"'Too late,' says he; 'you see, I'm fashioned.'

"He was."

Tumm laughed a little.

Tumm warned us: "You'll withhold your pity for a bit, I 'low. 'Tis not yet due ol' Small Sam Small." He went on: "Small? An'--an' ecod! Small Sam Small! He gained the name past middle age, they says, long afore I knowed un; an' 'tis a pretty tale, as they tells it. He skippered the _Last Chance_--a Twillingate fore-an'-after, fishin' the Labrador, hand an' trap, between the Devil's Battery an' the Barnyards--the Year o' the Third Big Haul. An' it seems he fell in love with the cook. G.o.d save us! Sam Small in love with the cook! She was the on'y woman aboard, as it used t' be afore the law was made for women; an' a sweet an' likely maid, they says--a rosy, dimpled, good-natured la.s.s, hailin' from down Chain Tickle way, but over-young an' trustful, as it turned out, t' be voyagin' north t' the fishin' with the likes o'

Small Sam Small. A hearty maid, they says--blue-eyed an' flaxen--good for labor an' quick t' love. An' havin' fell in love with her, whatever, Small Sam Small opened his heart for a minute, an' give her his silver watch t' gain her admiration. 'You'll never tell the crew, my dear,' says he, 'that I done such a foolish thing!' So the maid stowed the gift in her box--much pleased, the while, they says, with Small Sam Small--an' said never a word about it. She'd a brother t'

home, they says--a wee bit of a chappie with a lame leg--an' thinks she, 'I'll give Billy my silver watch.'

"But Sam Small, bein' small, repented the gift; an' when the _Last Chance_ dropped anchor in Twillingate harbor, loaded t' the gunwales with green fish, he come scowlin' on deck.

"'They isn't none o' you goin' ash.o.r.e yet,' says he.

"'Why not?' says they.

"'They isn't none o' you goin' ash.o.r.e,' says he, 'afore a constable comes aboard.'

"'What you wantin' a constable for?' says they.

"'They isn't none o' you goin' ash.o.r.e afore this schooner's searched,'

says he. 'My silver watch is stole.'

"'Stole!' says they.

"'Ay,' says he; 'somebody's took my silver watch.'"

Tumm paused.

"Tumm," the skipper of the _Quick as Wink_ demanded, "what become o'

that there little maid from Chain Tickle?"

"Well," Tumm drawled, "the maid from Chain Tickle had her baby in jail....

"You see," Tumm ran along, in haste to be gone from this tragedy, "Sam Small _was_ small--almighty small an' mean. A gray-faced ol'

skinflint--an' knowed for such: knowed from Chidley t' Cape Race an'

the Newf'un'land Grand Banks as the meanest wolf the Almighty ever made the mistake o' lettin' loose in a kindly world--knowed for the same in every tap-room o' the St. John's waterside, from the Royal George t' the Anchor an' Chain--a lean, lanky, hunch-shouldered, ghastly ol' codger in Jews' slops an' misfits, with a long white beard, a scrawny neck, lean chops, an' squintin' little eyes, as green an' cold as an iceberg in gray weather. Honest or dishonest?--ecod!

what matter? They's nothin' so wicked as meanness. But the law hadn't cotched un: for the law winks with both eyes. 'I'm too old for crime now, an' too rich,' says he; 'but I've worked hard, accordin' t' the law o' life, as she was teached me, an' I've took chances in my time.

When I traveled the outports in my youth,' says he, 'I sold liquor for green paint an' slep' with the constable; an' the socks o' the outport fishermen, Tumm,' says he, 'holds many a half-dollar I coined in my Whoopin' Harbor days.' He'd no piety t' save his soul. 'No church for me,' says he; 'you see, I'm no admirer o' the handiwork o' G.o.d. Git, keep, an' have,' says he; 'that's the religion o' my youth, an' I'll never despite the teachin' o' them years.' Havin' no bowels o'

compa.s.sion, he'd waxed rich in his old age. 'Oh,' says he, 'I'm savin'

along, Tumm--I'm jus' savin' along so-so for a little job I got t'

do.' Savin' along? He'd two schooners fishin' the Labrador in the season, a share in a hundred-ton banker, stock in a south coast whale-factory, G.o.d knows how much yellow gold in the bank, an' a round interest in the swiler _Royal Bloodhound_, which he skippered t' the ice every spring o' the year.

"'So-so,' says he; 'jus' savin' along so-so.'

"'So-so!' says I; 'you're _rich_, Skipper Sammy.'

"'I'm not jus' in agreement with the plan o' the world as she's run,'

says he; 'but if I've a fortune t' ease my humor, I 'low the Lord gets even, after all.'

"'How so?' says I.

