"'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' n.o.body,' 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 sc.r.a.pin' 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' n.o.body--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 pa.s.s in G.o.d'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 pa.s.s 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' G.o.d. 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, G.o.d 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 pa.s.s--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' pa.s.s 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 c.o.c.ked 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 G.o.d 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.'