In Which Rubber Ice is Encountered and Billy Topsail is Asked a Pointed Question
In Which Rubber Ice is Encountered and Billy Topsail is Asked a Pointed Question
Dolly West'smother, with Dolly in her arms, resting against her soft, ample bosom, sat by the kitchen fire. It was long after dark. The wind was up—the cottage shook in the squalls. She had long ago washed Dolly's eyes and temporarily staunched the terrifying flow of blood; and now she waited—and had been waiting, with Dolly in her arms, a long, long time; rocking gently and sometimes crooning a plaintive song of the coast to the restless child.
Uncle Joe West came in.
"Hush!"
"Is she sleepin' still?"
"Off an' on. She've a deal o' pain. She cries out, poor lamb!"
Dolly stirred and whimpered.
"Any sign of un, Joe?"
"'Tis not time."
"He might——"
"'Twill be hours afore he comes. I'm jus' wonderin'——"
"Hush!"
Dolly moaned.
"Ay, Joe?"
"Tommy's but a wee feller. I'm wonderin' if he——"
The woman was confident. "He'll make it," she whispered.
"Ay; but if he's delayed——"
"He was there afore dusk. An' Doctor Luke got underway across the Bight——"
"He'll not come by the Bight!"
"He'll come by the Bight. I knows that man. He'll come by the Bight—an' he'll——"
"Pray not!"
"I pray so."
"If he comes by the Bight, he'll never get here at all. The Bight's breakin' up. There's rotten ice beyond the Spotted Horses. An' Tickle-my-Ribs is——"
"He'll come. He'll be here afore——"
"There's a gale o' snow comin' down. 'Twill cloud the moon. A man would lose hisself——"
"He'll come."
Uncle Joe West went out again. This wasto plod once more down the narrows to the base of Blow-me-Down Dick and search the vague light of the coast towards Thank-the-Lord and Mad Harry for the first sight of Doctor Luke. It was not time. He knew that. There would be hours of waiting. It would be dawn before a man could come by Thank-the-Lord and Mad Harry if he left Our Harbour even so early as dusk. And as for crossing the Bight—no man could cross the Bight. It was blowing up, too—clouds rising and a threat of snow abroad. Uncle Joe West glanced apprehensively towards the northeast. It would snow before dawn. The moon was doomed. A dark night would fall.
And the Bight—Doctor Luke would never attempt to cross the Bight——
Doctor Luke, hanging between the hummock and the pan, the gaff shivering under his weight, slowly subsided towards the hummock. It was a slow, cautious approach. He had no faith in his foothold. A toe slipped. He paused. It was a grim business. The other foot held. The leg, too, was equal to the strain. He wriggled his toe back to its grip of the edge of the ice. It was an improved foothold. He turned then andbegan to lift and thrust himself backward. And a last thrust on the gaff set him on his haunches on the Arctic hummock.
He turned to Billy Topsail.
"Thank God!" said he. And then: "Come on, Billy!"
There was a better light now. Billy Topsail chose a narrower space to leap. And he leaped it safely. And they went on; and on—and on! There was a deal of slippery crawling to do—of slow, ticklish climbing. Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail rounded bergs, scaled perilous inclines, leaped crevices. Sometimes they were bewildered for a space. When the moon broke they could glimpse the Spotted Horses from the highest elevations of the floe. In the depressions of the floe they could not descry the way at all.
It was as cold as death now. Was it ten below? The gale bit like twenty below.
"'Tistwenty below!" Billy Topsail insisted.
Doctor Luke ignored this.
"We're near past the rough ice," said he, gravely.
"Rubber ice ahead," said Billy.
Neither laughed.
"Ay," the Doctor observed; and that was all.
When the big northeast wind drove the ice back into Anxious Bight and heaped it inshore, the pressure had decreased as the mass of the floe diminished in the direction of the sea. The outermost areas had not felt the impact. They had not folded—had not "raftered." There had been no convulsion offshore as inshore when the rocks of Afternoon Coast interrupted the rush. The pans had come to a standstill and snuggled close.
When the wind failed they had subsided towards the open. As they say on the coast, the ice had "gone abroad." It was distributed. And after that the sea had fallen flat; and a vicious frost had caught the floe—wide-spread now—and frozen it fast. It was six miles from the edge of the raftered ice to the first island of the Spotted Horses. The flat pans were solid enough—safe and easy going; but this new, connecting ice—the lanes and reaches of it——
Doctor Luke's succinct characterization of the condition of Anxious Bight was also keen.
These six miles were perilous.
"Soft as cheese!"
All that day the sun had fallen hot on theyoung ice in which the scattered pans of the floe were frozen. Doctor Luke recalled that in the afternoon he had splashed through an occasional pool of shallow water on the floe between Tumble Tickle and the short-cut trail to Our Harbour. Certainly some of the wider patches of green ice had been weakened to the breaking point. Here and there they must have been eaten clear through. It occurred to Doctor Luke—contemplating an advance with distaste—that these holes were like open sores.
And by and by the first brief barrier of new ice confronted Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail. They must cross it. A black film—the colour of water in that light—bridged the way from one pan to another. Neither Doctor Luke nor Billy Topsail would touch it. They leaped it easily. A few fathoms forward a second space halted them. Must they put foot on it? With a running start a man could—well, they chose not to touch the second space, but to leap it.
Soon a third interval interrupted them. No man could leap it. Doctor Luke cast about for another way. There was none. He must run across. A flush of displeasure ran over him. He scowled. Disinclination increased.
"Green ice!" said he.
"Let me try it, sir!"
"No."
"Ay, sir! I'm lighter."
"No."
Billy Topsail crossed then like a cat before he could be stopped—on tiptoe and swiftly; and he came to the other side with his heart in a flutter.
"Whew!"
The ice had yielded without breaking. It had creaked, perhaps—nothing worse. Doctor Luke crossed the space without accident. It was what is called "rubber ice." There was more of it—there were miles of it. As yet the pans were close together. Always however the intervals increased. The nearer the open sea the more wide-spread was the floe. Beyond—hauling down the Spotted Horses, which lay in the open—the proportion of new ice would be vastly greater.
At a trot, for the time, over the pans, which were flat, and in delicate, mincing little spurts across the bending ice, Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail proceeded. In a confidence that was somewhat flushed—they had rested—DoctorLuke went forward. And presently, midway of a lane of green ice, he heard a gurgle, as the ice bent under his weight. Water washed his boots. He had been on the lookout for holes. This hole he heard—the spurt and gurgle of it. He had not seen it.
"Back!" he shouted, in warning.
Billy ran back.
