Part 7

"Arch was belly foremost t' the cliff--toes on a ledge an' hands gripped aloft. He was able t' look up, but made poor work o' lookin' down over his shoulder; an' I 'lowed, him not bein' able t' see Jim, that the minute he reached out a foot he'd be cotched an' ripped from his hold, if Jim really wanted t' do it. Anyhow, he got his fingers in a lower crack. 'Twas a wonderful strain t' put on any man's hands an' arms: I could see his forearms shake along of it. But safe at this, he loosed one foot from the ledge, let his body sink, an' begun t' kick out after Jim, jus' feelin' about like a blind man, with his face jammed again' the rock. Jus' in a minute Jim reached for that foot. Cotched it, too; but no sooner did Arch feel them fingers closin' in than he kicked out for life an' got loose. The wrench near overset Jim. He made a quick grab for the rock an' got a hand there jus' in time. Jim laughed. It may be that he thunk Arch would be satisfied an' draw up t' rest. But Arch 'lowed for one more kick; an' this, sir, cotched Slow Jim Tool fair on the cheek when poor Jim wasn't lookin'. Must o' hurt Jim. When his head fell back, his face was all screwed up, jus' like a child's in pain. I seed, too, that his muscles was slack, his knees givin' way, an' that his right hand, with the fingers spread out crooked, was clawin' for a hold, ecod! out in the air, where they wasn't nothin' but thin wind t' grasp. Then I didn't see no more, but jus' lied flat on the moss, my eyes fallen shut, limp an' sweaty o' body, waitin' t' come to, as from the grip o' the Old Hag.

"When I looked again, sir, Archibald Shott had both feet toed back on the ledge, an' Slow Jim Tool, below, was still stickin' like a barnacle t' the cliff.

"'Jim,' says I, 'if you don't stop this foolishness I'll drop a rock on you.'

"'This won't do,' says he.

"'No,' says I; 'it _won't_!'

"'I 'low, Tumm,' says he, 'that I better swarm above an' come down.'

"'What for?' says I.

"'Step on his fingers,' says he.

"Then, sir, the squall broke; a rush an' howl o' northerly wind! Come like a pack o' mad ghosts: a break from the spruce forest--a flight over the barren--a great leap into space. Blue-black clouds, low an' thick, rushin' over the cliff, spilt dusk an' snow below. 'Twas as though the Lord had cast a black blanket o' night in haste an' anger upon the sea. An' I never knowed the snow so thick afore; 'twas jus' emptied out on the world like bags o' flour. Dusty, frosty snow; it got in my eyes an' nose an' throat. 'Twasn't a minute afore sea an' shore was wiped from sight an' Jim Tool an' Archibald Shott was turned t' black splotches in a mist. I crabbed away from the brink. Wasn't no sense, sir, in lyin' there in the push an' tug o' the wind. An' I sot me down t' wait; an' by-an'-by I heard a cry, a dog's bark o' terror, from deep in the throat, sir, that wasn't no scream o' the gale. So I crawled for'ard, on hands an' knees that bore me ill, t' peer below, but seed no form o' flesh an' blood, nor got a human answer t' my hail. I turned again t' wait; an' I faced inland, where was the solemn forest, far off an' hid in a swirl o' snow, with but the passion of a gale t' bear. An' there I stood, sir, turned away from the rage o' hearts that beat in breasts like ours, until the squall failed, an' the snow thinned t' playful flakes, an' the gray clouds, broken above the wilderness, soaked crimson from the sun like blood.

"'Twas Jim Tool that roused me.

"'That you, Jim?' says I.

"'Ay,' says he; 'you been waitin' here for me, Tumm?'

"'Ay,' says I; 'been waitin'.'

"'Tired?' says he.

"'No,' says I; 'not tired.'

"There come then, sir, a sort o' smile upon him--fond an' grateful an' childlike. I seed it glow in the pits where his eyes was. 'It was kind,' says he, 't' wait. You always _was_ kind t' me, Tumm.'

"'Oh no,' says I; 'not kind.'

"'Tumm,' says he, kickin' at a rock in the snow, 'I done it,' says he, 'by the ankle.'

"'Then,' says I, 'God help you, Jim!'

"He come close t' me, sir, jus' like he used t' do, when he was a lad, in trouble.

"'Keep off, Jim!' says I.

"'Why so?' says he. 'Isn't you goin' t' be friends 'ith me any more?'

