Sure enough, old man Jowl came aboard the _Good Samaritan_ at Mad Tom's
Harbor to trade his fish--a lean, leathery old fellow in white moleskin,
with skin boots, tied below the knees, and a cloth cap set decorously on
a bushy head. The whole was as clean as a clothes-pin; and the punt was
well kept, and the fish white and dry and sweet to smell, as all
Newfoundland cod should be. Tumm's prediction that he would not smile
came true; his long countenance had no variation of expression--tough,
brown, delicately wrinkled skin lying upon immobile flesh. His face was
glum of cast--drawn at the brows, thin-lipped, still; but yet with an
abundant and incongruously benignant white beard which might have
adorned a prophet. For Jim Bull's widow he made way; she, said he, must
have his turn at the scales and in the cabin, for she had a baby to
nurse, and was pressed for opportunity. This was tenderness beyond
example--generous and acute. A clean, pious, gentle old fellow: he was
all that, it may be; but he had eyes to disquiet the sanctified, who are
not easily disturbed. They were not blue, but black with a blue film,
like the eyes of an old wolf--cold, bold, patient, watchful--calculating;
having no sympathy, but a large intent to profit, ultimately, whatever
the cost. Tumm had bade me look Jowl in the eye; and to this day I have
not forgotten....
* * * * *
The _Good Samaritan_ was out of Mad Tom's Harbor, bound across the bay,
after dark, to trade the ports of the shore. It was a quiet
night--starlit: the wind light and fair. The clerk and the skipper and I
had the forecastle of the schooner to ourselves.
"I 'low," Tumm mused, "_I_ wouldn't want t' grow old."
The skipper grinned.
"Not," Tumm added, "on this coast."
"Ah, well, Tumm," the skipper jeered, "maybe you won't!"
"I'd be ashamed," said Tumm.
"You dunderhead!" snapped the skipper, who was old, "on this coast an
old man's a man! He've lived through enough," he growled, "t' show it."
"'Tis accordin'," said Tumm.
"To what?" I asked.
"T' how you looks at it. In a mess, now--you take it in a nasty mess,
when 'tis every man for hisself an' the devil take the hindmost--in a
mess like that, I 'low, the devil often gets the _man_ o' the party, an'
the swine goes free. But 'tis all just accordin' t' how you looks at it;
an' as for _my_ taste, I'd be ashamed t' come through fifty year o' life
on this coast alive."
"Ay, b'y?" the skipper inquired, with a curl of the lip.
"It wouldn't _look_ right," drawled Tumm.
The skipper laughed good-naturedly.
"Now," said Tumm, "you take the case o' old man Jowl o' Mad Tom's
Harbor--"
"Excuse me, Tumm b'y," the skipper interrupted. "If you're goin' t'
crack off, just bide a spell till I gets on deck."
Presently we heard his footsteps going aft....
* * * * *
"A wonderful long time ago, sir," Tumm began, "when Jowl was in his
prime an' I was a lad, we was shipped for the Labrador aboard the _Wings
o' the Mornin'_. She was a thirty-ton fore-an'-after, o' Tuggleby's
build--Tuggleby o' Dog Harbor--hailin' from Witch Cove, an' bound down t'
the Wayward Tickles, with a fair intention o' takin' a look-in at
Run-by-Guess an' Ships' Graveyard, t' the nor'ard o' Mugford, if the
Tickles was bare. Two days out from Witch Cove, somewheres off Gull
Island, an' a bit t' the sou'west, we was cotched in a switch o'
weather. 'Twas a nor'east blow, mixed with rain an' hail; an' in the
brewin' it kep' us guessin' what 'twould accomplish afore it got tired,
it looked so lusty an' devilish. The skipper 'lowed 'twould trouble some
stomachs, whatever else, afore we got out of it, for 'twas the first
v'y'ge o' that season for every man Jack o' the crew. An' she blowed,
an' afore mornin' she'd tear your hair out by the roots if you took off
your cap, an' the sea was white an' the day was black. The _Wings o' the
Mornin'_ done well enough for forty-eight hours, an' then she lost her
grit an' quit. Three seas an' a gust o' wind crumpled her up. She come
out of it a wreck--topmast gone, spars shivered, gear in a tangle, an'
deck swep' clean. Still an' all, she behaved like a lady; she kep' her
head up, so well as she was able, till a big sea snatched her rudder;
an' then she breathed her last, an' begun t' roll under our feet, dead
as a log. So we went below t' have a cup o' tea.
