Part 6

"Anyhow," said Tumm, moodily, "it didn't last long."

The fire crackled a genial accompaniment to the tale of Slow Jim Tool....

* * * * *

"Well, now," Tumm continued, "Slow Jim Tool an' Archibald Shott o' Jump Harbor was cast away in the _Dimple_ at Creep Head o' the Labrador. Bein' wrecked seamen, they come up in the mail-boat; an' it so happened, sir, that 'long about Run-by-Guess, with the fog thick, an' dusk near come, Archibald Short managed t' steal a Yankee's gold watch an' sink un in the pocket o' Slow Jim Tool. 'Twas s'prisin' t' Jim. Fact is, when they cotched un with the prope'ty, sir, Jim 'lowed he never knowed when he done it--never knowed he _could_ do it. 'Ecod!' says he; 'now that s'prises _me_. I mus' o' stole that there watch in my sleep. Well, well!' S'prised un a deal more, they says, when a brass-buttoned constable come aboard at Tilt Cove' an' took un in charge in the Queen's name. '_In the Queen's name!_' says Jim. 'What's that? In the Queen's name? Dear man!' says he; 'but this is awful! An' I never knows when I done it!' 'Twas more s'prisin' still when they haled un past Jump Harbor. 'Why,' says he, 'I wants t' go home an' see 'Lizabeth All. Why,' says he, 'I got t' talk it over with 'Lizabeth!' 'You can't,' says the constable. 'But,' says Jim, 'I _got_ t'. Why,' says he, 'I always _have_.' 'Now,' says the constable, 'don't you make no trouble.' So Jim was s'prised again; but when the judge give un a year t' repent an' make brooms in chokee t' St. John's he was _so_ s'prised, they says, that he never come to his senses till he landed back at Jump Harbor an' was kissed seven times by 'Lizabeth All in the sight o' the folk o' that place. An' even after that, I'm told--ay, through a season's fishin'--he pondered a deal more'n was good for un. Ashore an' afloat, 'twas all the same. 'Well, well!' says he. 'Dear man! I wonders how I done it. Arch,' says he, 'you was aboard; can't _you_ throw no light?' Arch 'lowed he might an he but tried, but wouldn't. 'Might interfere,' says he, 'atween you an' 'Lizabeth.' 'But,' says Jim, 'as a friend?'

"'Well,' says Arch, ''riginal sin.'

"''Riginal sin!' says Jim. 'Dear man! but I mus' have got my share!'

"'You is,' says Arch. ''Tis plain in your face. You looks low and vicious. 'Riginal sin, Jim,' says he, 'marks a man.'

"'Think so?' says Jim. 'I'm sorry I got it.'

"'An' look you!' says Arch; 'you better be wonderful careful about unshippin' wickedness on 'Lizabeth.'

"'On 'Lizabeth?' says Jim. 'What you mean? God knows,' says he, 'I'd not hurt 'Lizabeth.'

"'Then ponder,' says Arch. ''Riginal sin is made you a thief an' a jailbird. Ponder, Jim--ponder!'

"Now," cries Tumm, in an outburst of feeling, "what you think 'Lizabeth All done?"

I was confused by the question.

"Why," Tumm answered, "it didn't make no difference t' she!"

I was not surprised.

"Not s'prised!" cries Tumm. "No," he snapped, indignantly, "nor neither was Slow Jim Tool."

Of course not!