"All right, sir?"
Safe across, Doctor Luke grinned. It was a reaction of relief.
"Whew!Whew!" he whistled. "Try below."
Billy crossed below.
"Don't you think, sir," said he, doubtfully, "that we'd best go back?"
"Do you think so?"
Billy reflected.
"No, sir," said he, flushing.
"Neither do I. Come on."
In Which Discretion Urges Doctor Luke to Lie Still in a Pool of Water
In Which Discretion Urges Doctor Luke to Lie Still in a Pool of Water
Itwas a mean light—this intermittent moonlight: with the clouds slow and thick, and the ominous bank of black cloud rising all the while from the horizon. A man should go slow in a light like that! But Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail must make haste. And by and by they caught ear of the sea breaking under the wind beyond the Little Spotted Horse. They were nearing the limits of the ice. In full moonlight the whitecaps flashed news of a tumultuous open. A rumble and splash of breakers came down with the gale from the point of the island. It indicated that the sea was working in the passage between the Spotted Horses and Blow-me-Down Dick of the Ragged Run coast. The waves would run under the ice—would lift it and break it. In this way the sea would eat its way through the passage. It would destroy the young ice. It would break the pans to pieces and rub them to slush.
Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail must make the Little Spotted Horse and cross the passage between the island and the Ragged Run coast.
"Come on!" said the Doctor again.
Whatever the issue of haste, they must carry on and make the best of a bad job. Otherwise they would come to Tickle-my-Ribs, between the Little Spotted Horse and Blow-me-Down Dick of Ragged Run, and be marooned from the mainshore. And there was another reason. It was immediate and desperately urgent. As the sea was biting off the ice in Tickle-my-Ribs so too it was encroaching upon the body of the ice in Anxious Bight.
Anxious Bight was breaking up. The scale of its dissolution was gigantic. Acres of ice were wrenched from the field at a time and then broken up by the sea. What was the direction of this swift melting? It might take any direction. And a survey of the sky troubled Doctor Luke no less than Billy Topsail. All this while the light had diminished. It was failing still. It was failing faster. There was less of the moon. By and by it would be wholly obscured.
"If we're delayed," Doctor Luke declared, "we'll be caught by the dark."
"Hear that, sir!" Billy exclaimed.
They listened.
"Breaking up fast!" said the Doctor.
Again there was a splitting crash. Another great fragment of the ice had broken away.
"Come on!" cried Billy, in alarm.
At first prolonged intervals of moonlight had occurred. Masses of cloud had gone driving across a pale and faintly starlit sky. A new proportion was disclosed. Now the stars were brilliant in occasional patches of deep sky. A glimpse of the moon was rare. From the northeast the ominous bank of black cloud had risen nearly overhead. It would eventually curtain both stars and moon and make a thick black night of it.
A man would surely lose his life on the ice in thick weather—on one or other of the reaches of new ice. And thereabouts the areas of young ice were wider. They were also more tender. Thin ice is a proverb of peril and daring. To tiptoe across the yielding film of these dimly visible stretches was instantly and dreadfully dangerous. It was horrifying. A man took his life in his hand every time he left a pan.
Doctor Luke was not insensitive. Neitherwas Billy Topsail. They began to sweat—not with labour, but with fear. When the ice bent under them, they gasped and held their breath. They were in livid terror of being dropped through into the sea. They were afraid to proceed—they dared not stand still; and they came each time to the solid refuge of a pan with breath drawn, teeth set, faces contorted, hands clenched—a shiver in the small of the back. This was more exhausting than the labour of the folded floe. Upon every occasion it was like escaping an abyss.
To achieve safety once, however, was not to win a final relief—it was merely to confront, in the same circumstances, a precisely similar peril. Neither Doctor Luke nor Billy Topsail was physically exhausted. Every muscle that they had was warm and alert. Yet they were weak. A repetition of suspense had unnerved them. A full hour of this and sometimes they chattered and shook in a nervous chill.
In the meantime they had approached the rocks of the Little Spotted Horse.
They rested a moment.
"Now for it, boy!" said the Doctor, then.
"Ay, ay, sir!"
"Sorry you came, Billy?"
Billy was a truthful boy—and no hero of the melodrama.
"I wisht we was across, sir," said he.
"So do I," the Doctor agreed. "Come," he added, heartily; "we'llgoacross!"
In the lee of the Little Spotted Horse the ice had gathered as in a back-current. It was close packed alongshore to the point of the island. Between this solidly frozen press of pans and the dissolving field in Anxious Bight there had been a lane of ruffled open water before the frost fell. It measured perhaps fifty yards. It was now black and still—sheeted with new ice which had been delayed in forming by the ripple of that exposed situation.
Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail had encountered nothing as doubtful. They paused on the brink. A long, thin line of solid pan-ice, ghostly white in the dusk beyond, was attached to the rocks of the Little Spotted Horse. It led all the way to Tickle-my-Ribs. They must make that line of solid ice. They must cross the wide lane of black, delicately frozen new ice that lay between and barred their way. And there was no way out of it.
Doctor Luke waited for the moon. When the light broke—a thin, transient gleam—he started.
"Wait," said he, "until I'm across."
A few fathoms forth the ice began to yield. A moment later Doctor Luke stopped short and recoiled. There was a hole—gaping wide and almost under his feet. He stopped. The water overflowed and the ice cracked. He must not stand still. To avoid a second hole he twisted violently to the right and almost plunged into a third opening. It seemed the ice was rotten from shore to shore.
And it was a long way across. Doctor Luke danced a zigzag towards the pan-ice under the cliffs—spurting forward and retreating and swerving. He did not pause. Had he paused he would have dropped through. When he was within two fathoms of the pan-ice a foot broke through and tripped him flat on his face. With his weight thus distributed he was momentarily held up. Water squirted and gurgled out of the break—an inch of water, forming a pool.
Doctor Luke lay still and expectant in this pool.
In Which Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail Hesitate in Fear on the Brink of Tickle-my-Ribs
In Which Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail Hesitate in Fear on the Brink of Tickle-my-Ribs
Dolly West'smother still sat rocking by the kitchen fire. It was long past midnight now. Once more Uncle Joe West tiptoed in from the frosty night.
"Is she sleepin' still?" he whispered.
"Hush! She've jus' toppled off again. She's havin' a deal o' pain, Joe. An' she've been bleedin' again."
"Put her down on the bed, dear."
The woman shook her head. "I'm afeared 'twould start the wounds, Joe. I'm not wantin' t' start un again. Any sign o' Doctor Luke yet, Joe?"
"Not yet."