"'Don't spare the rations, cook,' says the skipper. 'Might as well go
with full bellies.'
"The cook got sick t' oncet.
"'You lie down, cook,' says the skipper, 'an' leave me do the cookin'.
Will you drown where you is, cook,' says he, 'or on deck?'
"'On deck, sir,' says the cook.
"I'll call you, b'y,' says the skipper.
"Afore long the first hand give up an' got in his berth. He was
wonderful sad when he got tucked away. 'Lowed somebody might hear of it.
"'You want t' be called, Billy?' says the skipper.
"'Ay, sir; please, sir,' says the first hand.
"'All right, Billy,' says the skipper. 'But you won't care enough t' get
out.'
"The skipper was next.
"'_You goin', too!_' says Jowl.
"'You'll have t' eat it raw, lads,' says the skipper, with a white
little grin at hisself. 'An' don't rouse me,' says he, 'for I'm as good
as dead already.'
"The second hand come down an' 'lowed we'd better get the pumps goin'.
"'She's sprung a leak somewheres aft,' says he.
Jowl an' me an' the second hand went on deck t' keep her afloat. The
second hand 'lowed she'd founder, anyhow, if she was give time, but he'd
like t' see what would come o' pumpin', just for devilment. So we lashed
ourselves handy an' pumped away--me an' the second hand on one side an'
Jowl on the other. The _Wings o' the Mornin'_ wobbled an' dived an'
shook herself like a wet dog; all she wanted was a little more water in
her hold an' then she'd make an end of it, whenever she happened t' take
the notion.
"'I'm give out,' says the second hand, afore night.
"'Them men in the forecastle isn't treatin' us right,' says Jowl. 'They
ought t' lend a hand.'
"The second hand bawled down t' the crew; but nar a man would come on
deck.
"'Jowl,' says he, 'you have a try.'
"Jowl went down an' complained; but it didn't do no good. They was all
so sick they wouldn't answer. So the second hand 'lowed he'd go down an'
argue, which he foolishly done--an' never come back. An' when I went
below t' rout un out of it, he was stowed away in his bunk, all out o'
sorts an' wonderful melancholy. 'Isn't no use, Tumm,' says he. '_It_
isn't no use.'
"'Get out o' this!' says the cook. 'You woke me up!'
"I 'lowed the forecastle air wouldn't be long about persuadin' me to the
first hand's sinful way o' thinkin'. An' when I got on deck the gale
tasted sweet.
"'They isn't _treatin'_ us right,' says Jowl.
"'I 'low you're right,' says I, 'but what you goin' t' do?'
"'What you think?' says he.
"'Pump,' says I.
"'Might's well,' says he. 'She's fillin' up.'
"We kep' pumpin' away, steady enough, till dawn, which fagged us
wonderful. The way she rolled an' pitched, an' the way the big white,
sticky, frosty seas broke over us, an' the way the wind pelted us with
rain an' hail, an' the blackness o' the sky, was _mean_--just almighty
careless an' mean. An' pumpin' didn't seem t' do no good; for why? _we_
couldn't save the hulk--not us two. As it turned out, if the crew had
been fitted out with men's stomachs we might have weathered it out, an'
gone down the Labrador, an' got a load; for every vessel that got there
that season come home fished t' the gunwales. But we didn't know it
then. Jowl growled all night to hisself about the way we was treated.
The wind carried most o' the blasphemy out t' sea, where they wasn't no
lad t' corrupt, an' at scattered times a big sea would make Jowl
splutter, but I heared enough t' make me smell the devil, an' when I
seed Jowl's face by the first light I 'lowed his angry feelin's had riz
to a ridiculous extent, so that they was something more'n the weather
gone wild in my whereabouts.
"'What's gone along o' you?' says I.
"'The swine!' says he. 'Come below, Tumm,' says he, 'an' we'll give un a
dose o' fists an' feet.'