"I was afraid. 'Keep clear!' says I.

"'Oh, why so?' says he.

"'I--I--don't know!' says I. 'God help us all, I don't _know_!'

"Then he falled prone, sir, an' rolled over on his back, with his arms flung out, as if now he seed the blood on his hands; an' he squirmed in the snow, sir, like a worm on a hook. 'I wisht I hadn't done it! Oh, dear God,' says he, '_I wisht I hadn't done it!_'

"Ah, poor little Jimmie Tool!

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"I looked away, sir, west'ard, t' where the sky had broken wide its gates. Ah, the sun had washed the crimson blood-drip from the clouds! 'Twas a flood o' golden light. Colors o' heaven streamin' through upon the world! But yet so far away--beyond the forest, and, ay, beyond the farther sea! Maybe, sir, while my eyes searched the far-off sunlit spaces, that my heart fled back t' fields o' time more distant still. I remembered the lad that was Jimmie Tool. Warm-hearted, sir, aglow with tender wishes for the joy o' folk; towheaded an' stout an' strong, straight o' body an' soul, with a heart lifted high, it seemed t' me, from the reachin' fingers o' sin. Wasn't nobody ever, sir, that touched Jimmie Tool in kindness 'ithout bein' loved. 'Ah, Jimmie,' says I, when I looked in his clear gray eyes, 'the world'll be glad, some day, that you was born. Wisht I was a lad like you,' says I, 'an' not a man like me.' An' he'd cotch hold o' my hand, sir, an' say: 'Tumm, you is wonderful good t' me. I 'low I'm a lucky lad,' says he, 't' have a friend like you.' So now, sir, come back t' the bleak cliffs o' Black Bight, straight returned from the days of his childhood, with the golden dust o' that time fresh upon my feet, the rosy light of it in my eyes, the breath o' God in my heart, I kneeled in the snow beside Jim Tool an' put a hand on his shoulder.

"'Jimmie!' says I.

"He would not take his hands from his eyes.

"'Hush!' says I, for I had forgot that he was no more a child. 'Don't cry!'

"He cotched my hand, sir, jus' like he used t'do.

"'T' me,' says I, 'you'll always be the same little lad you used t' be.'

"It eased un: poor little Jimmie Tool!"

Tumm's face had not relaxed. 'Twas grim as ever. But I saw--and turned away--that tears were upon the seamed, bronzed cheeks. I listened to the wind blowing over Jump Harbor, and felt the oppression of the dark night, which lay thick upon the roads once known to the feet of this gray-eyed Jimmie Tool. My faith was turned gray by the tale. "Ecod!" Tumm burst in upon my musing, misled, perhaps, by this ancient sorrow, "I'm glad _I_ didn't make this damned world! An', anyhow," he continued, with a snap of indignation, "what happened after that was all done as _among men_. Wasn't no cryin'--least of all by Jim Tool. When the _Billy Boy_ beat back t' pick us up, all hands turned out t' fish Archibald Shott from the breakers, an' then we stowed un away in a little place by Tatter Brook, jus' where the water tumbles down the hill. Jim 'lowed he might as well be took back an' hanged in short order. The sooner, he says, the better it would suit. 'Lizabeth was dead, an' Arch was dead, an' he might as well go, too. Anyhow, says he, he _ought_ to. But Skipper Alex wouldn't hear to it. Wasn't no time, says he; the crew couldn't afford to lose the v'y'ge; an', anyhow, says he, Jim wasn't in no position t' ask favors. So 'twas late in the fall, sir, afore Jim was give into the hands o' the Tilt Cove constable. Then Jim an' me an' the skipper an' some o' the crew put out for St. John's, where Jim had what they called his trial. An' Jim 'lowed that if the jury could do so 'ithout drivin' theirselves, an' would jus' order un hanged as soon as convenient, why, he'd be 'bliged. An'--"

Tumm paused.

"Well?" I interrogated.

"The jury," Tumm answered, "_jus' wouldn't do it_!"

"And Jimmie?"

"Jus' fishin'."

Poor little Jimmie Tool!

V--THE FOOL OF SKELETON TICKLE

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

* * * * *

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

I nodded.

