Sure enough, old man Jowl came aboard theGood Samaritanat Mad Tom’s Harbor to trade his fish—a lean, leathery old fellow in white moleskin, with skin boots, tied below the knees, and a cloth cap set decorously on a bushy head. The whole was as clean as a clothes-pin; and the punt was well kept, and the fish white and dry and sweet to smell, as all Newfoundland cod should be. Tumm’s prediction that he would not smile came true; his long countenance had no variation of expression—tough, brown, delicately wrinkled skin lying upon immobile flesh. His face was glum of cast—drawn at the brows, thin-lipped, still; but yet with an abundant and incongruously benignant white beard which might have adorned a prophet. For Jim Bull’s widow he made way; she, said he, must have his turn at the scales and in the cabin,for she had a baby to nurse, and was pressed for opportunity. This was tenderness beyond example—generous and acute. A clean, pious, gentle old fellow: he was all that, it may be; but he had eyes to disquiet the sanctified, who are not easily disturbed. They were not blue, but black with a blue film, like the eyes of an old wolf—cold, bold, patient, watchful—calculating; having no sympathy, but a large intent to profit, ultimately, whatever the cost. Tumm had bade me look Jowl in the eye; and to this day I have not forgotten....
TheGood Samaritanwas 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, “Iwouldn’t want t’ grow old.”
The skipper grinned.
“Not,” Tumm added, “on this coast.”
“Ah, well, Tumm,” the skipper jeered, “maybe you won’t!”
“I’d be ashamed,” said Tumm.
“You dunderhead!” snapped the skipper, whowas old, “on this coast an old 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 themano’ the party, an’ the swine goes free. But ’tis all just accordin’ t’ how you looks at it; an’ as formytaste, 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’tlookright,” drawled 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 interrupted. “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 began, “when Jowl was in his prime an’ I was a lad, we was shipped for the Labrador aboard theWings o’ the Mornin’. She was a thirty-ton fore-an’-after, o’ Tuggleby’s build—Tuggleby o’ Dog Harbor—hailin’ from Witch Cove, an’ bound down t’ the Wayward Tickles, with a fair intention o’ takin’ a look-in at Run-by-Guess an’ Ships’ Graveyard, t’ the nor’ard o’ Mugford, if the Tickles was bare. Two days out from Witch Cove, somewheres off Gull Island, an’ a bit t’ the sou’west, we was cotched in a switch o’ weather. ’Twas a nor’east blow, mixed with rain an’ hail; an’ in the brewin’ it kep’ us guessin’ what ’twould accomplish afore it got tired, it looked so lusty an’ devilish. The skipper ’lowed ’twould trouble some stomachs, whatever else, afore we got out of it, for ’twas the first v’y’ge o’ that season for every man Jack o’ the crew. An’ she blowed, an’ afore mornin’ she’d tear your hair out by the roots if you took off your cap, an’ the sea was white an’ the day was black. TheWings 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 breathedher last, an’ begun t’ roll under our feet, dead as a log. So we went below t’ 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.
“I’ll 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.
“‘All right, Billy,’ says the skipper. ‘But you won’t care enough t’ get out.’
“The skipper was next.
“‘You goin’, too!’ 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 somewheres aft,’ says he.
Jowl an’ me an’ the second hand went on deck t’ keep her afloat. The second hand ’lowed she’d founder, anyhow, if she was give time, but he’d like t’ see what would come o’ pumpin’, just for devilment. So we lashed ourselves handy an’ pumped away—me an’ the second hand on one side an’ Jowl on the other. TheWings 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 notion.
“‘I’m 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 an’ complained; but it didn’t do no good. They was all so sick they wouldn’t answer. So the second hand ’lowed he’d go down an’ argue, which he foolishly done—an’ never come back. An’ when I went below t’ rout un out of it, he was stowed away in his bunk, all out o’ sorts an’ wonderful melancholy. ‘Isn’t no use, Tumm,’ says he. ‘Itisn’t no use.’
“‘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’ttreatin’us right,’ says Jowl.
“‘I ’low you’re right,’ says I, ‘but what you goin’ t’ do?’
“‘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 blackness o’ the sky, wasmean—just almighty careless an’ mean. An’ pumpin’ didn’t seem t’ do no good; for why?wecouldn’t save the hulk—not us two. As it turned out, if the crew had been fitted out with men’s stomachs we might have weathered it out, an’ gone down the Labrador, an’ got a load; for every vessel that got there that season come home fished t’ the gunwales. But we didn’t know it then. Jowl growled all night to hisself about the way we was treated. The wind carriedmost o’ the blasphemy out t’ sea, where they wasn’t no lad t’ corrupt, an’ at scattered times a big sea would make Jowl splutter, but I heared enough t’ make me smell the devil, an’ when I seed Jowl’s face by the first light I ’lowed his angry feelin’s had riz to a ridiculous extent, so that they was something more’n the weather gone wild in my whereabouts.
“‘What’s gone along o’ you?’ says I.
“‘The swine!’ 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 backbone among un. An’ all on account o’ their stomachs! It made me sick an’ mad t’ see un. The cook was the worst of un; said we’d gone an’ woke un up, just when he’d got t’ sleep an’ forgot it all. Good Lord! ‘You gone an’ made me remember!’ says he. At that, Jowl let un have it; but the cook only yelped an’ crawled back in his bunk, wipin’ the blood from his chin. For twenty minutes an’ more we labored with them sea-sick sailors, with fists an’ feet, as Jowl had prescribed. They wasn’t no mercy begged nor showed. We hit what we seen, pickin’ the tenderplaces with care, an’ they grunted an’ crawled back like rats; an’ out they come again, head foremost or feet, as happened. I never seed the like of it. You could treat un most scandalous, an’ they’d do nothin’ but whine an’ crawl away. ’Twas enough t’ disgust you with your own flesh an’ bones! Jowl ’lowed he’d cure the skipper, whatever come of it, an’ laid his head open with a birch billet. The skipper didn’t whimper no more, but just fell back in the bunk, an’ lied still. Jowl said he’d be cured when he come to. Maybe he was; but ’tis my own opinion that Jowl killed un, then an’ there, an’ that he neverdidcome to. Whatever, ’twas all lost labor; we didn’t work a single cure, an’ we had t’ make a run for the deck, all of a sudden, t’ make peace with our own stomachs.