"So down we went, an' we had the whole crew in a heap on the forecastle
floor afore they woke up. Ecod! what a mess o' green faces! A
per-feck-ly limp job lot o' humanity! Not a backbone among un. An' all
on account o' their stomachs! It made me sick an' mad t' see un. The
cook was the worst of un; said we'd gone an' woke un up, just when he'd
got t' sleep an' forgot it all. Good Lord! 'You gone an' made me
remember!' says he. At that, Jowl let un have it; but the cook only
yelped an' crawled back in his bunk, wipin' the blood from his chin. For
twenty minutes an' more we labored with them sea-sick sailors, with
fists an' feet, as Jowl had prescribed. They wasn't no mercy begged nor
showed. We hit what we seen, pickin' the tender places with care, an'
they grunted an' crawled back like rats; an' out they come again, head
foremost or feet, as happened. I never seed the like of it. You could
treat un most scandalous, an' they'd do nothin' but whine an' crawl
away. 'Twas enough t' disgust you with your own flesh an' bones! Jowl
'lowed he'd cure the skipper, whatever come of it, an' laid his head
open with a birch billet. The skipper didn't whimper no more, but just
fell back in the bunk, an' lied still. Jowl said he'd be cured when he
come to. Maybe he was; but 'tis my own opinion that Jowl killed un, then
an' there, an' that he never _did_ come to. Whatever, 'twas all lost
labor; we didn't work a single cure, an' we had t' make a run for the
deck, all of a sudden, t' make peace with our own stomachs.
"'The swine!' says Jowl. 'Let un drown!'
"I 'lowed we'd better pump; but Jowl wouldn't hear to it. Not he! No
sir! He'd see the whole herd o' pigs sunk afore he'd turn a finger!
"'_Me_ pump!' says he.
"'You better,' says I.
"'For what?'
"'For your life,' says I.
"'An' save them swine in the forecastle?' says he. 'Not _me_!'
"I 'lowed it didn't matter, anyhow, for 'twas only a question o' keepin'
the _Wings o' the Mornin'_ out o' the grave for a spell longer than she
might have stayed of her own notion. But, thinks I, I'll pump, whatever,
t' pass time; an' so I set to, an' kep' at it. The wind was real
vicious, an' the seas was breakin' over us, fore an' aft an' port an'
starboard, t' suit their fancy, an' the wreck o' the _Wings o' the
Mornin'_ wriggled an' bounced in a way t' s'prise the righteous, an' the
black sky was pourin' buckets o' rain an' hail on all the world, an' the
wind was makin' knotted whips o' both. It wasn't agreeable, an'
by-an'-by my poor brains was fair riled t' see the able-bodied Jowl with
nothin' t' do but dodge the seas an' keep hisself from bein' pitched
over-board. 'Twas a easy berth _he_ had! But _I_ was busy.
"'Look you, Jowl,' sings I, 'you better take a spell at the pump.'
"'Me?' says he.
"'Yes, _you_!'
"'Oh no!' says he.
"'You think I'm goin' t' do all this labor single-handed?' says I.
"''Tis your own notion,' says he.
"'I'll see you sunk, Jowl!' says I, 'afore I pumps another stroke. If
you wants t' drown afore night I'll not hinder. Oh no, Mister Jowl!'
says I. 'I'll not be standin' in your light.'
"'Tumm,' says he, 'I got a idea.'
"'Dear man!' says I.
"'The wind's moderatin',' says he, 'an' it won't be long afore the sea
gets civil. But the _Wings o' the Mornin'_ won't float overlong. She've
been settlin' hasty for the last hour. Still an' all, I 'low I got time
t' make a raft, which I'll do.'
"'Look!' says I.
"Off near where the sun was settin' the clouds broke. 'Twas but a slit,
but it let loose a flood o' red light. 'Twas a bloody sky an' sea--red as
shed blood, but full o' the promise o' peace which follows storm, as the
good God directs.
"'I 'low,' says he, 'the wind will go down with the sun.'
"The vessel was makin' heavy labor of it. 'I bets you,' says I, 'the
_Wings o' the Mornin'_ beats un both.'
"'Time'll tell,' says he.
"I give un a hand with the raft. An' hard work 'twas; never knowed no
harder, before nor since, with the seas comin' overside, an' the deck
pitchin' like mad, an' the night droppin' down. Ecod! but I isn't able
t' tell you. I forgets what we done in the red light o' that day. 'Twas
labor for giants an' devils! But we had the raft in the water afore
dark, ridin' in the lee, off the hulk. It didn't look healthy, an' was
by no means invitin'; but the _Wings o' the Mornin'_ was about t' bow
an' retire, if the signs spoke true, an' the raft was the only hope in
all the brutal world. I took kindly t' the crazy thing--I 'low I did!