"He'll come soon."
"No; 'tis not near time. 'Twill be dawn afore he——"
"Soon, Joe."
"He'll be delayed by snow. The moon's near gone. 'Twill be black dark in half an hour. I felt a flake o' snow as I come in. An' he'll maybe wait at Mad Harry——"
"He's comin' by the Bight, Joe."
Dolly stirred—cried out—awakened with a start—and lifted her bandaged head a little.
She did not open her eyes.
"Is that you, Doctor Luke, sir?" she plainted.
"Hush!" the mother whispered. "'Tis not the Doctor yet."
"When——"
"He's comin'."
"I'll take a look," said Joe.
He went out again and stumbled down the path to Blow-me-Down Dick by Tickle-my-Ribs.
Doctor Luke lay still and expectant in the pool of water near the pan-ice and rocks of the Little Spotted Horse. He waited. Nothing happened. It was encouraging. But he did not dare stand up. Nor would he dare to get to his knees and crawl.
There was no help to be had from the agonized Billy Topsail.
Both knew it.
"Shall I come, sir?" Billy called.
"Stay where you are," Doctor Luke replied, "or we'll both drop through. Don't move."
"Ay, sir."
Presently Doctor Luke ventured delicately to take off a mitten—to extend his hand, to sink his finger-nails in the ice and attempt to draw himself forward. He tried again. It was a failure. His finger-nails were too short. He could merely scratch the ice. He reflected that if he did not concentrate his weight—that if he kept it distributed—he would not break through. And once more he tried to make use of his finger-nails.
There was no snow on this ice. It was a smooth, hard surface. It was dry. It turned out that the nails of the other hand were longer. Doctor Luke managed to gain half an inch before they slipped.
They slipped again—and again and again. It was hopeless. Doctor Luke lay still—pondering.
Billy Topsail's agony of anxiety increased.
"Is you safe, sir?"
"Stay where you are!"
"Ay, sir!"
Doctor Luke could not continue to lie still. Presently he would be frozen in the pool of water. In emergencies he was used to indulging in a simple philosophical reflection: A man can lose his life but once. Now he shot his gaff towards the pan-ice, to be rid of the incumbrance of it, and lifted himself on his palms and toes. By this the distribution of his weight was not greatly disturbed. It was not concentrated upon one point. It was divided by four and laid upon four points.
And there were no fearsome consequences. It was a hopeful experiment. Doctor Luke stepped by inches on his hands towards the pan-ice—dragging his toes. In this way he came to the line of solid ice under the cliffs of the Little Spotted Horse and gained the refuge of it. And then he directed the crossing of Billy Topsail, who was much lighter, and crossed safely. Whereupon they set out for the point of the Little Spotted Horse and the passage of Tickle-my-Ribs. And they were heartened.
A country physician might say of a muddy, midnight call, in the wind and dark of a wet night in the fall of the year, that the roads werebad. Doctor Luke would have said of the way from Our Harbour to the Little Spotted Horse that he had been "in a bit of a mess." Thus far there had been nothing extravagantly uncommon in the night's experience. Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail had merely encountered and survived the familiar difficulties of a passage of Anxious Bight in a period of critical weather in the spring of the year.
A folded floe and six miles of rubber ice were not sufficiently out of the way to constitute an impressive incident. Doctor Luke had fared better and worse in his time. So had Billy Topsail. All this was not a climax. It was something to be forgotten in a confusion of experiences of the same description. It would not remain very long in the memory of either. In what lay ahead, however—the passage of Tickle-my-Ribs—there was doubtless an adventure.
"She'll be heavin' in this wind," Billy Topsail said.
"We'll get across," Doctor Luke replied, confidently. "Come along!"
Tickle-my-Ribs was heaving. The sea had by this time eaten its way clear through the passage from the open to the first reaches of AnxiousBight and far and wide beyond. The channel was half a mile long—in width a quarter of a mile at the narrowest. Doctor Luke's path was determined. It must lead from the point of the island to the base of Blow-me-Down Dick and the adjoining fixed and solid ice of the narrows to Ragged Run Harbour. And ice choked the channel loosely from shore to shore.
It was a thin sheet of fragments—running through from the open. There was only an occasional considerable pan. A high sea ran outside. Waves from the open slipped under this field of little pieces and lifted it in running swells. In motion Tickle-my-Ribs resembled a vigorously shaken carpet. No single block of ice was at rest. The crossing would have been hazardous in the most favourable circumstances. And now aloft the moon and the ominous bank of black cloud had come close together.
Precisely as a country doctor might petulantly regard a stretch of hub-deep cross-road, Doctor Luke, the outport physician, when he came to the channel between the Little Spotted Horse and Blow-me-Down Dick of the Ragged Run coast, regarded the passage of Tickle-my-Ribs. Not many of the little pans would bear theweight of either himself or Billy Topsail. They would sustain it momentarily. Then they would tip or sink. There would be foothold only through the instant required to choose another foothold and leap towards it.
Always, moreover, the leap would have to be taken from sinking ground. When they came, by good chance, to a pan that would bear them up for a moment, they would have instantly to discover another heavy block to which to shape their agitated course. There would be no rest—no certainty beyond the impending moment. But leaping thus—alert and agile and daring—a man might——
Might? Mm-m—a manmight! And he mightnot! There were contingencies. A man might leap short and find black water where he had depended upon a footing of ice—a man might land on the edge of a pan and fall slowly back for sheer lack of power to obtain a balance—a man might misjudge the strength of a pan to bear him up—a man might find no ice near enough for the next immediately imperative leap—a man might confront the appalling exigency of a lane of open water.
As a matter of fact, a man might be unableeither to go forward or retreat. A man might be submerged and find the shifting floe closed over his head. A man might easily lose his life in the driving, swelling rush of the shattered floe through Tickle-my-Ribs. And there was the light to consider. A man might be caught in the dark. He would be in hopeless case if caught in the dark. And the light might——
Light was imperative. Doctor Luke glanced aloft.
"Whew!" he whistled. "What do you think, Billy?"
Billy was flat.
"I'd not try it!" said he.
"No?"
"No, sir!"
The moon and the ominous bank of black cloud were very close. There was snow in the air. A thickening flurry ran past.
