"'You been lappin' rum, Skipper Sammy,' says I, 'an' you mark me, your judgment is at fault.'

"A squall o' wind near foundered the ol' feller; but he took a reef in his c.o.o.n-skin coat an' weathered it. 'I'm jus' standin' by the teachin' o' my youth,' says he; 'an' they isn't no meanness in my heart. Give me your hand, Tumm, an' we'll do better in these rough places. How she blows! An' they's a chill comin' down with the wind.

My bones is old, Tumm; they hurts me, an' it seems t' me I hears un creak. Somehow or other,' says he, 'I'm all tired out.'

"When we got aboard the _Royal Bloodhound_, Cap'n Sammy bucked the ship within thirty fathoms of the tramp an' lay to. 'Nothin' t' do now, Tumm,' says he, 'but take it easy. All my swilin' life,' says he, 'I been wantin' t' cotch a tramp Britisher in a mess like this; an'

now that I is cotched one, on my last cruise, I 'low I might as well enjoy myself. I'm all in a shiver, an' I'm goin' t' have a gla.s.s o'

rum.' An' off he went to his cabin; an' there, ecod! he kep' his ol'

bones till long after noon, while the gale made up its mind t' come down an' work its will. Some time afore dark, I found un there still, with a bottle beside un. He was keepin' a little green eye on a Yankee alarm-clock. 'There's another minute gone,' says he, 'an' that's another dollar. How's the wind? Comin' down at last? Good--that's good! 'Twon't be long afore that tramp begins t' yelp. Jus' about time for _me_ t' have a dram o' rum, if I'm t' keep on ridin' easy. Whew!'

says he, when the dram was down, 'there's three more minutes gone, an'

that's three more dollars. Been waitin' all my swilin' life t' squeeze a tramp; an' now I'm havin' a right good time doin' of it. I got a expensive son t' fetch up,' says he, 'an' I needs all the money I can lay my hooks on. There's another minute gone.' He was half-seas-over now: not foundered--he'd ever a cautious hand with a bottle--but well smothered. An' I've wondered since--ay, an' many's the time--jus' what happened up Aloft t' ease off Sam Small's meanness in that hour. He'd never been mastered afore by rum: that I'll be bound for--an' never his own rum. 'I got a expensive son t' raise,' says he, 'an' I wants t' lay my paws on cash. There's another minute gone!' Queer work, this, o' the A'mighty's: rum had loosed the ol' man's greed beyond caution; an' there sot he, in liquor, dreamin' dreams, to his death, for the son of the flaxen girl he'd wronged.

"I stepped outside; but a squall o' soggy wind slapped me in the face--a gust that tweaked my whiskers--an' I jumped back in a hurry t'

Skipper Sammy's cabin. 'Cap'n Sammy, sir,' says I, 'the gale's down.'

"'The wind,' says he, 'has the habit o' blowin' in March weather.'

"'I don't like it, sir,' says I.

"'Well,' says he, 'I got a young spendthrift t' fetch up, isn't I?'

"'Still an' all, sir,' says I, 'I don't like it.'

"'Damme, Tumm!' says he, 'isn't you got nothin' better t' do than stand there carpin' at G.o.d A'mighty's wind?'

"'They's a big field o' ice t' win'ward, sir,' says I. ''Tis comin'

down with the gale; 'twill ram this pack within the hour.'

"'You stand by,' says he, 't' take a line from that tramp when she yelps.'

"'Cap'n Sammy, sir,' says I, 'the ship lies badly. She'll never weather----'

"'Mr. Tumm,' says he, 'you got your orders, isn't you?'

"When Cap'n Sammy fixed his little green squint on me in jus' that frosty way I knowed my duty. 'I is, sir,' says I.

"'Then,' says he, 'h'ist your canvas. There's another minute gone!'

"By this time the wind was leapin' out o' the nor'west. Fog was come down with the gale, too. 'Twas fallin' thick weather. Comin' on dusk, now, too. The big, black tramp, showin' hazy lights, was changed to a shadow in the mist. The pack had begun t' heave an' grind. I could feel the big pans get restless. They was shiftin' for ease. I could hear un crack. I could hear un crunch. Not much noise yet, though: not much wind yet. But 'twas no fair prospect for the night. Open water--in a shift o' the ice--was but half a league t' the nor'west, a bee-line into the gale's eye. The wind had packed the slob about the ships. It had jammed half a league o' ice against the body o' the big pack t' the sou'east. In the nor'west, too, was another floe. 'Twas there, in the mist, an' 'twas comin' down with the wind. It cotched the first of the gale; 'twas free t' move, too. 'Twould overhaul us soon enough. Ever see the ice rafter, sir? No? Well, 'tis no swift collison. 'Tis horrible an' slow. No shock at all: jus' slow pressure.

The big pans rear. They break--an' tumble back. Fields--acres big--slip one atop o' the other. Hummocks are crunched t' slush. The big bergs topple over. It always makes me think o' h.e.l.l, somehow--the wind, the night, the big white movin' shapes, the crash an' thunder of it, the ghostly screeches. An' the _Claymore's_ iron plates was doomed; an' the _Royal Bloodhound_ could escape on'y by good luck or the immediate attention o' the good G.o.d A'mighty.

"Jus' afore dark I come t' my senses.

"'What's _this_!' thinks I.

"I waited.

"'Wind's haulin' round a bit,' thinks I.

"I waited a spell longer t' make sure.