"'Tumm,' says Jowl, 'I 'low you thinks you got some rights in that
raft.'
"'I do,' says I.
"'But you isn't,' says he. 'You isn't, Tumm, because I'm a sight bigger
'n you, an' could put you off. It isn't in my mind t' do it--but I
_could_. I wants company, Tumm, for it looks like a long v'y'ge, an' I'm
'lowin' t' have you.'
"'What about the crew?' says I.
"'They isn't room for more'n two on that raft,' says he.
"'Dear God! Jowl,' says I, 'what you goin' t' do?'
"'I'm goin' t' try my level best,' says he, 't' get home t' my wife an'
kid; for they'd be wonderful disappointed if I didn't turn up.'
"'But the crew's got wives an' kids!' says I.
"'An' bad stomachs,' says he.
"'Jowl,' says I, 'she's sinkin' fast.'
"'Then I 'low we better make haste.'
"I started for'ard.
"'Tumm,' says he, 'don't you go another step. If them swine in the
forecastle knowed they was a raft 'longside, they'd steal it. It won't
_hold_ un, Tumm. It won't hold more'n two, an', ecod!' says he, with a
look at the raft, 'I'm doubtin' that she's able for _that_!'
"It made me shiver.
"'No, sir!' says he. 'I 'low she won't hold more'n one.'
"'Oh yes, she will, Jowl!' says I. 'Dear man! yes; she's able for two.'
"'Maybe,' says he.
"'Handy!' says I. 'Oh, handy, man!'
"'We'll try,' says he, 'whatever comes of it. An' if she makes bad
weather, why, you can--'
"He stopped.
"'Why don't you say the rest?' says I.
"'I hates to.'
"'What do you mean?' says I.
"'Why, damme! Tumm,' says he, 'I mean that you can get _off_. What
_else_ would I mean?'
"Lord! I didn't know!
"'Well?' says he.
"'It ain't very kind,' says I.
"'What would _you_ do,' says he, 'if _you_ was me?'
"I give un a look that told un, an' 'twas against my will I done it.
"'Well,' says he, 'you can't blame me, then.'
"No more I could.
"'Now I'll get the grub from the forecastle, lad,' says he, 'an' we'll
cast off. The _Wings o' the Mornin'_ isn't good for more'n half an hour
more. You bide on deck, Tumm, an' leave the swine t' me.'
Then he went below.
"'All right,' says he, when he come on deck. 'Haul in the line.' We
lashed a water-cask an' a grub-box t' the raft. 'Now, Tumm,' says he,
'we can take it easy. We won't be in no haste t' leave, for I 'low 'tis
more comfortable here. Looks t' me like more moderate weather. I feels
pretty good, Tumm, with all the work done, an' nothin' t' do but get
aboard.' He sung the long-metre doxology. 'Look how the wind's dropped!'
says he. 'Why, lad, we might have saved the _Wings o' the Mornin'_ if
them pigs had done their dooty last night. But 'tis too late now--an'
it's _been_ too late all day long. We'll have a spell o' quiet,' says
he, 'when the sea goes down. Looks t' me like the v'y'ge might be
pleasant, once we gets through the night. I 'low the stars'll be peepin'
afore mornin'. It'll be a comfort t' see the little mites. I loves t'
know they're winkin' overhead. They makes me think o' God. You isn't got
a top-coat, is you, lad?' says he. 'Well, you better get it, then. I'll
trust you in the forecastle, Tumm, for I knows you wouldn't wrong me,
an' you'll need that top-coat bad afore we're picked up. An' if you got
your mother's Bible in your nunny-bag, or anything like that you wants
t' save, you better fetch it,' says he. 'I 'low we'll get out o' this
mess, an' we don't want t' have anything t' regret.'
"I got my mother's Bible.
"'Think we better cast off?' says he.
"I did. The _Wings o' the Mornin'_ was ridin' too low an' easy for me t'
rest; an' the wind had fell to a soft breeze, an' they wasn't no more
rain, an' no more dusty spray, an' no more breakin' waves. They was a
shade on the sea--the first shadow o' the night--t' hide what we'd leave
behind.
"'We better leave her,' says I.