Uncle Joe West was not on the lookout when Doctor Luke opened the kitchen door at Ragged Run Cove, and strode in, with Billy Topsail at his heels, and with the air of a man who had survived difficulties and was proud of it. Uncle Joe West was sitting by the fire, hisface in his hands; and the mother of Dolly West—with Dolly still restlessly asleep in her arms—was rocking, rocking, as before. And Doctor Luke set to work without delay or explanation—in a way so gentle, with a voice so persuasive, with a hand so tender and sure, with a skill and wisdom so keen, that little Dolly West, who was brave enough, in any case, as you know, yielded the additional patience and courage that the simple means at hand for her relief required. Doctor Luke laved Dolly West's blue eyes until she could see again, and sewed up her wounds, that night, so that no scar remained, and in the broad light of the next day picked out grains of powder until not a single grain was left to disfigure the child.
In Which Skinflint Sam of Ragged Run Finds Himself in a Desperate Predicament and Bad-Weather Tom West at Last Has What Skinflint Sam Wants
In Which Skinflint Sam of Ragged Run Finds Himself in a Desperate Predicament and Bad-Weather Tom West at Last Has What Skinflint Sam Wants
Well, now, when all this had been accomplished, and when Dolly had gone to bed with her mother, it occurred to Doctor Luke that he had not clapped eyes on Dolly's father, Bad-Weather Tom West.
"Where's Tom?" said he.
Joe started.
"Wh-wh-where's Tom?" he stammered.
"Ay."
"Have you not heard about Tom?"
Doctor Luke was puzzled.
"No," said he; "not a word."
Joe commanded himself for the tale he had to tell.
"Skipper Tom West," Joe began, "made a wonderful adventure of life in the end. I doubt if ever a man done such a queer thing afore.'Twas queer enough, sir, I'll be bound, an' you'll say so when I tells you; but 'twas a brave, kind thing, too, though it come perilous close t' the line o' foul play—but that's how you looks at it. Bad-Weather Tom," he went on, "come back from seein' you, sir, in a silent mood. An' no wonder! You told un, sir—well, you told un what you told un, about what he was to expect in this life; an' the news lay hard on his mood. He told nobody here what that news was; nor could the gossips gain a word from his wife.
"'What's the matter with Bad-Weather Tom?' says they.
"'Ask Tom,' says she.
"An' they asked Tom.
"'Tom,' says they, 'what's gone along o' you, anyhow?'
"'Well,' says Tom, 'I found out something I never knowed afore. That's all that's the matter with me.'
"'Did Doctor Luke tell you?'
"'When I talks with Doctor Luke,' says Tom, 'Ialwaysfinds out something I never knowed afore.'
"Whatever you told un, sir—an' I knows what you told un—it made a changed man o' Bad-Weather Tom. He mooned a deal, an' he would talk no more o' the future, but dwelt upon the shortness of a man's days an' the quantity of his sin, an' laboured like mad, an' read the Scriptures by candle-light, an' sot more store by going to church and prayer-meetin' than ever afore. Labour? Ecod, how that poor man laboured—after you told un. While there was light! An' until he fair dropped in his tracks o' sheer weariness!
"'Twas back in the forest—haulin' fire-wood with the dogs an' storin' it away back o' this little cottage under Lend-a-Hand Hill.
"'Dear man!' says Skinflint Sam; 'you've fire-wood for half a dozen winters.'
"'They'll need it,' says Tom.
"'Ay,' says Sam; 'but will you lie idle next winter?'
"'Nex' winter?' says Tom. An' he laughed. 'Oh, nex' winter,' says he, 'I'll have another occupation.'
"'Movin' away, Tom?'
"'Well,' says Tom, 'I is an' I isn't.'
"There come a day not long ago when seals was thick on the floe off Ragged Run. You mind the time, sir?" Billy Topsail "minded"the time well enough. And so did Doctor Luke. It was the time when Billy Topsail and Teddy Brisk were carried to sea with the dogs on the ice. "Well, you could see the seals with the naked eye from Lack-a-Day Head. A hundred thousand black specks swarmin' over the ice three miles an' more to sea. Ragged Run went mad for slaughter—jus' as it did yesterday, sir. 'Twas a fair time for offshore sealin', too: a blue, still day, with the look an' feel o' settled weather.
"The ice had come in from the current with a northeasterly gale, a wonderful mixture o' Arctic bergs and Labrador pans, all blindin' white in the spring sun; an' 'twas a field so vast, an' jammed so tight against the coast, that there wasn't much more than a lane or two an' a Dutchman's breeches of open water within sight from the heads. Nobody looked for a gale o' offshore wind t' blow that ice t' sea afore dawn o' the next day.
"'A fine, soft time, lads!' says Skinflint Sam. 'I 'low I'll go out with the Ragged Run crew.'
"'Skipper Sam,' says Bad-Weather Tom, 'you're too old a man t' be on the ice.'
"'Ay,' says Sam; 'but I wants t' bludgeon another swile afore I dies.'
"'But youcreaks, man!'
"'Ah, well,' says Sam; 'I'll show the lads I'm able t' haul a swile ashore.'
"'Small hope for such as you on a movin' floe!'
"'Last time, Tom,' says Sam.
"'Last time, true enough,' says Tom, 'if that ice starts t' sea with a breeze o' wind behind!'
"'Oh, well, Tom,' says Sam, 'I'll creak along out an' take my chances. If the wind comes up I'll be as spry as I'm able.'
"It come on to blow in the afternoon. But 'twas short warnin' o' offshore weather. A puff o' gray wind come down: a saucier gust went by; an' then a swirl o' galeish wind jumped off the heads an' come scurrying over the pans. At the first sign o' wind, Skinflint Sam took for home, lopin' over the ice as fast as his lungs an' old legs would take un when pushed, an' nobody worried aboutheany more. He was in such mad haste that the lads laughed behind un as he passed.
"Most o' the Ragged Run crew followed, draggin' their swiles; an' them that started early come safe t' harbour with the fat. But there's nothin' will master a man's caution like the lusto' slaughter. Give a Newfoundlander a club, an' show un a swile-pack, an' he'll venture far from safety. 'Twas not until a flurry o' snow come along of a sudden that the last o' the crew dropped what they was at an' begun t' jump for shore like a pack o' jack-rabbits.
"With snow in the wind 'twas every man for himself. An' that means no mercy an' less help.
"By this time the ice had begun t' feel the wind. 'Twas restless. An' a bad promise. The pans crunched an' creaked as they settled more at ease. The ice was goin' abroad. As the farther fields drifted off t' sea, the floe fell loose inshore. Lanes an' pools opened up. The cake-ice tipped an' went awash under the weight of a man. Rough goin', ecod! There was no tellin' when open water would cut a man off where he stood.
"An' the wind was whippin' offshore, an' the snow was like dust in a man's eyes an' mouth, an' the landmarks o' Ragged Run was nothin' but shadows in a mist o' snow t' windward.
