Part 14

"'Twas high time for me now t' sail the Labrador," Tumm resumed, "an' I was in a pother o' longin' t' go. Sixteen--an' never a sight o' Mugford! I was fair ashamed t' look Bessie Tot in the eye. Dear heart!--she ever loved courage in a man, an' the will t' labor, too, an' t' be. An' so--'Ecod!' thinks I, on the way home that night, 'I'll sail along o' Davy Junk, an' prove my spirit, withal, for the whole world t' see. An' I 'low that _now_, knowin' me so well as he does, Davy'll ship me.' But my mother said me nay--until I pestered her skirts an' her poor heart beyond bearin'; an' then all at once she cried, an' kissed me, an' cried a bit more, an' kissed me again, an' hugged me, an' 'lowed that a lad had t' be a man _some_ time, whatever happened, an' bade me sail along o' Skipper Davy an he'd take me, which he never would do, thinks she. It come about, whatever an' all, that I found Skipper Davy on the doorstep of his spick-an'-span cottage by Blow-Me, near the close o' that day, with night fallin' with poor promise, an' the wind adverse an' soggy with fog. An' thinks I, his humor would be bad, an' he'd be cursin' the world an' the weather an' all in the way he'd the bad habit o' doin'. But no such thing; he was as near to a smile o' satisfaction with hisself as Davy Junk could very well come with the bad habit o' lips an' brows he'd contracted. For look you!--a scowl is a twist o' face with some men; but with Davy his smile was a twist that had t' be _kep'_ twisted.

"'Evil weather, Skipper Davy,' says I.

"'Oh no,' says he. 'It all depends on how you _looks_ at it.'

"'But you're not in the habit o' lookin'----'

"'I'm learnin' t' peep,' says he.

"I'd no means of accountin' for _that_! 'Foul weather, an' no talkin', man,' says I, 'for the Labrador bound!'

"'What's the sense o' naggin' the _weather_?' says he. 'Isn't you able t' leave her alone, Tumm? Give her time, lad, an' she'll blow fair. She've her humors as well as we, haven't she? An' she've her business, too. An' how can _you_ tell whether her business is good or evil? I tells you, Tumm, you isn't got no right t' question the weather.'

"'God's sake!' says I. 'What's happened overnight?'

"'No matter,' says he. 'I 'low a man haves the right t' _try_ a change o' mind an he wants to.'

"'Parson Tree been overhaulin' you?'

"'Oh,' says he, 'a man can put his soul shipshape without the aid of a parson.'

"'Then, Skipper Davy,' says I, with my heart in my mouth, 'I 'low I'll sail the Labrador along o' you.'

"'Not so, my son,' says he. 'By no means.'

"'I _wants_ to, Skipper Davy!'

"'You got a mother ashore,' says he.

"'Well, but,' says I, 'my mother says a lad's got t' be a man _some_ time.'

"'I can't afford t' take you, Tumm.'

"'Look you, Skipper Davy!' says I, 'I'm able-bodied for my years. None more so. Take me along o' you--an' I'll work my hands t' bloody pulp!'

"''Tis not that, Tumm,' says he. ''Tis--well--because--I've growed kind o' fond o' you overnight. We got a bit--intimate--together--an' you--was kind. Tis not my habit, lad, t' be fond o' nobody,' says he, in a flash, 'an' I'll not keep it up. I'm otherwise schooled. But, damme!' says he, 'a man's got t' go overboard _once_ in a while, whatever comes t' pass.'

"'Then sure you'll take me!'

"'I wouldn't get my fish,' says he. 'I'd be scared o' losin' you. I'd sail the _Word o' the Lord_ like a ninny. Thinks I--I got t' be careful! Thinks I--why, I can't have Tumm cast away, for what would his mother do? Thinks I--I'll reef, an' I'll harbor, an' I can't get along, an' I might hit ice, an' I might go ashore on Devil-May-Care. _An' I wouldn't get my fish!_'

"'Still an' all, I _got_ t' go!'

"'You isn't driven,' says he.

"'Skipper Davy,' says I, fair desperate, 'I got a maid.'

"'A _what_?' says he.