"'Then all aboard!' says he.
"An' we got aboard, an' cut the cable, an' slipped away on a soft, black
sea, far into the night.... An' no man ever seed the _Wings o' the
Mornin'_ again.... An' me an Jowl was picked up, half dead o' thirst an'
starvation, twelve days later, by ol' Cap'n Loop, o' the Black Bay
mail-boat, as she come around Toad Point, bound t' Burnt Harbor....
* * * * *
"Jowl an' me," Tumm resumed, "fished the Holy Terror Tickles o' the
Labrador in the _Got It_ nex' season. He was a wonderful kind man, Jowl
was--so pious, an' soft t' speak, an' honest, an' willin' for his labor.
At midsummer I got a bad hand, along of a cut with the splittin'-knife,
an' nothin' would do Jowl but he'd lance it, an' wash it, an' bind it,
like a woman, an' do so much o' my labor as he was able for, like a man.
I fair got t' _like_ that lad o' his--though 'twas but a young feller t'
home, at the time--for Jowl was forever talkin' o' Toby this an' Toby
that--not boastful gabble, but just tender an' nice t' hear. An' a fine
lad, by all accounts: a dutiful lad, brave an' strong, if given overmuch
t' yieldin' the road t' save trouble, as Jowl said. I 'lowed, one night,
when the _Got It_ was bound home, with all the load the salt would give
her, that I'd sort o' like t' know the lad that Jowl had.
"'Why don't you fetch un down the Labrador?' says I.
"'His schoolin',' says Jowl.
"'Oh!' says I.
"'Ay,' says he; 'his mother's wonderful particular about the schoolin'.'
"'Anyhow,' says I, 'the schoolin' won't go on for all time.'
"'No,' says Jowl, 'it won't. An' I'm 'lowin' t' harden Toby up a bit
nex' spring.'
"'T' the ice?' says I.
"'Ay,' says he; 'if I can overcome his mother.'
"''Tis a rough way t' break a lad,' says I.
"'So much the better,' says he. 'It don't take so long. Nothin' like a
sealin' v'y'ge,' says he, 't' harden a lad. An' if you comes along,
Tumm,' says he, 'why, I won't complain. I'm 'lowin' t' ship with Skipper
Tommy Jump o' the _Second t' None_. She's a tight schooner, o' the
Tiddle build, an' I 'low Tommy Jump will get a load o' fat, whatever
comes of it. You better join, Tumm,' says he, 'an' we'll all be
t'gether. I'm wantin' you t' get acquainted with Toby, an' lend a hand
with his education, which you can do t' the queen's taste, bein' near of
his age.'
"'I'll do it, Jowl,' says I.
"An' I done it; an' afore we was through, I wisht I hadn't."
Tumm paused.
"An' I done it--nex' March--shipped along o' Tommy Jump o' the _Second t'
None_, with Jowl an' his lad aboard," he proceeded.
"'You overcame the wife,' says I, 'didn't you?'
"''Twas a tough job,' says he. 'She 'lowed the boy might come t' harm,
an' wouldn't give un up; but me an' Toby pulled t'gether, an' managed
her, the day afore sailin'. She cried a wonderful lot; but, Lord! that's
only the way o' women.'
"A likely lad o' sixteen, this Toby--blue-eyed an' fair, with curly hair
an' a face full o' blushes. Polite as a girl, which is much too polite
for safety at the ice. He'd make way for them that blustered; but he
done it with such an air that we wasn't no more'n off the Goggles afore
the whole crew was all makin' way for he. So I 'lowed he'd _do_--that
he'd be took care of, just for love. But Jowl wasn't o' my mind.
"'No,' says he; 'the lad's too soft. He've got t' be hardened.'
"'Maybe,' says I.
"'If anything happened,' says he, 'Toby wouldn't stand a show. The men
is kind to un now,' says he, 'for they doesn't lose nothin' by it. If
they stood t' lose their lives, Tumm, they'd push un out o' the way, an'
he'd go 'ithout a whimper. I got t' talk t' that lad for his own good.'
"Which he done.
"'Toby,' says he, 'you is much too soft. Don't you go an' feel bad, now,
lad, just because your father tells you so; for 'tis not much more'n a
child you are, an' your father's old, an' knows all about life. You got
t' get hard if you wants t' hold your own. You're too polite. You gives
way too easy. _Don't_ give way--don't give way under no circumstances. In
this life,' says he, ''tis every man for hisself. I don't know why God
made it that way,' says he, 'but He done it, an' we got t' stand by.