"Nobody knowed where Skinflint Sam was. Nobody thought about Sam. An' wherever poor old Skinflint was—whether safe ashore or creakin' shoreward against the wind on his last legs—hemust do for himself. 'Twas no time t' succour rich or poor. Every man for himself an' the devil take the hindmost!
"Bound out, in the mornin', Bad-Weather Tom had fetched his rodney through the lanes. By luck an' good conduct he had managed t' get the wee boat a fairish way out. He had beached her there on the floe—a big pan, close by a hummock which he marked with care. And 'twas for Tom West's little rodney that the seven last men o' Ragged Run was jumpin'. With her afloat—an' the pack loosenin' inshore under the wind—they could make harbour well enough afore the gale worked up the water in the lee o' the Ragged Run hills.
"But she was a mean, small boat. There was room for six, with safety—but room for no more. There was no room for seven. 'Twas a nasty mess, t' be sure. You couldn't expect nothin' else. But there wasn't no panic. Ragged Run men is accustomed t' tight places. An' they took this one easy. Them that got there first launched the boat an' stepped in. No fight: no fuss.
"It just happened t' be Eleazer Butt that was left. 'Twas Eleazer's ill-luck. An' Eleazer was up in years an' had fell behind comin' over the ice.
"'No room for me?' says he.
"'Twas sure death t' be left on the ice. The wind begun t' taste o' frost. An' 'twas jumpin' up. 'Twould carry the floe far an' scatter it broadcast.
"'See for yourself, lad,' says Tom.
"'Pshaw!' says Eleazer. 'That's too bad!'
"'You isn't no sorrier than me, b'y.'
"Eleazer tweaked his beard. 'Dang it!' says he. 'I wisht therewasroom. I'm hungry for my supper.'
"'Let un in,' says one of the lads. ''Tis even chances she'll float it out.'
"'Well,' says Eleazer, 'I doesn't want t' make no trouble——'
"'Come aboard,' says Tom. 'An' make haste.'
"'If she makes bad weather,' says Eleazer, 'I'll get out.'
"We pushed off from the pan. 'Twas failin' dusk by this time. The wind blowed black. The frost begun t' bite. Snow come thick—just as if, ecod, somebody up aloft was shakin' the clouds, like bags, in the gale! An' the rodney was deep an' ticklish.
"Had the ice not kep' the water flat in thelanes an' pools, either Eleazer would have had to get out, as he promised, or she would have swamped like a cup. As it was, handled like dynamite, she done well enough; an' she might have made harbour within the hour had she not been hailed by Skinflint Sam from a small pan o' ice midway between."
Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail were intent on the tale.
"Go on," said Doctor Luke.
"A queer finish, sir."
"What happened?"
In Which a Crœsus of Ragged Run Drives a Hard Bargain in a Gale of Wind
In Which a Crœsus of Ragged Run Drives a Hard Bargain in a Gale of Wind
"An'there the ol' codger was squattin'," Skipper Joe's tale went on, "his ol' face pinched an' woebegone, his bag o' bones wrapped up in his coonskin coat, his pan near flush with the sea, with little black waves already beginnin' t' wash over it.
"A sad sight, believe me! Poor old Skinflint Sam bound out t' sea without hope on a wee pan o' ice!
"'Got any room for me?' says he.
"We ranged alongside.
"'She's too deep as it is,' says Tom. 'I'm wonderful sorry, Skipper Sam.'
"An' he was.
"'Ay,' says Sam; 'you isn't got room for no more. She'd sink if I put foot in her.'
"'Us'll come back,' says Tom.
"'No use, Tom,' says Sam. 'You knows that well enough. 'Tis no place out here for a Ragged Run punt. Afore you could get t' shorean' back night will be down an' this here gale will be a blizzard. You'd never be able t' find me.'
"'I 'low not,' says Tom.
"'Oh, no,' says Sam. 'No use, b'y.'
"'Skipper Sam,' says Tom, 'I'm sorry!'
"'Ay,' says Sam; ''tis a sad death for an ol' man—squattin' out here all alone on the ice an' shiverin' with the cold until he shakes his poor damned soul out.'
"'Not damned!' cries Tom. 'Oh, don't say it!'
"'Ah, well!' says Sam; 'sittin' here all alone I been thinkin'.'
"''Tisn't by any man's wish that you're here, poor man!' says Tom.
"'Oh, no,' says Sam. 'No blame t' nobody. My time's come. That's all. But I wisht I had a seat in your rodney, Tom.'
"An' then Tom chuckled.
"'What you laughin' at?' says Sam.
"'I got a comical idea,' says Tom.
"'Laughin' at me, Tom?'
"'Oh, I'm jus' laughin'.'
'"'Tis neither time nor place, Tom,' says Sam, 't' laugh at an old man.'
"Tom roared. Ay, he slapped his knee, an' he throwed back his head, an' he roared! 'Twas enough almost t' swamp the boat.
"'For shame!' says Sam.
"An' more than Skinflint Sam thought so.
"'Skipper Sam,' says Tom, 'you're rich, isn't you?'
"'I got money,' says Sam.
"'Sittin' out here all alone,' says Tom, 'you been thinkin' a deal, you says?'
"'Well,' says Sam, 'I'll not deny that I been havin' a little spurt o' sober thought.'
"'You been thinkin' that money wasn't much, after all?'
"'Ay.'
"'An' that all your money in a lump wouldn't buy you passage ashore?'
"'Oh, some few small thoughts on that order,' says Sam. ''Tis perfectly natural.'
"'Money talks,' says Tom.
"'Tauntin' me again, Tom?'
"'No, I isn't,' says Tom. 'I means it. Money talks. What'll you give for my seat in the boat?'
"''Tis not for sale, Tom.'
"The lads begun t' grumble. It seemed justas if Bad-Weather Tom West was makin' game of an ol' man in trouble. 'Twas either that or lunacy. An' there was no time for nonsense off the Ragged Run coast in a spring gale of wind. But I knowed what Tom West was about. You sees, sir, I knowed what you told him. An' as for me, fond as I was o' poor Tom West, I had no mind t' interrupt his bargain.
"'Hist!' Tom whispered t' the men in the rodney. 'I knows what I'm doin'.'
"'A mad thing, Tom!'
"'Oh, no!' says Tom. ''Tis the cleverest thing ever I thought of. Well,' says he to Sam, 'how much?'
"'No man sells his life.'
"'Life or no life, my place in this boat is for sale,' says Tom. 'Money talks. Come, now. Speak up. Us can't linger here with night comin' down.'
"'What's the price, Tom?'