"'Jumpin' round t' the s'uth'ard,' thinks I, 'by Heavens!' I made for the skipper's cabin with the news. 'Cap'n Sammy, sir,' says I, 'the wind's haulin' round t' the s'uth'ard.'

"'_Wind's what!_' Cap'n Sammy yelled.

"'Goin' round t' the s'uth'ard on the jump,' says I.

"Cap'n Sammy bounced out on deck an' turned his gray ol' face t' the gale. An' 'twas true: the wind was swingin' round the compa.s.s; every squall that blew was a point off. An' Cap'n Sammy seed in a flash that they wasn't no dollar a minute for he if Cap'n Wrath knowed what the change o' wind meant. For look you, sir! when the wind was from the nor'west, it jammed the slob against the pack behind us, an' fetched down the floe t' win'ard; but blowin' strong from southerly parts, 'twould not only halt the floe, but 'twould loosen the pack in which we lay, an' scatter it in the open water half a league t' the nor'west. In an hour--if the wind went swingin' round--the _Royal Bloodhound_ an' the _Claymore_ would be floatin' free. An' round she went, on the jump; an' she blowed high--an' higher yet--with every squall.

"I jumped when I cotched sight o' Cap'n Sammy's face. 'Twas ghastly--an' all in a sour pucker o' wrinkles. Seemed, too, that his voice had got lost in his throat. 'Tumm,' says he, 'fetch my c.o.o.n-skin coat. I'm goin' aboard Cap'n Wrath,' says he, 't' reason.'

"'You'll never do _that_!' says I.

"'I wants my tow,' says he; 'an' Cap'n Wrath is a warm-water sailor, an' won't know what this ice will do.'

"'Skipper Sammy,' says I, ''tis no fit time for any man t' be on the ice. The pack's goin' abroad in this wind.'

"'I'm used t' the ice from my youth up,' says he, 'an' I'll manage the pa.s.sage.'

"'Man,' says I, 'the night's near down!'

"'Mr. Tumm, I'm a kindly skipper,' says he, 'but I haves my way. My c.o.o.n-skin coat, sir!'

"I fetched it.

"'Take the ship, Mr. Tumm,' says he; 'an' stand aside, sir, an you please!'

"Touched with rum, half mad o' balked greed, with a face like wrinkled foolscap, Small Sam Small went over the side, in his c.o.o.nskin coat.

The foggy night fell down. The lights o' the _Claymore_ showed dim in the drivin' mist. The wind had its way. An' it blowed the slob off t'

sea like feathers. What a wonder o' power is the wind! An' the sea begun t' hiss an' swell where the ice had been. From the fog come the clang o' the _Claymore's_ telegraph, the chug-chug of her engines, an'

a long howl o' delight as she gathered way. 'Twas no time at all, it seemed t' me, afore we lost her lights in the mist. An' in that black night--with the wind t' smother his cries--we couldn't find Sammy Small.

"The wind fell away at dawn," Tumm went on. "A gray day: the sea a cold gray--the sky a drear color. We found Skipper Sammy, close t'

noon, with fog closin' down, an' a drip o' rain fallin'. He was squatted on a pan o' ice--broodin'--wrapped up in his c.o.o.nskin coat.

'Tumm,' says he, 'carry my ol' bones aboard.' An' he said never a word more until we had un stretched out in his bunk an' the chill eased off. 'Tumm,' says he, 'I got everything fixed in writin', in St.

John's, for--my son. I've made you executor, Tumm, for I knows you haves a kindly feelin' for the lad, an' an inklin', maybe, o' the kind o' man I wished I was. A fair lad: a fine, brave lad, with a free hand. I'm glad he knows how t' spend. I made my fortune, Tumm, as I made it; an' I'm glad--I'm proud--I'm mighty proud--that my son will spend it like a gentleman. I loves un. An' you, Tumm, will teach un wisdom an' kindness, accordin' t' your lights. That's all, Tumm: I've no more t' say.' Pretty soon, though, he run on: 'I been a mean man.

But I'm not overly sorry now: for hunger an' hardship will never teach my son evil things o' the world G.o.d made. I 'low, anyhow,' says he, 'that G.o.d is even with me. But I don't know--I don't know.' You see,"

Tumm reflected, "'tis wisdom t' _get_ an' t' _have_, no doubt; but 'tis not the whole o' wisdom, an' 'tis a mean poor strand o' Truth t'

hang the weight of a life to. Maybe, then," he continued, "Small Sam Small fell asleep. I don't know. He was quite still. I waited with un till twilight. 'Twas gray weather still--an' comin' on a black night.

The ship pitched like a gull in the spent swell o' the gale. Rain fell, I mind. Maybe, then, Skipper Sammy didn't quite know what he was sayin'. Maybe not. I don't know. 'Tumm,' says he, 'is you marked his eyes? Blood back o' them eyes, sir--blood an' a sense o' riches. His strut, Tumm!' says he. 'Is you marked the strut? A little game-c.o.c.k, Tumm--a gentleman's son, every pound an' inch of un! A fine, fair lad.

My lad, sir. An' he's a free an' genial spender, G.o.d bless un!'

"Skipper Sammy," Tumm concluded, "died that night."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "We found Skipper Sammy squatted on a pan of ice."]

The gale was still blowing in Right-an'-Tight Cove of the Labrador, where the schooner _Quick as Wink_ lay at anchor: a black gale of fall weather.