“‘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!
“‘Mepump!’ says he.
“‘You better,’ says I.
“‘For what?’
“‘For your life,’ says I.
“‘An’ save them swine in the forecastle?’ says he. ‘Notme!’
“I ’lowed it didn’t matter, anyhow, for ’twas only a question o’ keepin’ theWings o’ the Mornin’out o’ the grave for a spell longer than she might have stayed of her own notion. But, thinks I, I’ll pump, whatever, t’ pass time; an’ so I set to, an’ kep’ at it. The wind was real vicious, an’ the seas was breakin’ over us, fore an’ aft an’ port an’ starboard, t’ suit their fancy, an’ the wreck o’ theWings o’ the Mornin’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 berthhehad! ButIwas busy.
“‘Look you, Jowl,’ sings I, ‘you better take a spell at the pump.’
“‘Me?’ says he.
“‘Yes,you!’
“‘Oh no!’ says he.
“‘You think I’m goin’ t’ do all this labor single-handed?’ says I.
“‘’Tis your own notion,’ says he.
“‘I’ll see you sunk, Jowl!’ says I, ‘afore Ipumps another stroke. If you wants t’ drown afore night I’ll not hinder. Oh no, Mister Jowl!’ says I. ‘I’ll not be standin’ in your light.’
“‘Tumm,’ says he, ‘I got a idea.’
“‘Dear man!’ says I.
“‘The wind’s moderatin’,’ says he, ‘an’ it won’t be long afore the sea gets civil. But theWings o’ the Mornin’won’t float overlong. She’ve been settlin’ hasty for the last hour. Still an’ all, I ’low I got time t’ make a raft, which I’ll do.’
“‘Look!’ says I.
“Off near where the sun was settin’ the clouds broke. ’Twas but a slit, but it let loose a flood o’ red light. ’Twas a bloody sky an’ sea—red as shed blood, but full o’ the promise o’ peace which follows storm, as the good God directs.
“‘I ’low,’ says he, ‘the wind will go down with the sun.’
“The vessel was makin’ heavy labor of it. ‘I bets you,’ says I, ‘theWings o’ the Mornin’beats un both.’
“‘Time’ll tell,’ says he.
“I give un a hand with the raft. An’ hard work ’twas; never knowed no harder, before nor since, with the seas comin’ overside, an’ the deck pitchin’ like mad, an’ the night droppin’ down.Ecod! but I isn’t able t’ tell you. I forgets what we done in the red light o’ that day. ’Twas labor for giants an’ devils! But we had the raft in the water afore dark, ridin’ in the lee, off the hulk. It didn’t look healthy, an’ was by no means invitin’; but theWings o’ the Mornin’was about t’ bow an’ retire, if the signs spoke true, an’ the raft was the only hope in all the brutal world. I took kindly t’ the crazy thing—I ’low I did!
“‘Tumm,’ says Jowl, ‘I ’low you thinks you got some rights in that raft.’
“‘I do,’ says I.
“‘But you isn’t,’ says he. ‘You isn’t, Tumm, because I’m a sight bigger ’n you, an’ could put you off. It isn’t in my mind t’ do it—but Icould. I wants company, Tumm, for it looks like a long v’y’ge, an’ I’m ’lowin’ t’ have you.’
“‘What about the crew?’ says I.
“‘They isn’t room for more’n two on that raft,’ says he.
“‘Dear God! Jowl,’ says I, ‘what you goin’ t’ do?’
“‘I’m goin’ t’ try my level best,’ says he, ‘t’ get home t’ my wife an’ kid; for they’d be wonderful disappointed if I didn’t turn up.’
“‘But the crew’s got wives an’ kids!’ says I.
“‘An’ bad stomachs,’ says he.
“‘Jowl,’ says I, ‘she’s sinkin’ fast.’
“‘Then I ’low we better make haste.’
“I started for’ard.
“‘Tumm,’ says he, ‘don’t you go another step. If them swine in the forecastle knowed they was a raft ’longside, they’d steal it. It won’tholdun, Tumm. It won’t hold more’n two, an’, ecod!’ says he, with a look at the raft, ‘I’m doubtin’ that she’s able forthat!’
“It made me shiver.
“‘No, sir!’ says he. ‘I ’low she won’t hold more’n one.’
“‘Oh yes, she will, Jowl!’ says I. ‘Dear man! yes; she’s able for two.’
“‘Maybe,’ says he.
“‘Handy!’ says I. ‘Oh, handy, man!’
“‘We’ll try,’ says he, ‘whatever comes of it. An’ if she makes bad weather, why, you can—’
“He stopped.
“‘Why don’t you say the rest?’ says I.
“‘I hates to.’
“‘What do you mean?’ says I.
“‘Why, damme! Tumm,’ says he, ‘I mean that you can getoff. Whatelsewould I mean?’
“Lord! I didn’t know!
“‘Well?’ says he.
“‘It ain’t very kind,’ says I.
“‘What wouldyoudo,’ says he, ‘ifyouwas me?’
“I give un a look that told un, an’ ’twas against my will I done it.
“‘Well,’ says he, ‘you can’t blame me, then.’
“No more I could.
“‘Now I’ll get the grub from the forecastle, lad,’ says he, ‘an’ we’ll cast off. TheWings o’ the Mornin’isn’t good for more’n half an hour more. You bide on deck, Tumm, an’ leave the swine t’ me.’
Then he went below.
“‘All right,’ says he, when he come on deck. ‘Haul in the line.’ We lashed a water-cask an’ a grub-box t’ the raft. ‘Now, Tumm,’ says he, ‘we can take it easy. We won’t be in no haste t’ leave, for I ’low ’tis more comfortable here. Looks t’ me like more moderate weather. I feels pretty good, Tumm, with all the work done, an’ nothin’ t’ do but get aboard.’ He sung the long-metre doxology. ‘Look how the wind’s dropped!’ says he. ‘Why, lad, we might have saved theWings o’ the Mornin’if them pigs had done their dooty last night. But ’tis too late now—an’ it’sbeentoo late all day long. We’ll have a spell o’ quiet,’ says he, ‘when the sea goesdown. Looks t’ me like the v’y’ge might be pleasant, once we gets through the night. I ’low the stars’ll be peepin’ afore mornin’. It’ll be a comfort t’ see the little mites. I loves t’ know they’re winkin’ overhead. They makes me think o’ God. You isn’t got a top-coat, is you, lad?’ says he. ‘Well, you better get it, then. I’ll trust you in the forecastle, Tumm, for I knows you wouldn’t wrong me, an’ you’ll need that top-coat bad afore we’re picked up. An’ if you got your mother’s Bible in your nunny-bag, or anything like that you wants t’ save, you better fetch it,’ says he. ‘I ’low we’ll get out o’ this mess, an’ we don’t want t’ have anything t’ regret.’