"Nobody knows nothin' about a woman," said Tumm; "least of all, the woman. An', anyhow," he resumed, "'Lizabeth All didn't care. Why, God save you, sir!" he burst out, "she loved the shoulders an' soul o' Slow Jim Tool too much t' care. 'Tis a woman's way; an' a woman's true love so passes the knowledge o' men that faith in God is a lesson in A B C beside it. Well," he continued, "sailin' the _Give an' Take_ that fall, I was cotched in the early freeze-up, an' us put the winter in at Jump Harbor, with a hold full o' fish an' every married man o' the crew in a righteous rage. An' as for 'Lizabeth, why, when us cleared the school-room, when ol' Bill Bump fiddled up with the accordion ''Money Musk' an' '_Pop_ Goes the Weasel,' when he sung out, 'Balance!' an' 'H'ist her, lad!' when the jackets was throwed aside an' the boots was cast off, why, 'Lizabeth All jus' fair _clinged_ t' that there big, gray-eyed, pink-an'-white Slow Jim Tool! 'Twas a pretty sight t' watch her, sir, plump an' winsome an' yellow-haired, float like a sea-gull over the school-room floor--t' see her blushes an' smiles an' eyes o' love. It done me good. I 'lowed I wished I was young again--an' big an' slow an' kind an' curly-headed. But lookin' about, sir, it seemed t' me, as best I could understand, that a regiment o' little devils was stickin' red-hot fish-forks into the vitals o' Archibald Shott; an' then I 'lowed, somehow, that maybe I was jus' as well off as I was. I got a look in his eyes, sir, afore the night was done; an' it jus' seemed t' me that the Lord had give me a peep into hell.

"'Twas more'n Archibald Shott could carry. 'Tumm,' says he, nex' day, 'I 'low I'll move.'

"'Where to?' says I.

"''Low I'll jack my house down t' the ice,' says he, 'an' haul she over t' Deep Cove. I've growed tired,' says he, 'o' fishin' Jump Harbor.'

"Well, now, they wasn't no prayer-meetin' held t' keep Archibald Shott t' Jump Harbor. The lads o' the place an' the crew o' the _Give an' Take_ turned to an' jerked that house across the bay t' Deep Cove like a gale o' wind. They wasn't nothin' left o' Archibald Shott at Jump Harbor but the bare spot on the rocks where the house used t' be. When 'twas all over with, Arch come back t' say good-bye; an' he took Slow Jim Tool t' the hills, an', 'Jim,' says he, 'you knows where my house used t' be? Hist!' says he, 'I wants t' tell you: is you able t' hold a secret? Well,' says he, 'I wouldn't go pokin' 'round in the dirt there. You leave that place be. They isn't nothin' there that you'd like t' have. Understand? _Don't go pokin' 'round in the dirt where my ol' house was._ But if you does,' says he, 'an' if you finds anything you wants, why, you can keep it, and not be obliged t' me.' So Jim begun pokin' 'round; being human, he jus' couldn't help it. He poked an' poked, till they wasn't no sense in pokin' no more; an' then he 'lowed he'd give 'Lizabeth a wonderful s'prise in the spring, no matter what it cost. 'Archibald Shott,' says he, 'is a kind man. You jus' wait, 'Lizabeth, an' _see_.' And in the spring, sure enough, off he sot for Chain Tickle, where ol' Jonas Williams have a shop an' a store, t' fetch 'Lizabeth a pink ostrich feather she'd seed in Jonas's trader two year afore. She 'lowed that 'twas a wonderful sight o' money t' lay out on a feather, when he got back; but he says: 'Oh no, 'Lizabeth; the money wasn't no trouble t' get.'

"'No trouble?' says she.

"'Why, no,' says he; 'no trouble t' speak of. I jus' sort o' poked around an' picked it up.'

"About a week after 'Lizabeth All had first wore that pink feather t' meetin' a constable come ashore from the mail-boat an' tapped Slow Jim Tool on the shoulder.

"'What you do that for?' says Jim.

"'In the Queen's name!' says the constable.

"'My God!' says Jim. 'What is I been doin'?'

"'Counterfeitin',' says the constable.

"'Counter-fittin'!' says Jim. 'What's that?'

"They says," Tumm sighed, "that poor Jim Tool was wonderful s'prised t' be give two year in chokee t' St. John's for passin' lead shillin's; for look you! Jim didn't _know_ they was lead."

"And Elizabeth?" I ventured.

"Up an' died," he drawled....