"'How much you got, Sam?'
"'Ah, well, I can afford a stiffish price, Tom. Anything you say in reason will suit me. You name the price, Tom. I'll pay.'
"'Ay, ye crab!' says Tom. 'I'm namin' prices, now. Look you, Sam! You're seventy-three. I'm fifty-three. Will you grant that I'd live t' be as old as you?'
"'I'll grant it, Tom.'
"'I'm not sayin' I would,' says Tom. 'You mark that.'
"'Ah, well, I'll grant it, anyhow.'
"'I been an industrious man all my life, Skipper Sam. None knows it better than you. Will you grant that I'd earn a hundred and fifty dollars a year if I lived?'
"'Ay, Tom.'
"Down come a gust o' wind.
"'Have done!' says one of the lads. 'Here's the gale come down with the dark. Us'll all be cast away.'
"'Rodney's mine, isn't she?' says Tom.
"Well, she was. Nobody could say nothin' t' that. An' nobody did.
"'That's three thousand dollars, Sam,' says Tom. 'Three—thousand—dollars!'
"'Ay,' says Sam, 'she calculates that way. But you've forgot t' deduct your livin' from the total. Not that I minds,' says he. ''Tis just a business detail.'
"'I'll not be harsh!' says Tom.
"'Another thing, Tom,' says Sam. 'You'reaskin' me t' pay for twenty years o' life when I can use but a few. God knows how many!'
"'I got you where I wants you,' says Tom, 'but I isn't got the heart t' grind you. Will you pay two thousand dollars for my seat in the boat?'
"'If you is fool enough t' take it, Tom.'
"'There's something t' boot,' says Tom. 'I wants t' die out o' debt.'
"'You does, Tom.'
"'An' my father's bill is squared?'
"'Ay.'
"''Tis a bargain!' says Tom. 'God witness!'
"'Lads,' says Skinflint Sam t' the others in the rodney, 'I calls you t' witness that I didn't ask Tom West for his seat in the boat. I isn't no coward. I've asked no man t' give up his life for me. This here bargain is a straight business deal. Business is business. 'Tis not my proposition. An' I calls you t' witness that I'm willin' t' pay what he asks. He've something for sale. I wants it. I've the money t' buy it. The price is his. I'll pay it.'
"Then he turned to Tom.
"'You wants this money paid t' your wife, Tom?' says he.
"'Ay,' says Tom, 't' my wife. She'll know why.'
"'Very good,' says Skinflint. 'You've my word that I'll do it.' An' then: 'Wind's jumpin' up, Tom.'
"'I wants your oath. The wind will bide for that. Hold up your right hand.'
"Skinflint shivered in a blast o' the gale.
"'I swears,' says he.
"'Lads,' says Tom, 'you'll shame this man to his grave if he fails t' pay!'
"'Gettin' dark, Tom,' says Sam.
"'Ay,' says Tom; ''tis growin' wonderful cold an' dark out here. I knows it well. Put me ashore on the ice, lads,' says he.
"We landed Tom, then, on a near-by pan. He would have it so.
"'Leave me have my way!' says he. 'I've done a good stroke o' business.'
"Presently we took ol' Skinflint aboard in Tom's stead; an' jus' for a minute we hung off Tom's pan t' say good-bye.
"'I sends my love t' the wife an' the children,' says he. 'You'll not fail t' remember. She'llknow why I done this thing. Tell her 'twas a grand chance an' I took it.'
"'Ay, Tom.'
"'Fetch in here close,' says Tom. 'I wants t' talk t' the ol' skinflint you got aboard there. I'll have my say, ecod, at last! Ye crab!' says he, shakin' his fist in Skinflint's face when the rodney got alongside. 'Ye robber! Ye pinch-a-penny! Ye liar! Ye thief! Idoneye! Hear me? I done ye! I vowed I'd even scores with ye afore I died. An' I've done it—I've done it! What did ye buy? Twenty years o' my life! What will ye pay for? Twenty years o' my life!'
"An' Tom laughed. An' then he cut a caper, an' come close t' the edge o' the pan, an' shook his fist in Skinflint's face again.
"'Know what I found out from Doctor Luke?' says he. 'I seen Doctor Luke, ye crab! Know what he told me? No, ye don't! Twenty years o' my life this here ol' skinflint will pay for!' he crowed. 'Two thousand dollars he'll put in the hands o' my poor wife!'
"Well, well! The rodney was movin' away. An' a swirl o' snow shrouded poor Tom West. But we heard un laugh once more.
"'My heart has give 'way!' he yelled. 'I didn't have three months t' live! An' Doctor Luke tol' me so!'
"Well, now, sir," Skipper Joe concluded, "Skinflint done what he said he would do. He laid the money in the hands o' Tom West's wife last week. But a queer thing happened next day. Up went the price o' pork at Skinflint's shop! And up went the price o' tea an' molasses! An' up went the price o' flour!"
In Which Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail Go North, and at Candlestick Cove, Returning, Doctor Luke Finds Himself Just a Bit Peckish
In Which Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail Go North, and at Candlestick Cove, Returning, Doctor Luke Finds Himself Just a Bit Peckish
A rumourcame to Our Harbour, by the tongue of a fur-trader, who stopped over night at Doctor Luke's hospital, on his way to the South, that there was sickness in the North—some need or other; the fur-trader was not sure what. Winter still lingered. The mild spell, which had interrupted the journey of Billy Topsail and Teddy Brisk across Schooner Bay, had been a mere taste of spring. Hard weather had followed. Schooner Bay was once more jammed with ice, which had drifted back—jammed and frozen solid; and the way from Our Harbour to Tight Cove was secure. Teddy Brisk was ready to be moved; and this being so, and the lad being homesick for his mother, and the rumour of need in the North coming down—all this being so, Doctor Luke determined all at once to revisit the northern outports for the last time that winter.
"Are you ready for home, Teddy?" said he.
"I is that, sir!"
"Well," Doctor Luke concluded, "there is no reason why you should not be home. I'll harness the dogs to-morrow and take you across Schooner Bay on the komatik."
"Billy Topsail comin', sir?"
"What say, Billy?"
"May I go, sir?"
"You may."
"All the way, sir?"
"All the way!" cried Doctor Luke. "Why, boy, I'm going north to——"
"Please, sir!"
"Well, well! If you've the mind. Come along, boy. I'll be glad to have you."
Teddy Brisk was taken across Schooner Bay and restored to his mother's arms. And Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail drove the dogs north on Doctor Luke's successful round of visits.