"First," he continued, gravely important, as one who discloses a mystery, "I am tell you thee name of thee beeg fool. James All--his name. Ol' bach. Ver' ol' bach. Ver' rich man. Ho! mos' rich. You not theenk? Ver' well. I am once hear tell he have seven lobster-tin full of gold. Mygod! I am mos' put crazy. Lobster-tin--seven! An' he have half-bushel of silver dollar. How he get it? Ver' well. His gran'-father work ver' hard; his father work ver' hard; all thee gold come to this man, an' _he_ work ver', ver' hard. They work fearful--in thee gale, in thee cold; they work, work, work, for thee gold. Many, many year ago, long time past, thee gold be-geen to have save. It be-geen to have save many year afore I am born. Eh? Fun-ee t'ing! They work, work, work; but _I_ am not work. Oh no! I am leetle baby. They save, save, save; but _I_ am not save. Oh no! I am foolsh boy, in Damascus. Ver' well. By-'n'-by I am thee growed man, an' they have fill thee seven lobster-tin with thee gold. For what? Eh? I am tell you what for. Ha! I am show you I am ver' good business man. I am thee ver' mos' bes' business man in Newf'un'lan'."

My glance, quick, suspicious, was not of the kindest, and it caught his eye.

"You theenk I have get thee gold?" he asked, archly. "You theenk I have get thee seven lobster-tin?... Mygod!" he cried, throwing up his hands in genuine horror. "You theenk I have _steal_ thee gold? No, no! I am ver' hones' business man. I say my prayer all thee nights. I geeve nine dollar fifty to thee Orth'dox Church in Washin'ton Street in one year. I am thee mos' hones' business man in Newf'un'lan'--an'" (significantly), "I am _ver' good_ business man."

His eyes were guileless....

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

"Look!"

I followed the lean, brown finger to a spot on a bare hill--a sombre splash of black.

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

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

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

The peddler was gravely silent for a space.

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

"'Where Skip' Jim house?' I say.

"'Burn down,' they say.

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

"'All spoil,' they say.

"I am not theenk what they mean. 'Oh, dear!' I say. 'Where Skip' Jim?'

"'You fin' Skip' Jim at thee Skip' Bill Tissol's house.'

"'Oh, my!' I say. 'I am mos' sad. I am go geeve thee pit-ee to poor Skip' Jim.'"

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

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

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

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

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

"'Thee boy of Skip' Elisha,' he say.

"'Oh, Skip' Jim,' I say, 'what have you do by thee wicked boy?'

"'What have I do?' he say. 'He cannot have mend thee bad business. What have I do? I am not wish thee hurt to thee poor, poor boy.'

"There sit thee beeg fool--thee ver' beeg fool--thee mos' fearful fool in all thee worl'. Ol' Skip' Jim All--thee beeg fool! There he sit, by thee 'lone; an' the heap of good gold is on thee table; an' the candle is burnin'; an' the beeg white wheesk-airs is ver' white an' mos' awful long; an' thee beeg han's is on thee gold, an' thee salt-sores from thee feeshin' is on thee han's; an' thee tear is in thee ol' eyes of ol' Skip' Jim All. So once more I pray thee good God to be made ver' good business man for thee one hour; an' I close thee door ver' tight.

"'Oh, Tom Shiva,' he says, 'I am ruin'!'

"'Ver' sad,' I say. 'Oh, dear!'

"'I am ruin'--ruin'!' he say. 'Oh, I am ruin'! What have I do?'

"'Ver', ver' sad,' I say. 'Oh, Skip' Jim,' I say, 'tis ver' sad!'

"'Ruin'!' he say. 'I am not be rich no more. I am ver' poor man, Tom Shiva. I am once be rich; but I am not be rich no more.'

"I am not know what he mean. 'Not be rich no more?' I say. 'Not be rich no more?'

"'Look!' he say. 'Look, Tom Shiva! Thee gold! Thee seven lobster-tin of gold!'

"'I am see, Skip' Jim,' I say.

"'Ah,' he say, in thee mos' awful, thee ver' mos' awful, speak, 'it is all spoil'! It is all spoil'! I am ruin'!'

"Then I am pray mos' fearful hard to be ver' good business man for thee one hour. Ver' well. I look at thee gold. Do I know what he have mean? God is good! I do. Ver' well. Thee gold is come out of the fire. What happen? Oh, ver' well! It have be melt. What ver' beeg fool is he! It have be melt. All? No! Thee gold steek together; thee gold melt in two; thee gold be in thee beeg lump; thee gold be damage'. What this fool theenk? Ah! Pooh! This fool theenk thee gold have be all spoil'. Good gold? No, spoil' gold! No good no more. Ruin'? I am ver' good business man. I see what he have mean. Ah, my heart! It jump, it swell, it choke me, it tumble into the belly, it stop; it hurt me mos' awful. I am theenk I die. Thee good God have answer thee prayer. 'O my God,' I pray once more, 'this man is ver' beeg fool. Make Tanous Shiva good business man. It have be ver', ver' easy t'ing to do, O God!'

