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

that lad?"

"Everybody knows," Tumm answered.

"What!" the skipper e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed; "you're never tellin' me he's the Honor----"

"I is," Tumm snapped, impatiently. "He's the Honorable Samuel Small, o' St. John's. 'If I'm goin' t' use my father's fortune,' says he, 'I'll wear his name.'"

"'Twas harsh," the skipper observed, "on the mother."

"No-o-o," Tumm drawled; "not harsh. She never bore no grudge against Small Sam Small--not after the baby was born. She was jus' a common ordinary woman."

IX

AN IDYL OF RICKITY TICKLE

IX

AN IDYL OF RICKITY TICKLE

No fish at Whispering Islands: never a quintal--never so much as a fin--at Come-by-Chance; and no more than a catch of tom-cod in the hopeful places past Skeleton Point of Three Lost Souls. The schooner _Quick as Wink_, trading the Newfoundland outports in summer weather, fluttered from cove to bight and tickle of the coast below Mother Burke, in a great pother of anxiety, and chased the rumor of a catch around the Cape Norman light to Pinch-a-Penny Beach. There was no fish in those places; and the _Quick as Wink_, with Tumm, the clerk, in a temper with the vagaries of the Lord, as manifest in fish and weather, spread her wings for flight to the Labrador. From Bay o' Love to Baby Cove, the hook-and-line men, lying off the Harborless Sh.o.r.e, had done well enough with the fish for folk of their ill condition, and were well enough disposed toward trading; whereupon Tumm resumed once more his genial patronage of the Lord G.o.d A'mighty, swearing, in vast satisfaction with the trade of those parts, that all was right with the world, whatever might seem at times. "In this here world, as Davy Junk used t' hold," he laughed, in extenuation of his improved philosophy, "'tis mostly a matter o' fish." And it came about in this way that when we dropped anchor at Dirty-Face Bight of the Labrador, whence Davy Junk, years ago, in the days of his youth, had issued to sail the larger seas, the clerk was reminded of much that he might otherwise have forgotten. This was of a starlit time: it was blowing softly from southerly parts, I recall; and the water lay flat under the stars--flat and black in the lee of those great hills--and the night was clear and warm and the lights were out ash.o.r.e.

"I come near not bein' very _fond_ o' Davy Junk, o' Dirty-Face Bight,"

Tumm presently declared.

"Good Lord!" the skipper taunted. "A rascal you couldn't excuse, Tumm?"

"I'd no fancy for his _religion_," Tumm complained.

"What religion?"

"Well," the clerk replied, in a scowling drawl, "Skipper Davy always 'lowed that in this here d.a.m.ned ol' world a man had t' bite or get bit. An' as for his manner o' courtin' a maid in consequence----"

"Crack on!" said the skipper.

And Tumm yarned to his theme....

"Skipper Davy was well-favored enough, in point o' looks, for fishin'

the Labrador," he began; "an' I 'low, with the favor he had, such as 'twas, he might have done as well with the maids as the fish, courtin'

as he cotched--ay, an' made his everlastin' fortune in love, I'll be bound, an' kep' it at compound interest through the eternal years--had his heart been as tender as his fear o' the world was large, or had he give way, by times, t' the kindness o' soul he was born with. A scrawny, pinch-lipped, mottled little runt of a Labrador skipper, his face all screwed up with peerin' for trouble in the mists beyond the waters o' the time: he was born here at Dirty-Face Bight, but sailed the _Word o' the Lord_ out o' Rickity Tickle, in the days of his pride, when I was a lad o' the place; an' he cotched his load, down north, lean seasons or plenty, in a way t' make the graybeards an'

boasters blink in every tickle o' the Sh.o.r.e. A fish-killer o' parts he was: no great spectacle on the roads o' harbor, though--a mild, backward, white-livered little man ash.o.r.e, yieldin' the path t' every dog o' Rickity Tickle. 'I gets my fish in season,' says he, 'an' I got a right t' mind my business between whiles.' But once fair out t' sea, with fish t' be got, an' the season dirty, the devil hisself would drive a schooner no harder than Davy Junk--not even an the Ol' Rascal was trappin' young souls in lean times, with revivals comin' on like fall gales. Neither looks nor liver could keep Davy in harbor in a gale o' wind, with a trap-berth t' be s.n.a.t.c.hed an' a schooner in the offing; nor did looks hamper un in courtship, an' that's my yarn, however it turns out, for his woe or salvation. 'Twas sheer perversity o' religion that kep' his life anch.o.r.ed in Bachelors' Harbor--'A man's got t' bite or get bit!'

"Whatever an' all, by some mischance Davy Junk was fitted out with red hair, a bony face, lean, gray lips, an' sharp an' shifty little eyes.

He'd a sly way, too, o' smoothin' his restless lips, an' a mean habit o' lookin' askance an' talkin' in whispers. But 'twas his eyes that startled a stranger. Ah-ha, they was queer little eyes, sot deep in a cramped face, an' close as evil company, each peekin' out in distrust o' the world; as though, ecod, the world was waitin' for nothin' so blithely as t' strike Davy Junk in a mean advantage! Eyes of a wolf-pup. 'Twas stand off a pace, with Davy, on first meetin', an' eye a man 'til he'd found what he wanted t' know; an' 'twas sure with the look of a Northern pup o' wolf's breedin', no less, that he'd search out a stranger's intention--ready t' run in an' bite, or t' dodge the toe of a boot, as might chance t' seem best. 'Twas a thing a man marked first of all; an' he'd marvel so hard for a bit, t' make head an' tale o' the glance he got, that he'd hear never a word o' what Davy Junk said. An' without knowin' why, he'd be ashamed of hisself for a cruel man. 'G.o.d's sake, Skipper Davy!' thinks he; 'you needn't be afeared o' _me_! _I_ isn't goin' t' touch you!' An' afore he knowed it he'd have had quite a spurt o' conversation with Davy, without sayin' a word, but merely by means o' the eyes; the upshot bein'

this: that he'd promise not t' hurt Davy, an' Davy'd promise not t'

hurt he.

"Thereafter--the thing bein' settled once an' for all--'twas plain sailin' along o' Davy Junk.

"'Skipper Davy,' says I, 'what you afeared of?'

"He jumped. 'Me?' says he, after a bit. 'Why?'

"'Oh,' says I, 'I'm jus' curious t' know.'

"'I've noticed, Tumm,' says he, 'that you is a wonderful hand t' pry into the hearts o' folk. But I 'low you doesn't mean no harm. That's jus' Nature havin' her way. An' though I isn't very fond o' Nature, I got t' stand by her dealin's here below. So I'll answer you fair. Why, lad,' says he, '_I_ isn't afeared o' nothin'!'

"'You're wary as a wolf, man!'

"'I bet you I _is_!' says he, in a flash, with his teeth shut. 'A man's _got_ t' be wary.'

"'They isn't n.o.body wants t' hurt a mild man like you.'

"'Pack o' wolves in this here world,' says he. 'No mercy nowhere. You bites or gets bit.'

"Well, well! 'Twas news t' the lad that was I. 'Who tol' you so?' says I.

"'Damme!' says he, 'I found it out.'

"'How?'

"'Jus' by livin' along t' be thirty-odd years.'

"'Why, Skipper Davy,' says I, 'it looks t' me like a kind an' lovely world!'

"'You jus' wait 'til you're thirty-two, like me,' says he, 'an' see how you likes it.'

"'You can't scare _me_, Skipper Davy!'

"'World's full o' wolves, I tells you!'