ’blige’ he have thee soft heart. I am ver’ much ’blige’ you fix thee heart to help poor ol’ Skip’ Jim. He good Jew, O God.’ (Pooh! I am Syrian man – not Jew. But I am not tell, for I am ver’ good business man). ‘Forgive this poor Tom Shiva, O my dear God!’

“I get ver’ tired with thee prayin’. I am ver’ good business man. I am want thee gold.

“‘Skip’ Jim!’ I whis-pair. ‘Oh, Skip’ Jim!’ I say. ‘Thee bargain! Fix thee bargain with thee dear God.’ My heart is ver’ mad with thee fear. ‘Fix thee bargain with thee good God,’ I say. ‘Oh, Skip’ Jim!’ I whis-pair. ‘Queek! I am offer seventy-five dollar.’

“Then he get up from thee knee. Ver’ obstinate man – ver’, ver’ obstinate man, this ol’ Skip’ Jim. He get up from thee knee. What he theenk? Eh? He theenk he ver’ good business man. He theenk he beat Tom Shiva by thee sin. Want God? Oh no! Not want God to know, you bet!

“‘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, Tom 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 Newf’un’lan’. I am too hones’ to say thee lie.

“‘I am take thee risk,’ I say. ‘You are my friend, Skip’ Jim,’ I say. ‘I am take thee risk. I am geeve you eighty-five dollar for all the spoil’ gold an’ silver – half cash, half trade… I am have mos’ wonderful suit clothes for ver’ cheap…’”

And the fool of Skeleton Tickle was left with a suit of shoddy tweed and fifty-seven dollars in unspoiled gold and silver coin, believing that he had overreached the peddler from Damascus and New York, piously thanking God for the opportunity, ascribing glory to him for the success, content that it should be so… And Tanous Shiva departed by the mail-boat, as he had come, with the seven lobster-tins of gold and the half-bushel of silver which three generations had labored to accumulate; and he went south to St. John’s, where he converted the spoiled coin into a bank credit of ten thousand dollars, content that it should be so. And thereupon he set out again to trade…

The mail-boat was now riding at anchor within the harbor of Skeleton Tickle. Rain was falling – thin, penetrating, cold, driven by the wind. On the bleak, wet hills, the cottages, vague in the mist, cowered in dumb wretchedness, like men of sodden patience who wait without hope. A 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 feeling.

“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 shuddered. “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’ went an’ got a 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 business…

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 bringing fog, rain, breaking seas, drift-ice, dispiriting cold. From Nanny’s Old Head the outlook was perturbing: the sky was hid, with its familiar warnings and promises; gigantic breakers fell with swish and thud upon the black rocks below, flinging lustreless white froth into the gray mist; and the grounds, where the men of Candlestick Cove must cast lines and haul traps, were in an ill-tempered, white-capped tumble – black waves rolling out of a melancholy fog, hanging low, which curtained the sea beyond.

The hands of the men of Candlestick Cove were raw with salt-water sores; all charms against the affliction of toil in easterly gales had failed – brass bracelets and incantations alike. And the eyes of the men of Candlestick Cove were alert with apprehensive caution: tense, quick to move, clear and hard under drawn brows. With a high sea perversely continuing beyond the harbor tickle, there was no place in the eyes of men for the light of humor or love, which thrive in security. Windy weather, indeed! ’Twas a time for men to be men!

“I ’low I never seed nothin’ like it,” Jonathan Stock complained.

The sea, breaking upon the Rock o’ Wishes, and the wind, roaring past, confused old Tom Lull.

“What say?” he shouted.

“Nothin’ like it,” said Jonathan Stock.

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.

“Me neither,” said he.

They were drawing near Herring Point, within the harbor, where the noise of wind and sea, in an easterly gale, diminishes.

“I ’low I never seed nothin’ like it,” said Jonathan Stock.

“Me neither, Skipper Jonathan.”

“Never seed nothin’ like it.”

They pulled on in silence – until the froth of Puppy Rock was well astern.

“Me neither,” said Tom.

“I never seed nothin’ like it,” Jonathan grumbled.

Old Tom wagged 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 exchange of ideas! A gush of talk! A whirlwind of opinion! Both enjoyed it – were relieved by it: rid of the gathered thought of long hours alone on the grounds. Jonathan Stock had expressed himself freely and at length; so, too, old Tom Lull. ’Twas heartening – this easy sociability. Tom Lull was glad that he had waited in the lee of the Rock o’ Wishes; he had felt the need of conversation, and was now gratified; so, too, Jonathan Stock. But now, quite exhausted of ideas, they proceeded in silence, pulling mechanically through the dripping mist. From time to time old Tom Lull wagged his head and darkly muttered; but the words invariably got lost in his mouth.

Presently both punts came to Jonathan Stock’s stage.

“I ’low,” Jonathan exclaimed, in parting, “I never seed nothin’ like it!”

Old Tom lifted his oars. He drew his hand over his wet beard. A moment he reflected – frowning at the mist: deep in philosophical labor. Then he turned quickly to Jonathan Stock: turned in delight, his gray old face clear of bewilderment – turned as if about to deliver himself of some vast original conception, which might leave nothing more to be said.

“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 were empty, the bins full of salt; the splitting-knives were rusted: this though men and punts and nets were worn out with toil. There was no fish: wherefore, the feeling men of Candlestick Cove kept clear of the merchant of the place, who had outfitted them all in the spring of the year, and was now contemplating the reckoning at St. John’s with much terror and some ill-humor.