“I got my mother’s Bible.
“‘Think we better cast off?’ says he.
“I did. TheWings o’ the Mornin’was ridin’ too low an’ easy for me t’ rest; an’ the wind had fell to a soft breeze, an’ they wasn’t no more rain, an’ no more dusty spray, an’ no more breakin’ waves. They was a shade on the sea—the first shadow o’ the night—t’ hide what we’d leave behind.
“‘We better leave her,’ says I.
“‘Then all aboard!’ says he.
“An’ we got aboard, an’ cut the cable, an’ slipped away on a soft, black sea, far into the night.... An’ no man ever seed theWings o’ the Mornin’again.... An’ me an Jowl was picked up, half dead o’ thirst an’ starvation, twelve days later, by ol’ Cap’n Loop, o’ the Black Bay mail-boat, as she come around Toad Point, bound t’ Burnt Harbor....
“Jowl an’ me,” Tumm resumed, “fished the Holy Terror Tickles o’ the Labrador in theGot Itnex’ season. He was a wonderful kind man, Jowl was—so pious, an’ soft t’ speak, an’ honest, an’ willin’ for his labor. At midsummer I got a bad hand, along of a cut with the splittin’-knife, an’ nothin’ would do Jowl but he’d lance it, an’ wash it, an’ bind it, like a woman, an’ do so much o’ my labor as he was able for, like a man. I fair got t’likethat lad o’ his—though ’twas but a young feller t’ home, at the time—for Jowl was forever talkin’ o’ Toby this an’ Toby that—not boastful gabble, but just tender an’ nice t’ hear. An’ a fine lad, by all accounts: a dutiful lad, brave an’ strong, if given overmuch t’ yieldin’ the road t’ save trouble, as Jowl said. I ’lowed, one night, when theGot Itwas bound home, with all the load the salt would give her, that I’d sort o’ like t’ know the lad that Jowl had.
“‘Why don’t you fetch un down the Labrador?’ says I.
“‘His schoolin’,’ says Jowl.
“‘Oh!’ says I.
“‘Ay,’ says he; ‘his mother’s wonderful particular about the schoolin’.’
“‘Anyhow,’ says I, ‘the schoolin’ won’t go on for all time.’
“‘No,’ says Jowl, ‘it won’t. An’ I’m ’lowin’ t’ harden Toby up a bit nex’ spring.’
“‘T’ the ice?’ says I.
“‘Ay,’ says he; ‘if I can overcome his mother.’
“‘’Tis a rough way t’ break a lad,’ says I.
“‘So much the better,’ says he. ‘It don’t take so long. Nothin’ like a sealin’ v’y’ge,’ says he, ‘t’ harden a lad. An’ if you comes along, Tumm,’ says he, ‘why, I won’t complain. I’m ’lowin’ t’ ship with Skipper Tommy Jump o’ theSecond t’ None. She’s a tight schooner, o’ the Tiddle build, an’ I ’low Tommy Jump will get a load o’ fat, whatever comes of it. You better join, Tumm,’ says he, ‘an’ we’ll all be t’gether. I’m wantin’ you t’ get acquainted with Toby, an’ lend a hand with his education, which you can do t’ the queen’s taste, bein’ near of his age.’
“‘I’ll do it, Jowl,’ says I.
“An’ I done it; an’ afore we was through, I wisht I hadn’t.”
Tumm paused.
“An’ I done it—nex’ March—shipped along o’ Tommy Jump o’ theSecond t’ None, with Jowl an’ his lad aboard,” he proceeded.
“‘You overcame the wife,’ says I, ‘didn’t you?’
“‘’Twas a tough job,’ says he. ‘She ’lowed the boy might come t’ harm, an’ wouldn’t give un up; but me an’ Toby pulled t’gether, an’ managed her, the day afore sailin’. She cried a wonderful lot; but, Lord! that’s only the way o’ women.’
“A likely lad o’ sixteen, this Toby—blue-eyed an’ fair, with curly hair an’ a face full o’ blushes. Polite as a girl, which is much too polite for safety at the ice. He’d make way for them that blustered; but he done it with such an air that we wasn’t no more’n off the Goggles afore the whole crew was all makin’ way for he. So I ’lowed he’ddo—that he’d be took care of, just for love. But Jowl wasn’t o’ my mind.
“‘No,’ says he; ‘the lad’s too soft. He’ve got t’ be hardened.’
“‘Maybe,’ says I.
“‘If anything happened,’ says he, ‘Toby wouldn’t stand a show. The men is kind to un now,’ says he, ‘for they doesn’t lose nothin’ by it. If they stood t’ lose their lives, Tumm, they’d push un out o’ the way, an’ he’d go ’ithout awhimper. I got t’ talk t’ that lad for his own good.’
“Which he done.
“‘Toby,’ says he, ‘you is much too soft. Don’t you go an’ feel bad, now, lad, just because your father tells you so; for ’tis not much more’n a child you are, an’ your father’s old, an’ knows all about life. You got t’ get hard if you wants t’ hold your own. You’re too polite. You gives way too easy.Don’tgive way—don’t give way under no circumstances. In this life,’ says he, ‘’tis every man for hisself. I don’t know why God made it that way,’ says he, ‘but He done it, an’ we got t’ stand by. You’re young,’ says he, ‘an’ thinks the world is what you’d have it be if you made it; but I’m old, an’ I knows that a man can’t be polite an’ live to his prime on this coast. Now, lad,’ says he, ‘we isn’t struck the ice yet, but I ’low I smell it; an’ once we gets theSecond t’ Nonein the midst, ’most anything is likely t’ happen. If so be that Tommy Jump gets the schooner in a mess you look out for yourself; don’t think o’ nobody else, for you can’taffordto.’