You're young,' says he, 'an' thinks the world is what you'd have it be
if you made it; but I'm old, an' I knows that a man can't be polite an'
live to his prime on this coast. Now, lad,' says he, 'we isn't struck
the ice yet, but I 'low I smell it; an' once we gets the _Second t'
None_ in the midst, 'most anything is likely t' happen. If so be that
Tommy Jump gets the schooner in a mess you look out for yourself; don't
think o' nobody else, for you can't _afford_ to.'
"'Yes, sir,' says the boy.
"'Mark me well, lad! I'm tellin' you this for your own good. You won't
get no mercy showed you; so don't you show mercy t' nobody else. If it
comes t' your life or the other man's, you put _him_ out o' the way
afore he has time t' put _you_. Don't let un give battle. Hit un so
quick as you're able. It'll be harder if you waits. You don't have t' be
_fair_. 'Tisn't expected. Nobody's fair. An'--ah, now, Toby!' says he,
puttin' his arm over the boy's shoulder, 'if you feels like givin' way,
an' lettin' the other man have your chance, an' if you _can't_ think o'
yourself, just you think o' your mother. Ah, lad,' says he, 'she'd go
an' cry her eyes out if anything happened t' you. Why, Toby--oh, my! now,
lad--why, _think_ o' the way she'd sit in her rockin'-chair, an' put her
pinny to her eyes, an' cry, an' cry! You're the only one she've got, an'
she couldn't, lad, she _couldn't_ get along 'ithout you! Ah, she'd cry,
an' cry, an' cry; an' they wouldn't be nothin' in all the world t' give
her comfort! So don't you go an' grieve her, Toby,' says he, 'by bein'
tender-hearted. Ah, now, Toby!' says he, 'don't you go an' make your
poor mother cry!'
"'No, sir,' says the lad. 'I'll not, sir!'
"'That's a good boy, Toby,' says Jowl. 'I 'low you'll be a man when you
grow up, if your mother doesn't make a parson o' you.'"
Tumm made a wry face.
"Well," he continued, "Tommy Jump kep' the _Second t' None_ beatin'
hither an' yon off the Horse Islands for two days, expectin' ice with
the nor'east wind. 'Twas in the days afore the sealin' was done in
steamships from St. John's, an' they was a cloud o' sail at the selsame
thing. An' we all put into White Bay, in the mornin' in chase o' the
floe, an' done a day's work on the swiles [seals] afore night. But nex'
day we was jammed by the ice--the fleet o' seventeen schooners, cotched
in the bottom o' the bay, an' like t' crack our hulls if the wind held.
Whatever, the wind fell, an' there come a time o' calm an' cold, an' we
was all froze in, beyond help, an' could do nothin' but wait for the ice
t' drive out an' go abroad, an' leave us t' sink or sail, as might
chance. Tommy Jump 'lowed the _Second t' None_ would sink; said her
timbers was sprung, an' she'd leak like a basket, an' crush like a
eggshell, once the ice begun t' drive an' grind an' rafter--leastwise, he
_thunk_ so, admittin' 'twas open t' argument; an' he wouldn't go so far
as t' pledge the word of a gentleman that she _would_ sink.
"'Whatever,' says he, 'we'll stick to her an' find out.'
"The change o' wind come at dusk--a big blow from the sou'west. 'Twas
beyond doubt the ice would go t' sea; so I tipped the wink t' young Toby
Jowl an' told un the time was come.
"'I'll save my life, Tumm,' says he, 'if I'm able.'
"'Twas a pity! Ecod! t' this day I 'low 'twas a pity; 'Twas a fine,
sweet lad, that Toby; but he looked like a wolf, that night, in the
light o' the forecastle lamp, when his eyes flashed an his upper lip
stretched thin over his teeth!
"'You better get some grub in your pocket,' says I.
"'I got it,' says he.
"'Well,' says I, 'I 'low _you've_ learned! Where'd you get it?"
"'Stole it from the cook,' says he.
"'Any chance for me?'
"'If you're lively,' says he. 'The cook's a fool.... Will it come soon,
Tumm?' says he, with a grip on my wrist. 'How long will it be, eh, Tumm,
afore 'tis every man for hisself?'