It was a lean year – a time of uneasy dread. From Cape Norman to the Funks and beyond, the clergy, acutely aware of the prospect, and perceiving the opportunity to be even more useful, preached from comforting texts. “The Lord will provide” was the theme of gentle Parson Grey of Doubled Arm; and the discourse culminated in a passionate allusion to “Yet have I never seen the seed of the righteous begging bread.” Parson Stump of Burnt Harbor – a timid little man with tender gray eyes – treated “Your Heavenly Father feedeth them” with inspiring faith.

By all this the apprehension of the folk was lulled; it was admitted even by the unrighteous that there were times when ’twas better to be with than without the clergy. At Little Harbor Shallow, old Skipper Job Sutler, a man lacking in understanding, put out no more to the grounds off Devil-may-Care.

“Skipper Job,” the mail-boat captain warned, “you better get out t’ the grounds in civil weather.”

“Oh,” quoth Job, “the Lard’ll take care o’ we!”

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 pattering fretfully upon the roof. The worried little trader – spare, gimlet-eyed, thin-whiskered, now perched on the counter – slapped his calf with a yardstick; the easterly gale was fast aggravating his temper beyond control. It was bright and warm in the shop; the birch billets spluttered and snored in the stove, and a great lamp suspended from the main rafter showered the shelves and counter and greasy floor with light. Skipper Jonathan’s clothes of moleskin steamed with the rain and spray of the day’s toil.

“No, John,” said the trader, sharply; “she can’t have un – it can’t be done.”

Jonathan slowly examined his wrist; the bandage 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 – a 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 impatiently – and sighed.

“She can’t,” Jonathan mused. “No —she can’t.”

The trader began to whistle, but there was no heart in the diversion; and there was much poignant distress in the way he drummed on the counter.

“I wouldn’t be carin’ so much,” Jonathan softly persisted – “no, not so much, if ’twasn’t their birthday. She told un three year ago they could have un – when they was twelve. An’, dear man! they’ll be twelve two weeks come Toosday. Dear man!” he exclaimed again, with a fleeting little smile, “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 inquired. “Was you ’lowin’ my woman could have – the other little thing? She’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 sort o’ giddy of her; but she was ’lowin’ her heart was sort o’ sot on havin’ – that little thing.”

Totley shook his head.

“Her heart,” Jonathan sighed.

“Can’t do it, John.”

“Mm-m-m! No,” Jonathan muttered, scratching his head in helplessness and bewilderment; “he can’t give that little thing t’ the woman, neither. Can’t give she that.”

Totley shook his head. It was not an agreeable duty thus to deny Jonathan Stock of Candlestick Cove. It pinched the trader’s heart. “But a must is a must!” thought he. The wind was in the east, with no sign of change, and ’twas late in the season; and there was no fish —no fish, God help us all! There would be famine at Candlestick Cove —famine, God help us all! The folk of Candlestick Cove – Totley’s folk – must be fed; there must be no starvation. And the creditors at St. John’s – Totley’s creditors – were wanting fish insistently. Wanting fish, God help us! when there was no fish. There was a great gale of ruin blowing up; there would be an accounting to his creditors for the goods they had given him in faith – there must be no waste of stock, no indulgence of whims. He must stand well. The creditors at St. John’s must be so dealt with that the folk of Candlestick Cove – Totley’s folk – could be fed through the winter. ’Twas all-important that the folk should be fed – just fed with bread and molasses and tea: nothing more than that. Nothing more than that, by the Lord! would go out of the store.

Jonathan pushed back his dripping cloth cap and sighed. “’Tis fallin’ out wonderful,” he ventured.

Totley whistled to keep his spirits up.

“Awful!” said Jonathan.

The tune continued.

“She ’lows,” Jonathan went on, “that if it keeps on at this rate she won’t have none left by spring. That’s what she ’lows will happen.”

Totley proceeded to the chorus.

“No, sir,” Jonathan pleaded; “she’ll have nar a one!”

The trader avoided his eye.

“An’ it makes her feel sort o’ bad,” Jonathan protested. “I tells her that with or without she won’t be no different t’ me. Not 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 Jonathan!” said he, decisively, “she can have it.”

Jonathan beamed.

“She can have what she wants for herself, look you! but she can’t have no oil-skins for the twins, though ’tis their birthday. ’Tis hard times, Jonathan, with the wind glued t’ the east; an’ the twins is got t’ go wet. What kind she want? Eh? I got two kinds in the case. I don’t recommend neither o’ them.”

Jonathan scratched his head.

“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 Jonathan,” said the trader, much distressed, “we’re so poor at Candlestick Cove that we ought t’ be eatin’ moss. I’ll have trouble enough, this fall, gettin’ flour from St. John’s t’ go ’round. Skipper Jonathan, if you could get your allowance o’ flour down t’ five barrels instead o’ six, I’d thank you. The young ones is growin’, I knows; but – well, I’d thank you, Jonathan, I’d thank you!”

“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 you, Jonathan.”

“An’ … you wouldn’t mind lashin’ this bit o’ cotton on my wrist, would you, sir? The sleeve o’ my jacket sort o’ chafes the sore.”

“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 bad!”

The wrist was bound anew. Jonathan stumbled 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 east. 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 kitchen fire – while his wife clattered over the bare floor about the business of his comfort – when Parson Jaunt tapped and entered: and folded his umbrella, and wiped his face with a white handkerchief, and jovially rubbed his hands together. This was a hearty, stout little man, with a double chin and a round, rosy face; with twinkling eyes; with the jolliest little paunch in the world; dressed all in black cloth, threadbare and shiny, powdered with dandruff upon the shoulders; and wearing a gigantic yellow chain hanging from pocket to pocket of the waistcoat, and wilted collar and cuffs, and patent-leather shoes, which were muddy and cracked and turned up at the toes. 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.