“‘Yes, sir,’ says the boy.
“‘Mark me well, lad! I’m tellin’ you this for your own good. You won’t get no mercy showed you; so don’t you show mercy t’ nobody else.If it comes t’ your life or the other man’s, you puthimout o’ the way afore he has time t’ putyou. Don’t let un give battle. Hit un so quick as you’re able. It’ll be harder if you waits. You don’t have t’ befair. ’Tisn’t expected. Nobody’s fair. An’—ah, now, Toby!’ says he, puttin’ his arm over the boy’s shoulder, ‘if you feels like givin’ way, an’ lettin’ the other man have your chance, an’ if youcan’tthink o’ yourself, just you think o’ your mother. Ah, lad,’ says he, ‘she’d go an’ cry her eyes out if anything happened t’ you. Why, Toby—oh, my! now, lad—why,thinko’ the way she’d sit in her rockin’-chair, an’ put her pinny to her eyes, an’ cry, an’ cry! You’re the only one she’ve got, an’ she couldn’t, lad, shecouldn’tget along ’ithout you! Ah, she’d cry, an’ cry, an’ cry; an’ they wouldn’t be nothin’ in all the world t’ give her comfort! So don’t you go an’ grieve her, Toby,’ says he, ‘by bein’ tender-hearted. Ah, now, Toby!’ says he, ‘don’t you go an’ make your poor mother cry!’
“‘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 parson o’ you.’”
Tumm made a wry face.
“Well,” he continued, “Tommy Jump kep’ theSecond t’ Nonebeatin’ hither an’ yon off the Horse Islands for two days, expectin’ ice with the nor’east wind. ’Twas in the days afore the sealin’ was done in steamships from St. John’s, an’ they was a cloud o’ sail at the selsame thing. An’ we all put into White Bay, in the mornin’ in chase o’ the floe, an’ done a day’s work on the swiles [seals] afore night. But nex’ day we was jammed by the ice—the fleet o’ seventeen schooners, cotched in the bottom o’ the bay, an’ like t’ crack our hulls if the wind held. Whatever, the wind fell, an’ there come a time o’ calm an’ cold, an’ we was all froze in, beyond help, an’ could do nothin’ but wait for the ice t’ drive out an’ go abroad, an’ leave us t’ sink or sail, as might chance. Tommy Jump ’lowed theSecond t’ Nonewould sink; said her timbers was sprung, an’ she’d leak like a basket, an’ crush like a eggshell, once the ice begun t’ drive an’ grind an’ rafter—leastwise, hethunkso, admittin’ ’twas open t’ argument; an’ he wouldn’t go so far as t’ pledge the word of a gentleman that shewouldsink.
“‘Whatever,’ says he, ‘we’ll stick to her an’ find out.’
“The change o’ wind come at dusk—a bigblow from the sou’west. ’Twas beyond doubt the ice would go t’ sea; so I tipped the wink t’ young Toby Jowl an’ told un the time was come.
“‘I’ll save my life, Tumm,’ says he, ‘if I’m able.’
“’Twas a pity! Ecod! t’ this day I ’low ’twas a pity; ’Twas a fine, sweet lad, that Toby; but he looked like a wolf, that night, in the light o’ the forecastle lamp, when his eyes flashed an his upper lip stretched thin over his teeth!
“‘You better get some grub in your pocket,’ says I.
“‘I got it,’ says he.
“‘Well,’ says I, ‘I ’lowyou’velearned! 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, Tumm?’ says he, with a grip on my wrist. ‘How long will it be, eh, Tumm, afore ’tis every man for hisself?’
“Soon enough, God knowed! By midnight the edge o’ the floe was rubbin’ Pa’tridge P’int, an’ the ice was troubled an’ angry. In an hour the pack had the bottom scrunched out o’ theSecond t’ None; an’ she was kep’ above water—listed an’ dead—only by the jam o’ little pans ’longside. Tommy Jump ’lowed we’d strikethe big billows o’ the open afore dawn an’ the pack would go abroad an’ leave us t’ fill an’ sink; saidhecouldn’t do no more, an’ the crew could take care o’ their own lives, which was whathewould do, whatever come of it. ’Twas blowin’ big guns then—rippin’ in straight lines right off from Sop’s Arm an’ all them harbors for starved bodies an’ souls t’ the foot o’ the bay. An’ snow come with the wind; the heavens emptied theirselves; the air was thick an’ heavy. Seemed t’ me the wrath o’ sea an’ sky broke loose upon us—wind an’ ice an’ snow an’ big waves an’ cold—all the earth contains o’ hate for men! Skipper Tommy Jump ’lowed we’d better stick t’ the ship so long as we was able; which was merely his opinion, an’ if the hands had a mind t’ choose their pans while they was plenty, they was welcome t’ do it, an’ he wouldn’t see no man called a fool if his fists was big enough t’ stop it. But no man took t’ the ice at that time. An’ theSecond t’ Noneran 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.”
“I SEED THE SHAPE OF A MAN LEAP FOR MY PLACE”“I SEED THE SHAPE OF A MAN LEAP FOR MY PLACE”
“‘Now, lads,’ yells Tommy Jump, when he got all hands amidships, ‘you better quit the ship. The best time,’ says he, ‘will be when you seesmego overside. But don’t get in my way. You get your own pans. God help the man that gets in my way!’
“Tommy Jump went overside when the ice opened an’ theSecond t’ Nonebegun t’ go down an’ the sea was spread with small pans, floatin’ free. ’Twas near dawn then. Things was gray; an’ the shapes o’ things was strange an’ big—out o’ size, fearsome. Dawn shot over the sea, a wide, flat beam from the east, an’ the shadows was big, an’ the light dim, an’ the air full o’ whirlin’ snow; an’ men’s eyes was too wide an’ red an’ frightened t’ look with sure sight upon the world. An’ all the ice was in a tumble o’ black water.... An’ theSecond t’ Nonewent down.... An’ I ’lowed they wasn’t no room on my pan for nobody but me. But I seed the shape of a man leap for my place. An’ I cursed un, an’ bade un go farther, or I’d drown un. An’ he leaped for the pan that lied next, where Jowl was afloat, with no room t’ spare. An’ Jowl hit quick an’ hard. He was waitin’, with his fists closed, when the black shape landed; an’ he hit quick an’ hard without lookin’.... An’ I seed the face in the water.... An’, oh, I knowed who ’twas!