"'If I'm blessed with a taste for savin', Tumm,' says he, 'I'm cursed with a thirst for liquor.'

"'Twas true enough, I 'low. The handiwork o' G.o.d, in the matter o'

men's hearts, is by times beyond me t' fathom. For look you! a poor devil will want This an' crave That when This an' That are spittin'

cat an' growlin' dog. They's small hope for a man's peace in a mess like that. A lee sh.o.r.e, ecod!--breakers t' le'ward an' a brutal big wind jumpin' down from the open sea. Thirst an' meanness never yet kep' agreeable company. 'Tis a wonderful mess, ecod! when the Almighty puts the love of a penny in a mean man's heart an' tunes his gullet t'

the appreciation o' good Jamaica rum. An' I never knowed a man t'

carry a more irksome burden of appet.i.te than Small Sam Small o'

Whoopin' Harbor. 'Twas fair horrible t' see. Cursed with a taste for savin', ay, an' cursed, too, with a thirst for good Jamaica rum! I've seen his eyes glitter an' his tongue lick his lips at the sight of a bottle; an' I've heared un groan, an' seed his face screw up, when he pinched the pennies in his pocket an' turned away from the temptation t' spend. It hurt un t' the backbone t' pull a cork; he squirmed when his dram got past his Adam's apple. An', Lord! how the outport crews would grin t' see un trickle little drops o' liquor into his belly--t'

watch un shift in his chair at the Anchor an' Chain, an' t' hear un grunt an' sigh when the dram was down.

"But Small Sam Small was no toper. Half-seas-over jus' on'y once. It cost un dear.

"I sailed along o' Cap'n Sammy," Tumm resumed, "on the swilin' v'yage in the spring o' the Year o' the Westerly Gales. I mind it well: I've cause. The _Royal Bloodhound_: a stout an' well-found craft. An' a spry an' likely crew: Sam Small never lacked the pick o' the swilin'-boys when it come t' fittin' out for the ice in the spring o'

the year. He'd get his load o' fat with the cleverest skippers of un all; an' the wily skippers o' the fleet would tag the ol' rat through the ice from Battle Harbor t' the Grand Banks. 'Small Sam Small,' says they, 'will nose out them swiles.' An' Small Sam Small done it every spring o' the year. No clothes off for Small Sam Small! 'Twas tramp the deck, night an' day. 'Twas 'How's the weather?' at midnight an'

noon. 'Twas the crow's-nest at dawn. 'Twas squintin' little green eyes glued t' the gla.s.s the day long. An' 'twas 'Does you see un, lads?'

forever an' all; an' 'twas '_Damme, where's that fat?_' But 'twas now Sam Small's last v'yage, says he; he'd settle down when he made port again, an' live free an' easy in his old age, with a good fire t' warm his bones, an' a bottle at his elbow for reasonable sippin' of a cold night. A man should loosen up in his old age, says he; an' G.o.d grantin' him b.l.o.o.d.y decks an' a profitable slaughter, that v'yage, he'd settle down for good an' never leave port again. He was tired, says he; he was old--an' he was all tired out--and he'd use the comfort he'd earned in all them years o' labor an' savin'. Wasn't so much in life, after all, for a old man like him, says he, except a fireside chair, or a seat in the sunlight, with a nip o' the best Jamaica, watered t' the taste.

"'You come along o' me as mate, Tumm,' says he, 'an' I'll fill your pocket.'

"'I'm not averse t' cash,' says I.

"'These here ol' bones creaks out t' the ice for _swiles_,' says he, 'an' not for the pleasures o' cruisin'.'

"'I'll ship, Skipper Sammy,' says I. 'I'll ship with the skipper that gets the fat.'

"'You hails from Chain Tickle?' says he.

"'I does.'

"'Tumm,' says he, 'I'm a old man, an' I'm downcast in these last days; an' I been 'lowin', somehow, o' late, that a dash o' young blood in my whereabouts might cheer me up. I 'low, Tumm,' says he, 'you don't know a likely lad t' take along t' the ice an' break in for his own good?

Fifteen years or so? I'd berth un well aboard the _Bloodhound_.'

"'I does,' says I.

"'You might fetch un,' says he; 'nothin' like young blood t' cheer the aged.'

"'I'll fetch un quick enough, Skipper Sammy,' says I, 'if you'll stand by my choice.'

"'As I knowed you would, Tumm,' says he, 'you takes me cleverly.'

"It wasn't long after that afore a young lad I knowed in Chain Tickle come shoutin' down t' St. John's. A likely lad, too: blue-eyed, tow-headed, an' merry--the likes of his mother, a widow. No liar, no coward, no pinch-a-penny: a fair, frank-eyed, lovable little rascal--a forgiven young scapegrace--with no mind beyond the love an'