"'A maid, Skipper Davy,' says I, 'an' I wants with all my heart t' prove my courage.'

"'What you goin' t' do with her?'

"'I'll wed her in due season.'

"Skipper Davy jumped--an' stared at me until I fair blushed. I'd shook un well, it seemed, without knowin'--fair t' the core of his heart, as it turned out--an' I'd somehow give un a glimpse of his own young days, which he'd forgot all about an' buried in the years since then, an' couldn't now believe had been true. 'A maid?' says he then. 'A--maid! An' you'll wed her in due season! _You_, lad! Knee-high to a locust! An' you wants t' go down the Labrador t' prove your courage for the sake of a maid? For--Love! Tis not a share o' the catch you wants--'tis not altogether the sight o' strange places--'tis not t' master the tricks o' sailin'--'tis not t' learn the reefs an' berths o' the Labrador. 'Tis t' prove--your--courage! An' for the sake of a maid! Is that the behavior o' lads in the world in these times? Was it always the way--with lads? I wonder--I wonder an _I_ might ever have done _that_--in my youth!'

"I couldn't tell un.

"'Tumm,' says he, 'I'll further your purpose, God help me!'

* * * * *

"An' then the first adventure comin' down like a patch o' sunshine over the sea! Ah-ha, the glory o' that time! Sixteen--an' as yet no adventure beyond the waters of our parts! A nobbly time off Mad Mull in a easterly wind--a night on the ice in the spring o' the year--a wrecked punt in the tickle waters; but no big adventure--no right t' swagger--none t' cock my cap--an' no great tale o' the north coast t' tell the little lads o' Rickity Tickle on the hills of a Sunday afternoon. But now, at last, I'd a berth with Davy Junk, a thing beyond belief, an' I was bound out when the weather fell fair. An' out we put, in the _Word o' the Lord_, in good time; an' Skipper Davy--moved by fear of his fondness, no doubt--cuffed me from Rickity Tickle t' the Straits, an' kicked me from the Barnyards t' Thumb-an'-Finger o' Pinch-Me Head. 'I isn't able t' be partial, lad,' says he, 't' them I'm fool enough t' be fond of.' Whatever had come to un overnight at Rickity Tickle--an' however he'd learned t' peep in new ways--there was no sign o' conversion on the cruise from Rickity t' Pinch-Me. But 'twas some comfort t' be well in the lead o' the fleet in the Straits, when a westerly gale blowed the ice off-shore, an' it fair healed my bruises an' cured my dumps t' get the traps down between the Thumb an' the Finger afore a sail showed up in the gray weather t' s'uth'ard. Hard sailin', every inch o' the way down--blind an' mad. Skipper Davy at the wheel: fog alongshore, ice in the fog, reefs off the heads, an' a wind, by times, t' make the _Word o' the Lord_ howl with the labor o' drivin' north.

"I didn't ease up on my prayers afore the anchor was down an' the _Word o' the Lord_ got her rest in the lee o' Pinch-Me.

"'Feelin' better, Tumm?' says Skipper Davy.

"'I is.'

"'Don't you mind them few little kicks an' cuffs,' says he; 'they was jus' meant t' harden you up.'

"'My duty,' says I.

"'I isn't very used t' bein' fond o' nobody,' says he, 'an' 'tis on my conscience t' make a man o' your mother's son. An', moreover,' says he, ''tis on my conscience t' teach you the worth of a dollar in labor.'

"'My duty, Skipper Davy.'

"'Oh,' says he, 'you don't owe me nothin', I'm deep in debt t' you.'