“‘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!whydidn’t you take time?’
“‘T’ look?’ says he.
“‘Dear God!’
“‘What you sayin’ that for, Tumm?’ says he. ‘What you mean, Tumm? ... My God!’ says he, ‘what is I gone an’ done? Whowasthat, Tumm? My God! Tell me! What is I done?’
“I couldn’t find no words t’ tell un.
“‘Oh, make haste,’ says he, ‘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, where you seed un t’-day; an’ his wife was dead, an’ he didn’t go no more t’ the Labrador, nor t’ the ice, but fished the Mad Tom grounds with hook-an’-line on quiet days, an’ was turned timid, they said, with fear o’ the sea....”
TheGood Samaritanran softly through the slow, sleepy sea, bound across the bay to trade the ports of the shore.
“I tells you, sir,” Tumm burst out, “’tis hell.Lifeis! 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.
Salim Awad, poet, was the son of Tanous—that orator. Having now lost at love, he lay disconsolate on his pallet in the tenement overlooking the soap factory. He would not answer any voice; nor would he heed the gentle tap and call of old Khalil Khayyat, the tutor of his muse; nor would he yield his sorrow to the music of Nageeb Fiani, called the greatest player in all the world. For three hours Fiani, in the wail and sigh of his violin, had expressed the woe of love through the key-hole; but Salim Awad was not moved. No; the poet continued in desolation through the darkness of that night, and through the slow, grimy, unfeeling hours of day. He dwelt upon Haleema, Khouri’s daughter—she (as he thought) of the tresses of night, the beautiful one. Salim was in despair because this Haleema had chosen to wed Jimmie Brady,the truckman. She loved strength more than the uplifted spirit; and this maidens may do, as Salim knew, without reproach or injury.
When the dusk of the second day was gathered in his room, Salim looked up, eased by the tender obscurity. In the cobble-stoned street below the clatter of traffic had subsided; there were the shuffle and patter of feet of the low-born of his people, the murmur of voices, soft laughter, the plaintive cries of children—the dolorous medley of a summer night. Beyond the fire-escape, far past the roof of the soap factory, lifted high above the restless Western world, was the starlit sky; and Salim Awad, searching its uttermost depths, remembered the words of Antar, crying in his heart: “I pass the night regarding the stars of night in my distraction. Ask the night of me, and it will tell thee that I am the ally of sorrow and of anguish. I live desolate; there is no one like me. I am the friend of grief and of desire.”
The band was playing in Battery Park; the weird music of it, harsh, incomprehensible, an alien love-song—
“Hello, mah baby,Hello, mah honey,Hello, mah rag-time girl!”
drifted in at the open window with a breeze from the sea. But by this unmeaning tumult the soul of Salim Awad, being far removed, was not troubled; he remembered, again, the words of Antar, addressed to his beloved, repeating: “In thy forehead is my guide to truth; and in the night of thy tresses I wander astray. Thy bosom is created as an enchantment. O may God protect it ever in that perfection! Will fortune ever, O daughter of Malik, ever bless me with thy embrace? That would cure my heart of the sorrows of love.”
And again the music of the band in Battery Park drifted up the murmuring street,
“Justone girl,Onlyjustone girl!There are others, I know, but they’renotmy pearl.Justone girl,Only just one girl!I’d be happy forever withjustone girl!”
and came in at the open window with the idle breeze; and Salim heard nothing of the noise, but was grateful for the cool fingers of the wind softly lifting the hair from his damp brow.
It must be told—and herein is a mystery—that this same Salim, who had lost at love, now from the darkness of his tenement room contemplating the familiar stars, wise, remote, set in the uttermost heights of heaven beyond the soap factory, was by the magic of this great passion inspired to extol the graces of his beloved Haleema, Khouri’s daughter, star of the world, and to celebrate his own despair, the love-woe of Salim, the noble-born, the poet, the lover, the brokenhearted. Without meditation, as he has said, without brooding or design, as should occur, but rather, taking from the starlit infinitude beyond the soap factory, seizing from the mist of his vision and from the blood of agony dripping from his lacerated heart, he fashioned a love-song so exquisite and frail, so shy of contact with unfeeling souls, that he trembled in the presence of this beauty, for the moment forgetting his desolation, and conceived himself an instrument made of men, wrought of mortal hands, unworthy, which the fingers of angels had touched in alleviation of the sorrows of love.
Thereupon Salim Awad arose, and he made haste to Khalil Khayyat to tell him of this thing....
This same Khalil Khayyat, lover of children, that poet and mighty editor, the tutor of the young muse of this Salim—this patient gardener of the souls of men, wherein he sowed seeds of the flowers of the spirit—this same Khalil, poet, whose delight was in the tender bloom of sorrow and despair—this old Khayyat, friend of Salim, the youth, the noble-born, sat alone in the little back room of Nageeb Fiani, the pastry-cook and greatest player in all the world. And his narghile was glowing; the coal was live and red, showing as yet no gray ash, and the water bubbled by fits and starts, and the alien room, tawdry in its imitation of the Eastern splendor, dirty, flaring and sputtering with gas, was clouded with the sweet-smelling smoke. To the coffee, perfume rising with the steam from the delicate vessel, nor to the rattle of dice and boisterous shouts from the outer room, was this Khalil attending; for he had the evening dejection to nurse. He leaned over the green baize table, one long, lean brown hand lying uponKawkab Elhorriahof that day, as if in affectionate pity, and his lean brown face was lifted in a rapture of anguish to the grimy ceiling; for the dream of the writing had failed, as all visions of beauty must fail in the reality of them, and there had beenno divine spark in the labor of the day to set the world aflame against Abdul-Hamid, Sultan, slaughterer.
To him, then, at this moment of inevitable reaction, the love-lorn Salim, entering in haste.
“Once more, Salim,” said Khalil Khayyat, sadly, “I have failed.”
Salim softly closed the door.