* * * * *

"Well, now," Tumm proceeded, "'twas three year later that Jim Tool an' Archibald Shott an' me was shipped from Twillingate aboard the _Billy_ _Boy_ t' fish the Labrador below Mugford along o' Skipper Alex Tuttle. Jim Tool was more slow an' solemn an' puzzled 'n ever I knowed un t' be afore; an' he was so wonderful shy o' Archibald Shott that Arch 'lowed he'd have the superstitious shudders if it kep' up much longer. 'If he'd only talk,' says Arch, 'an' not creep about this here schooner like a deaf an' dumb ghost!' But Jim said nar a word; he just' kep' a gray eye on Arch till Arch lost a deal more sleep 'n he got. 'He _irks_ me!' says Arch. ''Tisn't a thing a religious man would practise; an' I'll _do_ something,' says he, 't' stop it!' Howbeit, things was easy till the _Billy Boy_ slipped past Mother Burke in fair weather an' run into a dirty gale from the north off the upper French shore. The wind jus' seemed t' sweep up all the ice they was on the Labrador an' jam it again' the coast at Black Bight. There's where we was, sir, when things cleaned up; gripped in the ice a hundred fathom off the Black Bight cliffs. An' there we stayed, lifted from the pack, lyin' at fearsome list, till the wind turned westerly an' began t' loosen up the ice.

"'Twas after noon of a gray day when the _Billy Boy_ dropped back in the water. They was a bank o' blue-black cloud hangin' high beyond the cliffs; an' I 'lowed t' the skipper, when I seed it, that 'twould blow with snow afore the day was out.

"'Ay,' says the skipper; 'an' 'twon't be long about it.'

"Jus' then Slow Jim Tool knocked Archibald Shott flat on his back. Lord, what a thump! Looked t' me as if Archibald Shott might be damaged.

"'Ecod! Jim,' says I, 'what you go an' do that for?'

"'Why,' says Jim, 'he said a bad word again' the name o' 'Lizabeth.'

"'Never done nothin' o' the kind,' says Arch. 'I was jus' 'bidin' here amidships lookin' at the weather.'

"'Yes, you did, Arch,' says Jim; 'you done it in the forecastle--las' Wednesday. I heared you as I come down the ladder.'

"'Don't you knock me down again,' says Arch. 'That _hurt_!'

"'Well,' says Jim, 'you keep your tongue off poor 'Lizabeth.'

"By this time, sir, the lads was all come up from the forecastle. We wasn't much hands at fightin', in them days, on the Labrador craft, bein' all friends t'gether; an' a little turn up on deck sort o' scared the crew. Made un shy, too; they hanged about, backin' an' shufflin', like kids in a parlor, fair itchin' along o' awkwardness, grinnin' a deal wider'n was called for, but sayin' nothin' for fear o' drawin' more attention 'n they could well dodge. Skipper Alex he laughed; then I cackled a bit--an' then off went the crew in a big he-haw. I seed Archibald Shott turn white an' twitch-lipped, an' I minds me now, sir, that he fidgeted somewhat about his hip; but bein' all friends aboard, sir, shipped from near-by harbors, why, it jus' didn't jump into my mind that he was up t' anything more deadly than givin' a hitch to his trousers. How should it? We wasn't _used_ t' brawls aboard the _Billy Boy_. But whatever, Archibald Shott crep' for'ard a bit, till he was close 'longside, an' then bended down t' do up the lashin' of his shoe: which he kep' at, sir, fumblin' like a baby, till Jim looked off t' the clouds risin' over the Black Bight cliffs an' 'lowed 'twould snow like wool afore the hour was over. Then, 'Will she?' says Arch; an' with that he drawed his splittin'-knife an' leaped like a lynx on Slow Jim Tool. I seed the knife in the air, sir--seed un come down point foremost on Jim's big chest--an' heared a frosty tinkle when the broken blade struck the deck. It didn't seem natural, sir; not on the deck o' the _Billy Boy_, where we was all friends aboard, raised in near-by harbors.

"Anyhow, Slow Jim squealed like a pig an' clapped a hand to his heart; an' Arch jumped back t' the rail, where he stood with muscles drawed an' arms open for a grapple, fair drillin' holes in Jim with his little green eyes.

"'Ouch!' says Jim; 'that wasn't _fair_, Arch!'

"Arch's lips jus' lifted away from his teeth in a ghastly sort o' grin.

"'Eh?' says Jim. 'What you want t' do a dirty trick like that for?'