"Soon enough, God knowed! By midnight the edge o' the floe was rubbin'
Pa'tridge P'int, an' the ice was troubled an' angry. In an hour the pack
had the bottom scrunched out o' the _Second t' None_; an' she was kep'
above water--listed an' dead--only by the jam o' little pans 'longside.
Tommy Jump 'lowed we'd strike the big billows o' the open afore dawn an'
the pack would go abroad an' leave us t' fill an' sink; said _he_
couldn't do no more, an' the crew could take care o' their own lives,
which was what _he_ would do, whatever come of it. 'Twas blowin' big
guns then--rippin' in straight lines right off from Sop's Arm an' all
them harbors for starved bodies an' souls t' the foot o' the bay. An'
snow come with the wind; the heavens emptied theirselves; the air was
thick an' heavy. Seemed t' me the wrath o' sea an' sky broke loose upon
us--wind an' ice an' snow an' big waves an' cold--all the earth contains
o' hate for men! Skipper Tommy Jump 'lowed we'd better stick t' the ship
so long as we was able; which was merely his opinion, an' if the hands
had a mind t' choose their pans while they was plenty, they was welcome
t' do it, an' he wouldn't see no man called a fool if his fists was big
enough t' stop it. But no man took t' the ice at that time. An' the
_Second t' None_ ran on with the floe, out t' sea, with the wind an'
snow playin' the devil for their own amusement, an' the ice groanin' its
own complaint....
"Then we struck the open."
[Illustration: "I SEED THE SHAPE OF A MAN LEAP FOR MY PLACE"]
"'Now, lads,' yells Tommy Jump, when he got all hands amidships, 'you
better quit the ship. The best time,' says he, 'will be when you sees
_me_ go overside. But don't get in my way. You get your own pans. God
help the man that gets in my way!'
"Tommy Jump went overside when the ice opened an' the _Second t' None_
begun t' go down an' the sea was spread with small pans, floatin' free.
'Twas near dawn then. Things was gray; an' the shapes o' things was
strange an' big--out o' size, fearsome. Dawn shot over the sea, a wide,
flat beam from the east, an' the shadows was big, an' the light dim, an'
the air full o' whirlin' snow; an' men's eyes was too wide an' red an'
frightened t' look with sure sight upon the world. An' all the ice was
in a tumble o' black water.... An' the _Second t' None_ went down....
An' I 'lowed they wasn't no room on my pan for nobody but me. But I seed
the shape of a man leap for my place. An' I cursed un, an' bade un go
farther, or I'd drown un. An' he leaped for the pan that lied next,
where Jowl was afloat, with no room t' spare. An' Jowl hit quick an'
hard. He was waitin', with his fists closed, when the black shape
landed; an' he hit quick an' hard without lookin'.... An' I seed the
face in the water.... An', oh, I knowed who 'twas!
"'Dear God!' says I.
"Jowl was now but a shape in the snow. 'That you, Tumm?' says he. 'What
you sayin'?'
"' Why didn't you take time t' _look_?' says I. 'Oh, Jowl! _why_ didn't
you take time?'
"'T' look?' says he.
"'Dear God!'
"'What you sayin' that for, Tumm?' says he. 'What you mean, Tumm? ... My
God!' says he, 'what is I gone an' done? Who _was_ that, Tumm? My God!
Tell me! What is I done?'
"I couldn't find no words t' tell un.
"'Oh, make haste,' says he, 'afore I drifts away!'
"'Dear God!' says I, ''twas Toby!'
"An' he fell flat on the ice....An' I didn't see Jowl no more for four
year. He was settled at Mad Tom's Harbor then, where you seed un t'-day;
an' his wife was dead, an' he didn't go no more t' the Labrador, nor t'
the ice, but fished the Mad Tom grounds with hook-an'-line on quiet
days, an' was turned timid, they said, with fear o' the sea...."
* * * * *
The _Good Samaritan_ ran softly through the slow, sleepy sea, bound
across the bay to trade the ports of the shore.
"I tells you, sir," Tumm burst out, "'tis hell. _Life_ is! Maybe not
where you hails from, sir; but 'tis on this coast. I 'low where you
comes from they don't take lives t' save their own?"
"Not to save their own," said I.
He did not understand.