“I am yet young, Salim,” the editor added, with an absent smile, in which was no bitterness at all, but the sweetness of long suffering. “I am yet young,” he repeated, “for in the beginning of my labor I hope.”
Salim turned the key.
“I am but a child,” Khalil Khayyat declared, his voice, now lifted, betraying despair. “I dream in letters of fire: I write in shadows. In my heart is a flame: from the point of my pen flows darkness. I proclaim a revolution: I hear loud laughter and the noise of dice. Salim,” he cried, “I am but a little child: when night falls upon the labor of my day I remember the morning!”
“Khalil!”
Khalil Khayyat was thrilled by the quality of this invocation.
“Khalil of the exalted mission, friend, poet,teacher of the aspiring,” Salim Awad whispered, leaning close to the ear of Khalil Khayyat, “a great thing has come to pass.”
Khayyat commanded his ecstatic perturbation.
“Hist!” Salim ejaculated. “Is there not one listening at the door?”
“There is no one, Salim; it is the feet of Nageeb the coffee-boy, passing to the table of Abosamara, the merchant.”
Salim hearkened.
“There is no one, Salim.”
“There is a breathing at the key-hole, Khalil,” Salim protested. “This great thing must not be known.”
“There is no one, Salim,” said Khalil Khayyat. “I have heard Abosamara call these seven times. Being rich, he is brutal to such as serve. The sound is of the feet of the little Intelligent One. He bears coffee to the impatient merchant. His feet are soft, by my training; they pass like a whisper.... Salim, what is this great thing?”
“Nay, but, Khalil, I hesitate: the thing must not be heard.”
“Even so,” said Khalil Khayyat, contemptuously, being still a poet; “the people are of the muck of the world; they are common, they are not ofour blood and learning. How shall they understand that which they hear?”
“Khalil,” Salim Awad answered, reassured, “I have known a great moment!”
“A great moment?” said Khalil Khayyat, being both old and wise. “Then it is because of agony. There has issued from this great pain,” said he, edging, in his artistic excitement, toward the victim of the muse, “a divine poem of love?”
Salim Awad sighed.
“Is it not so, Salim?”
Salim Awad flung himself upon the green baize table; and so great was his despair that the coffee-cup of Khalil Khayyat jumped in its saucer. “I have suffered: I have lost at love,” he answered. “I have been wounded; I bleed copiously. I lie alone in a desert. My passion is hunger and thirst and a gaping wound. From fever and the night I cry out. Whence is my healing and satisfaction? Nay, but, Khalil, devoted friend,” he groaned, looking up, “I have known the ultimate sorrow. Haleema!” cried he, rising, hands clasped and uplifted, eyes looking far beyond the alien, cobwebbed, blackened ceiling of the little back room of Nageeb Fiani, the pastry-cook and greatest player in all the world. “Haleema!” he cried, as it may meanly be translated. “Haleema—mysleep and waking, night and day of my desiring soul, my thought and heart-throb! Haleema—gone forever from me, the poet, the unworthy, fled to the arms of the strong, the knowing, the manager of horses, the one powerful and controlling! Haleema—beautiful one, fashioned of God, star of the night of the sons of men, glory of the universe, appealing, of the soft arms, of the bosom of sleep! Haleema—of the finger-tips of healing, of the warm touch of solace, of the bed of rest! Haleema, beautiful one, beloved, lost to me!... Haleema!... Haleema!...”
“God!” Khalil Khayyat ejaculated; “but this is indeed great poetry!”
Salim Awad collapsed.
“And from this,” asked Khalil Khayyat, cruel servant of art, being hopeful concerning the issue, “there has come a great poem? Theremust,” he muttered, “have come a love-song, a heart’s cry in comfort of such as have lost at love.”
Salim Awad looked up from the table.
“A cry of patient anguish,” said Khalil Khayyat.
“Khalil,” said Salim Awad, solemnly, “the strings of my soul have been touched by the hand of the Spirit.”
“By the Spirit?”
“The fingers of Infinite Woe.”
To this Khalil Khayyat made no reply, nor moved one muscle—save that his hand trembled a little, and his eyes, which had been steadfastly averted, suddenly searched the soul of Salim Awad. It was very still in the little back room. There was the sputtering of the gas, the tread of soft feet passing in haste to the kitchen, the clamor from the outer room, where common folk were gathered for their pleasure, but no sound, not so much as the drawing of breath, in the little room where these poets sat, and continued in this silence, until presently Khalil Khayyat drew very close to Salim Awad.
“Salim,” he whispered, “reveal this poem.”
“It cannot be uttered,” said Salim Awad.
Khalil Khayyat was by this amazed. “Is it then so great?” he asked. “Then, Salim,” said he, “let it be as a jewel held in common by us of all the world.”
“I am tempted!”
“I plead, Salim—I, Khalil Khayyat, the poet, the philosopher—I plead!”
“I may not share this great poem, Khalil,” said Salim Awad, commanding himself, “save with such as have suffered as I have suffered.”
“Then,” answered Khalil Khayyat, triumphantly, “the half is mine!”
“Is yours, Khalil?”
“The very half, Salim, is the inheritance of my woe!”
“Khalil,” answered Salim Awad, rising, “attend!” He smiled, in the way of youth upon the aged, and put an affectionate hand on the old man’s shoulder. “My song,” said he, passionately, “may not be uttered; for in all the world—since of these accidents God first made grief—there has been no love-sorrow like my despair!”
Then, indeed, Khalil Khayyat knew that this same Salim Awad was a worthy poet. And he was content; for he had known a young man to take of the woe from his own heart and fashion a love-song too sublime for revelation to the unfeeling world—which was surely poetry sufficient to the day. He asked no more concerning the song, but took counsel with Salim Awad upon his journey to Newfoundland, whither the young poet was going, there in trade and travel to ease the sorrows of love. And he told him many things about money and a pack, and how that, though engaged in trade, a man might still journey with poetry; the one being of place and time and necessity, and the other of the free and infinite soul. Concerning the words spoken that night in farewell by these poets, not so muchas one word is known, though many men have greatly desired to know, believing the moment to have been propitious for high speaking; but not a word is to be written, not so much as a sigh to be described, for the door was closed, and, as it strangely chanced, there was no ear at the key-hole. But Nageeb Fiani, the greatest player in all the world, entering upon the departure of Salim Awad, was addressed by Khalil Khayyat.