"Arch didn't seem t' have no answer ready: jus' stood there eyin' Jim, stock still as a wooden figger-head, 'cept that he shivered an' gulped an' licked his blue lips with a tongue that I 'lowed t' be as dry as sand-paper. Seemed t' me, sir, when his muscles begun t' slack an' his eyes t' shift, that he was more scared 'n any decent man ought ever t' get. But he didn't say nothin'; nor no more did nobody else. Wasn't nothin' t' _say_. There we was, all friends aboard, reared in near-by harbors. Didn't seem natural t' be stewin' in a mess o' hate like that. Look you! we _knowed_ Archibald Shott an' Slow Jim Tool: knowed un, stripped an' clothed, body an' soul, an' _had_, sir, since they begun t' toddle the roads o' Jump Harbor. Knowed un? Why, down along afore the _Lads' Hope_ went ashore on the Barnyard Islands, I slep' along o' Jim Tool an' _poulticed Archibald Shaft's boils_! Didn't seem t' me, sir, when Jim took off his jacket an' opened his shirt that they was anything more'n sorrow for Arch's temper brewin' in his heart. Murder? Never thunk o' murder; wasn't used enough t' murder. I 'lowed, though, that Jim didn't like the sight o' the cut where the knife had broke on a rib; an' I 'lowed he liked the feel of his blood still less, for he got white an' stupid an' disgusted when his fingers touched it, jus' as if he might be sea-sick any minute, an' he shook hisself an' coughed, sir, jus' like a dog eatin' grass.

"'Tumm,' says he, 'you got a knife?'

"'Don't 'low no one,' says I, 't' clean a pipe 'ith my knife.'

"'No,' says he; 'a sheath-knife?'

"'Left un below,' says I. 'What you want un for?'

"'Jus' a little job,' says he.

"'What _kind_ of a job?' says I.

"'Oh,' says he, 'jus' a little job I got t' do!'

"Seemed nobody had a knife, so Jim Tool fetched his own from below.

"'Find un?' says I.

"'Not my bes' one,' says he. 'Jus' my second bes'.'

"Skipper Alex 'lowed 'twould snow like goose feathers afore half an hour was out, but, somehow, sir, nobody cared, though the wind was breakin' off shore in saucy puff's an' the ice pack was goin' abroad.

"Jim Tool feeled the edge of his knife. 'Isn't my bes' one,' says he. 'I got a new one somewheres.'

"I 'lowed he was a bit out o' temper with the knife; an' it _did_ look sort o' foul sir, along o' overuse an' neglect.

"'Greasy,' says he, wipin' the blade on his boot; 'wonderful greasy! Isn't much use no more. Wisht I had my bes' one. This here,' says he, 'is got three big nicks. But, anyhow, Arch,' says he, 'I won't hurt you no more'n I can help!'

"Then, sir, knife in hand an' murder hot in his heart, he bore down on Archibald Shott. 'Twas all over in a flash: Arch, lean an' nimble as a imp, leaped the rail an' put off over the ice toward the Black Bight cliffs, with Slow Jim in chase. Skipper Alex whistled 'Whew!' an' looked perfeckly stupid along o' s'prise; whereon, sir, havin' come to his senses of a sudden, he let out a whoop like a siren whistle an' vaulted overside. Then me, sir; then the whole bally crew! In jus' a wink 'twas follow my leader over the pans t' save Archibald Shott from slaughter: scramble an' leap, sir, slip an' splash--across the pans an' over the pools an' lanes o' water.

"I 'low the skipper might o' overhauled Jim an he hadn't missed his leap an' gone overhead 'longside. As for me, sir, wind an' legs denied me.

"'Hol' on, Jim!' sings I. 'Wait for _me_!'