"'Twas a harsh season for Labrador-men. Fish? Fish enough--but bitter t' take from the seas off Pinch-Me. The wind was easterly, raw, wet, an' foggy, blowin' high an' low, an' the ice went scrapin' down the coast, an' the big black-an'-white seas come tumblin' in from Greenland. There was no lee for the _Word o' the Lord_ in that weather: she lied off the big cliffs o' Pinch-Me, kickin' her heels, writhin' about, tossin' her head; an' many's the time, in the drivin' gales o' that season, I made sure she'd pile up on the rocks, in the frothy little cove between the Thumb an' the Finger, where the big waves went t' smash with a boom-bang-swish an' hiss o' drippin' thunder. By day 'twas haul the traps--pull an oar an' fork the catch with a back on fire, cracked hands, salt-water sores t' the elbow, soggy clothes, an' an empty belly; an' by night 'twas split the fish--slash an' gut an' stow away, in the torchlight, with sticky eyelids, hands an' feet o' lead, an' a neck as limp as death. I learned a deal about life--an' about the worth of a dollar in labor. 'Take that!' says Skipper Davy, with the toe of his boot, 'an' I'm sorry t' have to do it, but you can't fall asleep on a stack o' green cod at two o'clock in the mornin' an' be a success in life. Try _that_!' says he, with the flat of his hand, 'though it grieves me sore t' hurt you.' But whatever an' all, us loaded the _Word o' the Lord_--an' stowed the gear away, an' fell down t' sleep in our tracks, an' by an' by lied in wait for a fair wind t' the Newf'un'land outports. An' there comes a night--a fine, clear, starry night like this--with good prospects o' haulin' out at break o' day. An' I could sleep no longer, an' I went on deck alone, t' look up at the sky, an' t' dream dreams, maybe, accordin' t' my youth an' hope an' the good years I'd lived at Rickity Tickle.

"A lovely night: still an' starlit--with a flash o' northern lights abroad, an' the ol' _Word o' the Lord_ lyin' snug asleep in a slow, black sea.

"Skipper Davy come up. 'Tumm,' says he, 'is you on deck?'

"'Ay, sir.'

"'Where is you, b'y?'

"'Lyin' here, sir,' says I, 'cuddled down on a cod-net.'

"'Now that the labor is over,' says he, 'I'm all tired out an' downcast.' He sot down beside me. 'You doesn't bear no malice for all them kicks an' cuffs, does you?' says he. 'You sees, lad, I--I--isn't used t' bein' fond o' nobody--an' I 'low I don't know how very well--though I done my best.'

"'Sure,' says I, 'I've no malice?'

"'What you doin' here?' says he.

"'Lookin' up at the stars.'

"'Is you?' says he. 'What for?'

"'They're such wonderful friendly little beggars, Skipper Davy!'

"'_I_ never looks up at the stars.'

"'They're friends o' _mine_!'

"'Not bein' very much in favor o' the world!' says he, 'I doesn't countenance the stars.'

"An' all at once I turned to un in a sweat an' shiver o' fear. Not countenance the stars! Here, then, another flash o' light upon the big mystery! Now first I glimpsed the end of a path of evil. Not countenance the stars! Could a man truly come t' such a sad pass in God's good world? I knowed evil: all lads knows it, t' be sure--its first gates in the world: not its last places. An' they stand without, in fair meadows, an' peep beyond--an' wonder, an' ponder, an' wish with all their young, eager hearts t' follow the paths an' learn. An' we that are growed forget the wonder an' the wish--an' show no scars that we can hide, an' draw the curtain upon our ways, an' make mockery o' truth, an' clothe our hearts in hypocrisy, an' offer false example, an' lie of our lives an' souls, lest we stand ashamed. 'Tis a cruel fate for lads, it may be, an' a deceitful prophecy. I knows little enough about life, but exhibit my ways, whatever an' all, for the worth they may have; an had I my will in the world, I'd light the country beyond the gates, ecod! an' with my own hands stir up all the beasts! Not countenance the stars! 'Twas a vision again for the lad that was I--first glimpse o' the end of any path of evil. 'I must guard my soul,' thinks the lad that was I, in his heart, 'lest I come to a pass like this.'