"'Spoil', Skip' Jim?' I say.

"'All spoil', Tom Shiva,' he say. 'Thee gold no good.'

"'Ver' sad to be ruin',' I say. 'Oh, Skip' Jim, ver' sad to be ruin'. I am ver', ver' sad to see you ruin'.'

"'Tom Shiva,' he say, 'you ver' good man.'

"'Skip' Jim,' I say, 'I have love you ver' much.'

"'Oh, Tom Shiva,' thee beeg fool say, 'I am thank you ver' hard.'

"'Oh yess, Skip' Jim,' I say, 'I am love you ver', ver' much.'

"He shake my han'.

"'I am love you ver' much, Skip' Jim,' I say, 'an' I am ver' good man.'

"My han' it pinch me ver' sore, Skip' Jim shake it so hard with thee beeg, black han' he have. Thee han' of thee feesherman is ver', ver' beeg, ver' strong. Thee ver' hard work make it ver' beeg an' strong.

"'Skip' Jim,' I say, 'I am poor man. But not ver' poor. I am have leet-tle money. I am wish thee help to you. I am _buy_ thee spoil' gold.'

"'Buy thee gold?' he say. 'Oh, Tom Shiva. All spoil'. Look! All melt. Thee gold no good no more.'

"'I am buy thee gold from you,' I say, 'Skip' Jim, my friend.'

"'Ver' good friend, you, Tom Shiva,' he say; 'ver' good friend to me.'

"I am look at him ver' close. I am theenk what he will take. 'I am geeve you,' I say, 'I am geeve you,' Skip' Jim,' I say--

"Then I stop.

"'What you geeve me for thee spoil' gold?' he say.

"'I am geeve you,' I say, 'for thee spoil' gold an' for thee half-bushel of spoil' silver,' I say, 'I am geeve you seventy-five dollar.'

"Then _he_ get ver' good business man in the eye.

"'Oh no!' he say. 'I am want one hundred dollar.'

"I shake my head. 'Oh, Skip' Jim!' I say. 'Shame to have treat thee friend so! I am great friend to you, Skip' Jim,' I say. 'But,' I say, 'business is business. Skip' Jim,' I say, 'let us have pray.'

"What you theenk? What you theenk this ver' beeg fool do? How I laugh inside! 'Let us have pray, Skip' Jim,' I say. What you theenk he do? Eh? Not pray? Ver' religious man, Skip' Jim--ver', ver' religious. Pray? Oh, I know _him_. Pray? You bet he pray! You ask Skip' Jim to pray, an' he pray--oh, he pray, you bet! 'O God,' he pray, 'I am ver' much 'blige' for Tom Shiva. I am ver' much 'blige' he come to Skeleton Teekle. I am ver' much 'blige' he have thee soft heart. I am ver' much 'blige' you fix thee heart to help poor ol' Skip' Jim. He good Jew, O God.' (Pooh! I am Syrian man--not Jew. But I am not tell, for I am ver' good business man). 'Forgive this poor Tom Shiva, O my dear God!'

"I get ver' tired with thee prayin'. I am ver' good business man. I am want thee gold.

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

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

"'I am want one hundred dollar,' he say, ver' cross, 'for thee heap of spoil' gold an' silver. Thee God is bus-ee. I am do this business by thee 'lone. Thee dear God is ver', ver' bus-ee jus' now. I am not bother him no more.'

"'Ver' well,' I say. 'I am geeve you eighty.'

"'Come,' he say; 'ninety will have do.'

"'Ver' well,' I say. 'You are my friend. I geeve you eighty-five.'

"'Ver' well,' he say. 'I am love you ver' much, Tom Shiva. I take it. Ver' kind of you, Tom Shiva, to buy all thee spoil' gold an' silver. I am hope you have not lose thee money.'

"I am ver' hones' business man. Eh? What I say? I say I lose thee money? No, no! I am thee ver' mos' hones' business man in Newf'un'lan'. I am too hones' to say thee lie.

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

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