"But Jim wasn't heedin' what was behind; I 'low, sir, what with hate an' the rage o' years, he wasn't thinkin' o' nothin' 'cept t' get a knife in the vitals o' Archibald Shott so deep an' soon as he was able. Seemed he'd do it, too, in quick time, for jus' that minute Archibald slipped; his legs sailed up in the air, an' he landed on his shoulders an' rolled off into the water. But God bein' on the watch jus' then, sir, Jim leaped short hisself from the pan he was on, an' afore he could crawl from the sea Arch was out an' lopin' like a hare over better goin'. Jim was too quick for me t' nab; I was fetched up all standin' by the lane he'd leaped--while he sailed on in chase o' Arch. An' meantime the crew was scattered north an' south, every man Jack makin' over the ice for the Black Bight cliffs by the course that looked best, so that Arch was drove in on the rocks. I 'lowed 'twould be over in a trice if somebody didn't leap on the back o' Slow Jim Tool; but in this I was mistook: for Archibald Shott, bein' hunted an' scared an' nimble, didn't wait at the foot o' the cliff for Jim Tool's greasy knife. He shinned on up--up an' up an' up--higher an' higher--with his legs an' arms sprawled out an' workin' like a spider. Nor neither did Jim stop short. No, sir! He slipped his knife in his belt--an' up shinned _he_!

"'_Jim_, you fool!' sings I, when I come below, 'you come down out o' that!'

"But Jim jus' kep' mountin'.

"'Jim!' says I. 'You want t' fall an' get hurted?'

"Up comes the skipper in a proper state o' wrath an' salt water. 'Look you, Jim Tool!' sings he; 'you want t' break your neck?'

"I 'lowed maybe Jim was too high up t' hear.

"'Tumm,' says the skipper, 'that fool will split Archibald Shott once he gets un. You go 'round by Tatter Brook,' says he, 'an' climb the hill from behind. This foolishness is got t' be stopped. Goin' easy,' says he, 'you'll beat Shott t' the top o' the cliff. He'll be over first; let un go. But when Tool comes,' says he, 'why, you got a pair o' arms there that can clinch a argument.'

"'Ay,' says I; 'but what'll come o' Archibald?'

"'Well,' says the skipper, 'it looks t' me as if he'd be content jus' t' keep on goin'.'

"In this way, sir, I come t' the top o' the cliff. They _was_ signs o' weather--a black sky, puffs o' wind jumpin' out, scattered flakes o' snow--but they wasn't no sign o' Archibald Shott. They was quite a reach o' brink, sir, high enough from the shore ice t' make a stomach squirm; an' it took a deal o' peepin' an' stretchin' t' spy out Arch an' Jim. Then I 'lowed that Arch never _would_ get over; for I seed, sir--lyin' there on the edge o' the cliff, with more head an' shoulders stickin' out in space than I cares t' dream about o' these quiet nights--I seed that Archibald Shott was cotched an' could get no further. There he was, sir, stickin' like plaster t' the face o' the cliff, some thirty feet below, finger-nails an' feet dug into the rock, his face like a year-old corpse. I sung out a hearty word--though, God knows! my heart was empty o' cheer--an' I heard some words rattle in Shott's dry throat, but couldn't understand; an' then, sir, overcome by space an' that face o' fear, I rolled back on the frozen moss, sick an' limp. When I looked again I seed, so far below that they looked like fat swile on the ice, the skipper an' the crew o' the _Billy Boy_, starin' up, with the floe an' black sea beyond, lyin' like a steep hill under the gray sky. Midway, swarmin' up with cautious hands an' feet, come Slow Jim Tool, his face as white an' cold as the ice below, thin-lipped, wolf-eyed, his heart as cruel now, sir, his slow mind as keen, his muscles as tense an' eager, as a brute's on the hunt.

"'Jim!' says I. 'Oh, Jim!'

"Jim jus' come on up.

"'Jim!' says I. 'Is that _you_?'

"Seemed, sir, it jus' _couldn't_ be. Not _Jim_! Why, I _nursed_ Jim! I tossed Jimmie Tool t' the ceilin' when he was a mushy infant too young t' do any more'n jus' gurgle. Why, at that minute, sir, like a dream in the gray space below, I could see Jimmie Tool's yellow head an' fat white legs an' calico dresses, jus' as they used t' be.

"'Jim,' says I, 'it can't be you. Not you, Jim,' says I; 'not _you_!'

"'Tumm,' says he, 'is he stuck? Can't he get no farther?'

"Jim!

"'If he can't,' says he, 'I got un! I'll knife un, Tumm,' says he, 'jus' in a minute.'