It was on the return journey that Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail fell in with the Little Fiddler of Amen Island. At Candlestick Cove they were to feed the dogs and put up for the night. It was still treacherous March weather; and thenight threatened foul—a flurry of snow falling and the sky overcast with a thickening drab scud. Day was done when Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail crawled out of the timber and scurried down Twist Hill. In the early dusk the lights were already twinkling yellow and warm in the cottages below; and from the crest of the long hill, in the last of the light, Amen Island was visible, an outlying shadow, across Ships' Run.
There were still sixty miles left of Doctor Luke's round—this second winter round from Our Harbour to the lonely huts of Laughter Bight, thirty miles north of Cape Blind, touching all the harbours between, and by way of Thunder Tickle and Candlestick Cove, which lay midway, back to the shaded lamp and radiant open fire of the little surgery at Our Harbour.
As the dogs scurried down Twist Hill, whimpering and snarling, eager to make an end of a hard day, Doctor Luke visioned those wintry miles and reflected upon the propriety of omitting a call at Amen Island.
Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail drew up at Mild Jim Cull's.
"Skipper James," said Doctor Luke, in the kitchen, across the lamp-lit, devastated suppertable, an hour later, "what's the health of Amen Island?"
"They're all well, sir—so far as I knows."
"All well? Just my luck! Then I won't——"
"Amanda," Skipper James admonished his wife, in a grieved whisper, "the Doctor is wantin' another cup o' tea."
The good woman was astonished.
"He've had——" she began.
Then she blushed—and grasped the pot in a fluster—and——
"Thank you—no more," the Doctor protested.
"Ah, now, sir——"
"No more. Really, you know! I've quite finished. I—well—I—if you please, Mrs. Cull. Half a cup. No more. Thank you."
"An' Billy Topsail, too," said Skipper James.
Billy was abashed.
"No—really!" he began. "I—well—thank you—half a cup!"
"All fit an' well, sir, as I says," Skipper James repeated, relieved, now resuming his conversation with Doctor Luke—"so far as I knows."
"Anybody come across Ships' Run lately?"
"Well, no, sir—nobody but ol' Jack Hulk. Another slice o' pork, Doctor?"
The youngest little Cull tittered, astounded:
"He've had——"
Amanda covered the youngest little Cull's lips just in time with a soft hand.
"Thank you—no," the Doctor protested again. "I'm quite finished. Nothing more—really! Well," he yielded—"if you will——"
"You, too, Billy Topsail?" said Skipper James.
"Nothing more, really!" Billy replied, with a grin. And then: "Well—if you will——"
"No; nobody but ol' Jack Hulk," said Skipper James to Doctor Luke.
"Jack Hulk, you say? Hm-m. When was that?"
"I don't rightly remember, sir. 'Twas less than a fortnight ago. I'll lay t' that much."
"And all well over there?"
"No report o' sickness, sir. Have another cut o' bread, sir, while you're about it."
The Doctor lifted his hand.
"No—really," said he, positively. "No more. Well—I—if you please. Thank you. I seem to be just a bit peckish to-night."
"A cut o' bread, Billy?" said Skipper James.
Billy lifted his hand.
"Not a bite!" he protested. And he winked. "Ah, well," he yielded, "might as well, I 'low. Really, now, Iisjus' a bit peckish the night."
"No; no report o' sickness on Amen," Skipper James repeated, resuming his conversation, as before.
"Quite sure about that?"
"Well, sir," Skipper James replied, his gray eyes twinkling, "I asked ol' Jack Hulk, an' he said, 'All well on Amen Island. The Lord's been wonderful easy on us this winter. I'd almost go so far as t' say,' says he, 'that He've been lax. We've had no visitation o' the Lord,' says he, 'since the fall o' the year. We don't deserve this mercy. I'm free t' say that. We isn't been livin' as we should. There's been more frivolity on Amen Island this winter than ever afore in my time. It haven't been noticed so far,' says he. 'That's plain enough. An' so as yet,' says he, 'we're all well on Amen Island.'"
The Doctor grinned.
"What's the ice on Ships' Run?" said he.
"'Tis tumbled, sir. The bread's at your elbow, sir."
"Thank you. Dogs?"
"No, sir. Ships' Run's jammed with floe ice. A man would have t' foot it across. You bound over, sir?"
Doctor Luke deliberated.
"I think not," said he, then. "No." This was positive. "If they're all as well as that on Amen Island I'll get away for Our Harbour at noon to-morrow. No; no more—really. I—well—I'm almost wolfish, I declare. Thank you—if you please—just a sma-a-all——"
Billy Topsail burst out laughing.
"What's this mirth?" cried the Doctor.
"Well, sir," Billy chuckled, "youisjus' abitpeckish the night, sir!"
There was a burst of laughter. At that moment, however, in a cottage on Amen Island, across Ships' Run, nobody was laughing—least of all the Little Fiddler of Amen Island.
In Which, While Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail Rest Unsuspecting at Candlestick Cove, Tom Lute, the Father of the Little Fiddler of Amen Island, Sharpens an Axe in the Wood-Shed, and the Reader is Left to Draw His Own Conclusions Respecting the Sinister Business
In Which, While Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail Rest Unsuspecting at Candlestick Cove, Tom Lute, the Father of the Little Fiddler of Amen Island, Sharpens an Axe in the Wood-Shed, and the Reader is Left to Draw His Own Conclusions Respecting the Sinister Business
Itwas the boast of the Little Fiddler of Amen Island that he had lamed many a man and maid. "An' ecod!" said he, his blue eyes alight, his clean little teeth showing in a mischievous grin, his round cheeks flushed with delight in the gift of power; "there's no leg between the Norman Light an' Cape Mugford so sodden it can balk me when I've the wind in my favour!"—meaning to imply, with more truth than modesty, that the alluring invitation of his music was altogether irresistible when he was in the mood to provoke a response.
"Had I the will," said he, "I could draw tears from the figurehead o' theRoustabout. An' one o' these days, when I've the mind t' show my power," said he, darkly, "maybe I'll do it, too!"
He was young—he was twelve. Terry Lutewas his name. To be known as the Little Fiddler of Amen Island as far north as the world of that coast sailed was the measure of the celebrity he coveted. And that was a good deal: it is a long way for fame to carry—north to the uttermost fishing-berths of the Labrador. Unquestionably the Little Fiddler of Amen Island was of the proportions of a Master.