“Nageeb,” said this great poet, “I have seen a minstrel go forth upon his wandering.”
“Upon what journey does the singer go, Khalil?”
“To the north, Nageeb.”
“What song, Khalil, does the man sing by the way?”
“The song is in his heart,“ said Khalil Khayyat.
Abosamara, the merchant, being only rich, had intruded from his own province. “Come!” cried he, in the way of the rich who are only rich. “Come!” cried he, “how shall a man sing with his heart?”
Khalil Khayyat was indignant.
“Come!” Abosamara demanded, “how shall this folly be accomplished?”
“How shall the deaf understand these things?” answered Khalil Khayyat.
And this became a saying....
Hapless Harbor, of the Newfoundland French shore, gray, dispirited, chilled to its ribs of rock—circumscribed by black sea and impenetrable walls of mist. There was a raw wind swaggering out of the northeast upon it: a mean, cold, wet wind—swaggering down the complaining sea through the fog. It had the grounds in a frothy turmoil, the shore rocks smothered in broken water, the spruce of the heads shivering, the world of bleak hill and wooded valley all clammy to the touch; and—chiefest triumph of its heartlessness—it had the little children of the place driven into the kitchens to restore their blue noses and warm their cracked hands. Hapless Harbor, then, in a nor’east blow, and a dirty day—uncivil weather; an ugly sea, a high wind, fog as thick as cheese, and, to top off with, a scowling glass. Still early spring—snow in the gullies, dripping in rivulets to the harbor water; ice at sea, driving with the variable, evil-spirited winds; perilous sailing and a wretched voyage of it upon that coast. A mean season, a dirty day—a time to be in harbor. A time most foul in feeling and intention, an hour to lie snug in the lee of some great rock.
The punt of Salim Awad, double-reefed in unwilling deference to the weather, had roundedGreedy Head soon after dawn, blown like a brown leaf, Salim being bound in from Catch-as-Catch-Can with the favoring wind. It was the third year of his wandering in quest of that ease of the sorrows of love; and as he came into quiet water from the toss and spray of the open, rather than a hymn in praise of the Almighty who had delivered him from the grasping reach of the sea, from its cold fingers, its green, dark, swaying grave—rather than this weakness—rather than this Newfoundland habit of worship, he muttered, as Antar, that great lover and warrior, had long ago cried from his soul: “Under thy veil is the rosebud of my life, and thine eyes are guarded with a multitude of arrows; round thy tent is a lion-warrior, the sword’s edge, and the spear’s point”—which had nothing to do, indeed, with a nor’east gale and the flying, biting, salty spray of a northern sea. But this Salim had come in, having put out from Catch-as-Catch-Can when gray light first broke upon the black, tumultuous world, being anxious to make Hapless Harbor as soon as might be, as he had promised a child in the fall of the year.
This Salim, poet, maker of the song that could not be uttered, tied up at the stage-head of Sam Swuth, who knew the sail of that smallcraft, and had lumbered down the hill to meet him.
“Pup of a day,” says Sam Swuth.
By this vulgarity Salim was appalled.
“Eh?” says Sam Swuth.
Salim’s pack, stowed amidships, was neatly and efficiently bound with tarpaulin, the infinite mystery of which he had mastered; but his punt, from stem to stern, swam deeply with water gathered on the way from Catch-as-Catch-Can.
“Pup of a day,” says Sam Swuth.
“Oh my, no!” cried Salim Awad, shocked by this inharmony with his mood. “Ver’ bad weather.”
“Pup of a day,” Sam Swuth insisted.
“Ver’ bad day,” said Salim Awad. “Ver’ beeg wind for thee punt.”
The pack was hoisted from the boat.
“An the glass don’t lie,” Sam Swuth promised, “they’s a sight dirtier comin’.”
Salim lifted the pack to his back. “Ver’ beeg sea,” said he. “Ver’ bad blow.”
“Ghost Rock breakin’?”
“Ver’ bad in thee Parlor of thee Devil,” Salim answered. “Ver’ long, black hands thee sea have. Ver’ white finger-nail,” he laughed. “Eh? Ver’ hong-ree hands. They reach for thee punt. ButI am have escape,” he added, with a proud little grin. “I am have escape. I—Salim! Ver’ good sailor. Thee sea have not cotchme, you bet!”
“Ye’ll be lyin’ the night in Hapless?”
“Oh my, no! Ver’ poor business. I am mus’ go to thee Chain Teekle.”
Salim Awad went the round of mean white houses, exerting himself in trade, according to the cure prescribed for the mortal malady of which he suffered; but as he passed from door to door, light-hearted, dreaming of Haleema, she of the tresses of night, wherein the souls of men wandered astray, he still kept sharp lookout for Jamie Tuft, the young son of Skipper Jim, whom he had come through the wind to serve. Salim was shy—shy as a child; more shy than ever when bent upon some gentle deed; and Jamie was shy, shy as lads are shy; thus no meeting chanced until, when in the afternoon the wind had freshened, these two blundered together in the lee of Bishop’s Rock, where Jamie was hiding his humiliation, grief, and small body, but devoutly hoping, all the while, to be discovered and relieved. It was dry in that place, and sheltered from the wind; but between the Tickle heads, whence the harbor opened to the sea, the gale was to be observed at work upon the run.
Salim stopped dead. Jamie grinned painfully and kicked at the road.
“Hello!” cried Salim.
“’Lo, Joe!” growled Jamie.
Salim sighed. He wondered concerning the amount Jamie had managed to gather. Would it be sufficient to ease his conscience through the transaction? The sum was fixed. Jamie must have the money or go wanting. Salim feared to ask the question.
“I isn’t got it, Joe,” said Jamie.
“Oh my! Too bad!” Salim groaned.
“Not all of un,” added Jamie.
Salim took heart; he leaned close, whispering, in suspense: “How much have you thee got?”
“Two twenty—an’ a penny.”