"'Don't try it,' says I.

"'Don't you fret, Tumm,' says he. 'Isn't no fear o' _me_ fallin'. _I'm_ all right.'

"An' this was Jimmie Tool! Why, sir, I knowed Jimmie Tool when he was a lad o' twelve. A hearty lad, sir, towheaded an' stout an' strong an' lively, with freckles on his nose, an' a warm, kind, white-toothed little grin for such as put a hand on his shoulder. Wasn't nobody ever, man, woman, or child, that touched Jimmie Tool in kindness 'ithout bein' loved. He jus' couldn't help it. You jus' be good t' Jimmie Tool, you jus' put a hand on his head an' smile, an' Jimmie 'lowed they was no man like you. 'You got a awful kind heart, lad,' says I, when he was twelve; 'an' when you grows up,' says I, 'I 'low the folk o' this coast will be glad you was born.' An' here was Jimmie Tool, swarmin' up the Black Bight cliffs, bent on the splittin' o' Archibald Shott, which same Archibald I had took t' Sunday-school, by the wee, soft hand of un, many a time, when he was a flabby-fleshed, chatterin' rollypolly o' four! Bein' jus' a ol' fool, sir--bein' jus' a soft ol' fool hangin' over the Black Bight cliffs--I wisht, somehow, that little Jimmie Tool had never needed t' grow up.

"'Jimmie," says I, 'what you _really_ goin' t' do?'

"'Well,' says he, 'jus' a minute.'

"'Very well,' says I; 'but you better leave poor Arch alone.'

"'How's his grip?' says he.

"'None too good,' says I; 'a touch would dislodge un.'

"'If I cotched un by the ankle, then,' says he, 'I 'low I could jerk un loose.'

"'You hadn't better _try_,' says Arch.

"'Jim,' says I, 'does you know how high up you really is?'

"Jim jus' reached as quick as a snake for Archibald Shott's foot, but come somewhat short of a grip. 'Shoot it!' says he, 'I can on'y touch un with my finger. I'll have t' climb higher.'

"Up he come a inch or so.

"'You try that again, Jim,' says Arch, 'an' I'll kick you in the head.'

"'You can't,' says Jim; 'you dassn't move a foot from that ledge.'

"'Try an' see,' says Arch.

"'I can see very well, Arch, b'y,' says Jim. 'If you wriggles a toe, you'll fall.'

"Then, sir, I cotched ear o' the skipper singin' out from below. Seemed so far down when my eyes dropped that my fingers digged theirselves deep in the moss and clawed around for better grip. They isn't no beach below, sir, nor broken rock, as you knows; the cliffs rise from deep water. Skipper and crew was on the ice; an' I seed that the wind had blowed the pans off shore. Wind was up now: blowin' clean t' sea, with flakes o' snow swirlin' in the lee o' the cliff. It fair scraped the moss I was lyin' on. Seemed t' me, sir, that if it blowed much higher I'd need my toes for hangin' on. A gust cotched off my cap an' swep' it over the sea. Lord! it made me shiver t' watch the course o' that ol' cloth cap! Blow? Oh, ay--blowin''! An' I 'lowed that the skipper was nervous in the wind. He sung out again, waved his arms, pointed t' the sea, an' then ducked his head, tucked in his elbows, an' put off for the schooner, with the crew scurryin' like weak-flippered swile in his wake. Sort o' made me laugh, sir; they looked so round an' squat an' short-legged, 'way down below, sprawlin' over the ice in mad haste t' board the _Billy Boy_ afore she drifted off in the gale. Laugh? Ay, sir! I laughed. Didn't seem t' me, sir, that Jim Tool really _meant_ t' kill Archibald Shott. Jus' seemed, somehow, like a rough game, with somebody like t' get hurted if they kep' it up. So I laughed; but I gulped that laugh back t' my stomach, sir, when I slapped eyes again on Archibald Shott!

"'Don't do that, Arch,' says I. 'You'll _fall_!'

"'Well,' says he, 'Jim says I can't kick un in the head.'

"'No more you can,' says Jim; 'an' you dassn't try.'