It was aboard a trading schooner—a fly-by-night visitor at Amen Island (not Skinflint Sam's trader from Ragged Run)—that the Little Fiddler of Amen Island had first clapped eyes on a fiddle and heard the strains of it. That was long ago—oh, long, long ago! Terry Lute was a mere child, then, as he recalled, in a wistful amusement with those old days, and was accustomed to narrate—seven or thereabouts. An' 'twas the month o' June—sweet weather, ecod! (said he) an' after dark an' the full o' the moon. And Terry had harkened to the strain—some plaintive imaginings of the melancholy clerk in the cabin, perhaps; and he had not been able to bear more—not another wail or sob of it (said he)—but had run full tilt to his mother's knee to tell her first of all the full wonder of the adventure.
'Twas called a fiddle (said he)—'twas played with what they called a bow; an' oh, woman (said he), what music could be made by means of it! And Terry could play it—he had seen the clerk sawin' away—sawin' an' sawin' away; an' he had learned how 'twas done jus' by lookin'—in a mere peep. 'Twas nothin' at all t' do (said he)—not a whit o' bother for a clever lad. Jus' give un a fiddle an' a bow—he'd show un how 'twas done!
"I got t' have one, mama!" he declared. "Oo-sh! I jus' got t'!"
His mother laughed at this fine fervour.
"Mark me!" he stormed. "I'll have one o' they fiddles afore very long. An' I'll have folk fair shakin' their legs off t' the music I makes!"
When old Bob Likely, the mail-man, travelling afoot, southbound from Elegant Tickle to Our Harbour and the lesser harbours of Mad Harry and Thank-the-Lord, a matter of eighty miles—when old Bob Likely, on the night of Doctor Luke's arrival at Candlestick Cove, rounded Come-Along Point of Amen Island and searched the shadows ahead for his entertainment, his lodgings for the night were determined and disclosed.
It was late—a flurry of snow falling and the moon overcast with a thickening drab scud; and old Bob Likely's disheartened expectation on the tumbled ice of Ships' Run, between Point o' Bay of the Harbourless Shore and Amen Island, had consequently discovered the cottages of his destination dark—the windows black, the fires dead, the kitchens frosty and the folk of Amen Island long ago turned in.
Of the thirty cottages of Amen, however, snuggled under thick blankets of snow, all asleep in the gray night, one was wide awake—lighted up as though for some festivity; and for the hospitality of its lamps and smoking chimney old Bob Likely shaped his astonished course.
"'Tis a dance!" he reflected, heartening his step. "I'll shake a foot if I lame myself!"
Approaching Tom Lute's cottage from the harbour ice, old Bob Likely cocked his ear for the thump and shuffle of feet and the lively music of the Little Fiddler of Amen Island. It was the Little Fiddler's way to boast: "They'll sweat the night! Mark me! I'm feelin' fine. They'll shed their jackets! I'll have their boots off!"
And old Bob Likely expected surely to discover the Little Fiddler, perched on the back of a chair, the chair aloft on the kitchen table, mischievously delighting in the abandoned antics of the dancers, the while a castaway sealing crew, jackets shed and boots kicked off, executed a reel with the maids of Amen Island.
But there was no music—no thump or shuffle of feet or lively strain; the house was still—except for a whizz and metallic squeaking in the kitchen shed to which old Bob Likely made his way to lay off the sacred bag of His Majesty's Mail and his own raquets and brush himself clean of snow.
Tom Lute was whirling a grindstone by candle-light in the shed. When Bob Likely lifted the latch and pushed in he was interrupted and startled.
"Who's that?" he demanded.
"'Tis His Majesty's Mail, Tom."
"That you, Bob?" Tom's drawn face lightened with heartiness. "Well, well! Come in. You're welcome. We've need of a lusty man in this house the night. If the thing haves t'be done, Bob, you'll come handy for holdin'. You come across from Candlestick?"
Bob threw off his pack.
"No," said he, "I come over from Point o' Bay."
"Up from Laughter Bight, Bob?"
"All the way."
"Any word o' Doctor Luke down north?"
"Ay; he's down north somewheres."
"Whereabouts, Bob?"
"I heard of un at Trap Harbour."
"Trap Harbour! Was he workin' north, Bob?"
"There was sickness at Huddle Cove."
"At Huddle Cove? My, my! 'Tis below Cape Blind. He'll not be this way in a fortnight. Oh, dear me!"
By this time His Majesty's Mail was stamping his feet and brooming the snow from his seal-hide boots. In answer to his violence the kitchen door fell ajar. And Bob Likely cocked his ear. Queer sounds—singular scraps of declaration and pleading—issued to the wood-shed.
There was the tap-tap of a wooden leg. Bob Likely identified the presence and agitated pacing of the maternal grandfather of the Little Fiddlerof Amen Island. And there was a whimper and a sob. It was the Little Fiddler.
A woman crooned:
"Hush, dear—ah, hush, now!"
A high-pitched, querulous voice:
"That's what we done when I sailed along o' Small Sam Small aboard theRoyal Bloodhound." And repeated, the wooden leg tap-tapping meanwhile: "That's what we done aboard theRoyal Bloodhound. Now, mark me! That's what we done t' Cap'n Small Sam Small."
A young roar, then:
"I'll never have it done t' me!"
And the woman again:
"Ah, hush, dear! Never mind! Ah—hush, now!"
To which there responded a defiant bawl:
"I tells you I won't have it done t' me!"
By all this, to be sure, old Bob Likely, with his ear cocked and his mouth fallen open in amazement, was deeply mystified.
"Look you, Tom!" said he, suspiciously; "what you doin' out here in the frost?"
"Who? Me?" Tom was evasive and downcast.
"Ay."
"Nothin' much."
"'Tis a cold place for that, Tom. An' 'tis a poor lie you're tellin'. 'Tis easy t' see, Tom, that you're busy."
"Ah, well, I got a little job on hand."
"What is your job?"
"This here little job I'm doin' now?"
"Ay."
"Nothin' much."
"Whatisit?"
Tom was reluctant. "I'm puttin' an edge on my axe," he replied.
"What for, Tom?"
Tom hesitated. "Well——" he drawled. And then, abruptly: "Nothin' much." He was both grieved and agitated.
"But whatfor?"
"I wants it good an' sharp."
"What you want it good an' sharp for?"
"An axe serves best," Tom evaded, "when 'tis sharp."
"Look you, Tom!" said Bob; "you're behavin' in a very queer way, an' I gives you warnin' o' the fac'. What happens? Here I comes quite unexpected on you by candle-light in the shed. Who is I? I'm His Majesty's Mail. Mark that, Tom! An' what does I find you doin'? Puttin' an edge on an axe. I asks you why you're puttin' an edge on your axe. An' you won't tell. If I didn't know you for a mild man, Tom, I'd fancy you was tired o' your wife."