“Ver’ good!” cried Salim Awad, radiant. “Ver’, ver’ good! Look!” said he: “you have wait three year for thee watch. Ver’ much you have want thee watch. ‘Ha!’ I theenk; ’ver’ good boy, this—I mus’ geeve thee watch to heem. No, no!’ I theenk; ’ver’ bad for thee boy. I mus’ not spoil thee ver’ good boy. Make thee mon-ee,’ I say; ’catch thee feesh, catch thee swile, then thee watch have be to you!’ Ver’ good. What happen? Second year, I have ask about the mon-ee. Ver’ good. ‘I have got one eighteen,’you say. Oh my—no good! The watch have be three dollar. Oh my! Then I theenk: ‘I have geeve the good boy thee watch for one eighteen. Oh no, I mus’ not!’ I theenk; ‘ver’ bad for thee boy, an’ mos’ ver’ awful bad trade.’ Then I say, ‘I keep thee watch for one year more.’ Ver’ good. Thee third year I am have come. Ver’ good. What you say?‘ ‘I have thee two twenty-one,’ you say. Ver’, ver’ good. Thee price of thee watch have be three dollar? No! Not this year. Thee price havenotbe three dollar.”
Jamie looked up in hope.
“Why not?” Salim Awad continued, in delight. “Have thee watch be spoil? No, thee watch have be ver’ good watch. Have thee price go down? No; thee price have not.”
Jamie waited in intense anxiety, while Salim paused to enjoy the mystery.
“Have I then become to spoil thee boy?” Salim demanded. “No? Ver’ good. How then can thee price of thee watch have be two twenty?”
Jamie could not answer.
“Ver’ good!” cried the delighted Salim. “Ver’, ver’ good! I am have tell you. Hist!” he whispered.
Jamie cocked his ear.
“Hist!” said Salim Awad again.
They were alone—upon a bleak hill-side, in a wet, driving wind.
“I have be to New York,” Salim whispered, in a vast excitement of secrecy and delight. “I am theenk: ‘Thee boy want thee watch. How thee boy have thee watch? Thee good boymus’have thee watch. Oh, mygod! how?’ I theenk. I theenk, an’ I theenk, an’ I theenk. Thee boy mus’ pay fair price for thee watch. Ha! Thee Salim ver’ clever. He feex thee price of thee watch, you bet! Eh! Ver’ good. How?”
Jamie was tapped on the breast; he looked into the Syrian’s wide, delighted, mocking brown eyes—but could not fathom the mystery.
“How?” cried Salim. “Eh? How can the price come down?”
Jamie shook his head.
“I have smuggle thee watch!” Salim whispered.
“Whew!” Jamie whistled. “That’s sinful!”
“Thee watch it have be to you,” answered Salim, gently. “Thee sin,” he added, bowing courteously, a hand on his heart, “it have be all my own!”
For a long time after Salim Awad’s departure, Jamie Tuft sat in the lee of Bishop’s Rock—untilindeed, the dark alien’s punt had fluttered out to sea on the perilous run to Chain Tickle. It began to rain in great drops; the sullen mood of the day was about to break in some wrathful outrage upon the coast. Gusts of wind swung in and down upon the boy—a cold rain, a bitter, rising wind. But Jamie still sat oblivious in the lee of the rock. It was hard for him, unused to gifts, through all his days unknown to favorable changes of fortune, to overcome his astonishment—to enter into the reality of this possession. The like had never happened before: never before had joy followed all in a flash upon months of mournful expectation. He sat as still as the passionless rock lifted behind him. It was a tragedy of delight. Two dirty, cracked, toil-distorted hands—two young hands, aged and stained and malformed by labor beyond their measure of strength and years to do—two hands and the shining treasure within them: to these his world was, for the time, reduced—the rest, the harsh world of rock and rising sea and harsher toil and deprivation, was turned to mist; it was like a circle of fog.
Jamie looked up.
“By damn!” he thought, savagely, “’tis—’tis—mine!”
The character of the exclamation is to be condoned; this sense of ownership had come like a vision.
“Why, Igotshe!” thought Jamie.
Herein was expressed more of agonized dread, more of the terror that accompanies great possessions, than of delight.
“Ecod!” he muttered, ecstatically; “she’s mine—she’s mine!”
The watch was clutched in a capable fist. It was not to be dropped, you may be sure! Jamie looked up and down the road. There was no highwayman, no menacing apparition of any sort, but the fear of some ghostly ravager had been real enough. Presently the boy laughed, arose, moved into the path, stood close to the verge of the steep, which fell abruptly to the harbor water.
“I got t’ tell mamma,” he thought.
On the way to Jamie’s pocket went the watch.
“She’ll be that glad,” the boy thought, gleefully, “that she—she—she’ll jus’ faircry!”
There was some difficulty with the pocket.
“Yes, sir,” thought Jamie, grinning; “mamma’ll jus’ cry!”
The watch slipped from Jamie’s overcautious hand, struck the rock at his feet, bounded downthe steep, splashed into the harbor water, and vanished forever....
A bad time at sea: a rising wind, spray on the wing, sheets of cold rain—and the gray light of day departing. Salim Awad looked back upon the coast; he saw no waste of restless water between, no weight and frown of cloud above, but only the great black gates of Hapless Harbor, beyond which, by the favor of God, he had been privileged to leave a pearl of delight. With the wind abeam he ran on through the sudsy sea, muttering, within his heart, as that great Antar long ago had cried: “Were I to say thy face is like the full moon of heaven, wherein that full moon is the eye of the antelope? Were I to say thy shape is like the branch of the erak tree, oh, thou shamest it in the grace of thy form! In thy forehead is my guide to truth, and in the night of thy tresses I wander astray!”
And presently, having won Chain Tickle, he pulled slowly to Aunt Amelia’s wharf, where he moored the punt, dreaming all the while of Haleema, Khouri’s daughter, star of the world. Before he climbed the hill to the little cottage, ghostly in the dusk and rain, he turned again to Hapless Harbor. The fog had been blownaway; beyond the heads of the Tickle—far across the angry run—the lights of Hapless were shining cheerily.
“Ver’ good sailor—me!” thought Salim. “Ver’ good hand, you bet!”
A gust of wind swept down the Tickle and went bounding up the hill.
“He not get me!” muttered Salim between bared teeth.
A second gust showered the peddler with water snatched from the harbor.
“Ver’ glad to be in,” thought Salim, with a shudder, turning now from the black, tumultuous prospect. “Ver’ mos’ awful glad to be in!”