* * * * *

"There was light abroad by this time: a big, golden, jolly moon, peepin' over the black cliffs o' Thumb-an'-Finger, not ashamed t' grin its fellowship with sea an' stars an' all the handiwork o' God. An' all the world save Davy Junk--all the world from the ragged hills t' the rim o' the sea--from the southern stars fair north t' the long, white lights--was at peace in the night. An' then Skipper Davy said: 'I done jus' what you tol' me, Tumm, afore us put out from Rickity Tickle. I--I--done a deal for Janet Luff's child--an' I've no complaint t' make. I made haste, lad, as you said, an' got there first, an' done the good deed, an' knowed 'twas a good deed; an' I been a sight happier ever since--though I'm woebegone enough, God knows! But the windows o' my soul is cleaner. I'm awakened. I been sort o' converted--t' love. An' comin' down the coast--an' here at the fishin', with the gales ill-minded an' steeped in hate, an' the Thumb an' the Finger jus' waitin' t' le'ward t' pinch us all t' death--I been broodin' a deal upon love. An' I'm lonely. An' now, Tumm, I wants t' get married--as a lonely man will. An' they's a maid back there at Rickity Tickle that I loved in my youth. She've a kind heart and a comely face. She was ever kind--an' comely. I told her once, long ago, at Dirty-Face Bight, that I--I--sort o' fancied I loved her; an' I 'lowed that once I found out that I did in truth--an' once I'd laid up a store against evil times--that I--I--I'd ask her t' wed me. An' I knowed that I loved her all the time. An' she said--that she'd wait. An' she've--waited. I 'low, Tumm, that you might help me in this pass--for you're young, an' in love, an' in touch with the ways o' courtship, an' I'm old, an' crabbed, an' tired, an' afraid o' the world, an' I've no admiration for the man that I is. Eh, Tumm, lad? Think you might--serve me?'

"'Skipper Davy,' says I, 'I'll do my level best.'

"'A fair night,' says he. 'Breezin' up a bit from the north. I 'low we'll get underway at dawn. Is you--is you--well acquainted with Mary Land?'

"'Sure,' says I, 'she nursed me!'

"'She's the maid,' says he, 'that's waited.'

"'An' you,' says I, in a rage, 'is the man she've waited for all these years?'

"'I 'low,' says he, 'you might move her t' heed me.'

"'Well,' says I, 'I'll do what I'm able--for she.'

"'I'm much obliged,' says he; 'an' I forgives you all the grief them cuffs an' kicks has caused me.'

* * * * *

"An' so it come t' pass that when the _Word o' the Lord_ dropped anchor in Rickity Tickle--an' when I was foot-loose from the ol' craft an' had kissed my mother t' the dear woman's satisfaction--an' Bessie Tot on the sly as near t' my own as I could manage--an' when I'd swaggered the roads a bit--an' had cocked my cap, as I'd planned t' do, an' made mention o' Mugford an' Pinch-Me an' easterly weather--I spread my sails on the road t' Gull Island Cove t' warn Mary Land o' the queer news I had. She'd a place in my heart, an' in the hearts of us all, for her goodness an' wise ways--a large, warm place in mine, like a sister's nook in a young lad's heart. An' sure she was sister t' all the lads o' Rickity Tickle--love in her touch, wisdom on her lips, an' faith in her eyes. A Newf'un'land maid: buxom now, an' still rosy an' fair an' blue-eyed an' tender. But not merry at all: gone too far in years, I used t' think, for folly t' flush an' dimple her--she was goin' on thirty--but as it was, as then I knowed, too much grieved for waste o' merriment. An' when she'd hugged me, her nurseling, as she used t' say--an' when she'd noted my stride an' the spread o' my feet--an' had marked my elderly talk an' praised my growth--I told her my errand. I plumped it out, without mercy, in the way of a lad; an' she took it ill, I thought; for breath left her, an' she stared like death. An' then she begun t' cry--an' then she sobbed that she was wonderful happy--an' then she dried her poor eyes--an' then she named Davy Junk an' the good God in one long breath o' love an' thanks--an' then she smiled. An' after that she put her warm arms around me an' half hid her sweet motherly face; but yet I could see that she was flushed an' dimpled, like any young maid o' the place, an' that her eyes were both merry an' wet. An' I marveled t' learn that youth an' joy would come back in a flash o' time as soon as love beckoned a finger.

"'I loves un, Toby!' says she. 'I jus' can't help it.'

"'He've poor timber in his soul,' says I.

"She'd have none o' that! 'Oh no,' says she; 'he jus' needs--me.'

"'A poor stick for looks,' says I.

"'Ah, but,' says she, 'you didn't know un when he was _young_, Toby.'

"'Pst!' says I. 'An' he've kep' you waitin' a long time.'

"'It haven't been hard t' wait,' says she; 'for I jus' _knowed_ he'd come--when ready.'

"'I'll fetch Skipper Davy this night.'

"'Ay,' says she. 'I'm--wonderful happy.'

"'There'll be guns goin' at a weddin' in Rickity Tickle afore long,' says I, 'I'll be bound!'

"She laughed like a maid o' sixteen. 'An', ecod!' says she, 'I got a new muslin all ready t' wear!'

* * * * *

"It rained on Rickity Tickle that night: no lusty downpour--a mean, sad drizzle o' cold mist. The road t' Gull Island Cove was dark as death--sodden underfoot an' clammy with wet alder-leaves. Skipper Davy come with fair courage, laggin' a bit by the way, in the way o' lovers, thinks I, at such times. An' I'd my hand fair on the knob o' Mary Land's door--an' was jus' about t' push in--when Skipper Davy all at once cotched me by the elbow an' pulled me back t' the shadows.

"'Hist!' says he.

"'Ay?'

"'Did you--tell her outright--that I'd _take_ her?'

"'Ay, sure!'

"'No help for it, Tumm?'

"'God's sake!' says I.

"'I--I--I won't!' says he.

"An' he fled--ay, took t' the heels of un, an' went stumblin' over the road t' Rickity Tickle in the dark. I listened--helpless there at Mary Land's door--while he floundered off beyond hearin'. An' 'twas hard--a thing as bitter as perdition--t' tell Mary Land that he'd gone. T' break her heart again! God's sake! But she said: 'Hush, Toby! Don't you mind for me. I--I'm not mindin'--much. I'm used--t' waitin'.' An' then I made off for Davy Junk's spick-an'-span cottage by Blow-Me t' speak the words in my heart. Slippery rock an' splash o' mud underfoot--an' clammy alder-leaves by the wayside--an' the world in a cold drench o' misty rain--an' the night as dark as death--an' rage an' grief beyond measure in my heart. An' at last I come t' Davy Junk's cottage by Blow-Me, an' forthwith pushed in t' the kitchen. An' there sot Davy Junk, snuggled up to his own fire, his face in his hands, woebegone an' hateful of hisself an' all the world--his soul lost, not because he'd failed in love for a maid, or worked woe in a woman's heart, but because in fear o' the world he'd lived all his years in despite o' love, an' love had left un for good an' all, t' make the best of his way alone through the world he feared. He'd not look at me at all, but shifted in his chair, an' rubbed his hands, an' snuggled closer to his own fire, an' whimpered what I couldn't make out. Nor would I speak t' he afore he turned t' face me--though I'd hard labor enough t' keep my words in my throat. Whatever an' all, at last he turned. An' 'twas the old Davy Junk come t' Rickity Tickle again--the beast o' fear peerin' out from his soul through his little, mean eyes. An' I might have loathed un then--had I not pitied un so greatly.

"'I made a mistake, Tumm,' says he.

"'Ay, Skipper Davy.'

"'This here world's a wolf's world,' says he, with his teeth bared. 'An', damme, I got enough t' do t' fend for myself!'

"'Skipper Davy,' says I, 'you go t' hell!'

"'Twas the first oath ever I uttered with intention. An' I ran straightway t' Billy Tot's cottage--t' cure the taste o' the thing on my lips--an' t' ease the grief in my heart--an' t' find some new store o' faith for my soul. An' I kissed Bessie Tot fair on her rosy check in the middle o' the kitchen floor without carin' a jot who seed me."

It was the end of the yarn of Davy Junk, of Dirty-Face Bight; but Skipper Jim, of the _Quick as Wink_, being of a curious turn, presently inquired:

"What become o' Davy?"

"Lost with the _Word o' the Lord_," Tumm replied, "with all hands aboard."

"Went down in wreck," the skipper observed, "an' left nothin' but a tale."

"A tale with a moral," said I.

"Ay, an' t' be sure!" Skipper Jim agreed. "Davy Junk left a tale--with a moral."

"Damme!" Tumm exploded, "'tis as much as most men leaves!"

And the little stars winked their own knowledge and perfect understanding of the whole affair.

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