"First," he continued, gravely important, as one who discloses a
mystery, "I am tell you thee name of thee beeg fool. James All--his name.
Ol' bach. Ver' ol' bach. Ver' rich man. Ho! mos' rich. You not theenk?
Ver' well. I am once hear tell he have seven lobster-tin full of gold.
Mygod! I am mos' put crazy. Lobster-tin--seven! An' he have half-bushel
of silver dollar. How he get it? Ver' well. His gran'-father work ver'
hard; his father work ver' hard; all thee gold come to this man, an'
_he_ work ver', ver' hard. They work fearful--in thee gale, in thee cold;
they work, work, work, for thee gold. Many, many year ago, long time
past, thee gold be-geen to have save. It be-geen to have save many year
afore I am born. Eh? Fun-ee t'ing! They work, work, work; but _I_ am not
work. Oh no! I am leetle baby. They save, save, save; but _I_ am not
save. Oh no! I am foolsh boy, in Damascus. Ver' well. By-'n'-by I am
thee growed man, an' they have fill thee seven lobster-tin with thee
gold. For what? Eh? I am tell you what for. Ha! I am show you I am ver'
good business man. I am thee ver' mos' bes' business man in
Newf'un'lan'."
My glance, quick, suspicious, was not of the kindest, and it caught his
eye.
"You theenk I have get thee gold?" he asked, archly. "You theenk I have
get thee seven lobster-tin?... Mygod!" he cried, throwing up his hands
in genuine horror. "You theenk I have _steal_ thee gold? No, no! I am
ver' hones' business man. I say my prayer all thee nights. I geeve nine
dollar fifty to thee Orth'dox Church in Washin'ton Street in one year. I
am thee mos' hones' business man in Newf'un'lan'--an'" (significantly),
"I am _ver' good_ business man."
His eyes were guileless....
A punt slipped past, bound out, staggering over a rough course to Lost
Men grounds. The spray, rising like white dust, drenched the crew. An
old man held the sheet and steering-oar. In the bow a scrawny boy bailed
the shipped water--both listless, both misshapen and ill clad. Bitter,
toilsome, precarious work, this, done by folk impoverished in all
things. Seven lobster-tins of gold coin! Three generations of labor and
cruel adventure, in gales and frosts and famines, had been consumed in
gathering it. How much of weariness? How much of pain? How much of evil?
How much of peril, despair, deprivation? And it was true: this alien
peddler, the on-looker, had the while been unborn, a babe, a boy,
laboring not at all; but by chance, in the end, he had come, covetous
and sly, within reach of all the fruit of this malforming toil....
"Look!"
I followed the lean, brown finger to a spot on a bare hill--a sombre
splash of black.
"You see? Ver' well. One time he leeve there--this grea' beeg fool. His
house it have be burn down. How? Ver' well. I tell you. All people want
thee gold. All people--all--all! 'Ha!' theenk a boy. 'I mus' have thee
seven lobster-tin of gold. I am want buy thee parasol for 'Liza Hull
nex' time thee trader come. I _mus'_ have thee gold of ol' Skip' Jim. If
I not, then Sam Tom will have buy thee parasol from Tanous Shiva. 'Liza
Hull will have love him an' not me. I _mus'_ have 'Liza Hull love me.
Oh,' theenk he, 'I _mus'_ have 'Liza Hull love me! I am not can leeve
'ithout that beeg 'Liza Hull with thee red cheek an' blue eye!' (Ver'
poor taste thee men have for thee girl in Newf'un'lan'.) 'Ha!' theenk
he. 'I mus' have thee gold. I am burn thee house an' get thee gold. Then
I have buy thee peenk parasol from Tom Shiva.' Fool! Ver' beeg fool--that
boy. Burn thee house? Ver' poor business. Mos' poor. Burn thee house of
ol' Skip' Jim? Pooh!"
It seemed to me, too--so did the sly fellow bristle and puff with
contempt--that the wretched lad's directness of method was most
reprehensible; but I came to my senses later, and I have ever since
known that the highwayman was in some sort a worthy fellow.
"Ver' well. For two year I know 'bout thee seven lobster-tin of gold,
an' for two year I make thee great frien' along o' Skip' Jim--thee
greates' frien'; thee ver' greates' frien'--for I am want thee gold. Aie!
I am all thee time stop with Skip' Jim. I am go thee church with Skip'
Jim. I am kneel thee prayer with Skip' Jim. (I am ver' good man about
thee prayer--ver' good business man.) Skip' Jim he theenk me thee Jew.
Pooh! I am not care. I say, 'Oh yess, Skip' Jim; I am mos' sad about
what thee Jews done. Bad Jew done that.' 'You good Jew, Tom,' he say; 'I
am not hol' you to thee 'count. Oh no, Tom; you good Jew,' he say. 'You
would not do what thee bad Jews done.' 'Oh no, Skip' Jim,' I say, 'I am
ver' good man--ver', ver' good man.'"
The peddler was gravely silent for a space.
"I am hones' man," he continued. "I am thee mos' hones' business man in
Newf'un'lan'. So I mus' have wait for thee gold. Ah," he sighed, "it
have be _mos'_ hard to wait. I am almos' break thee heart. But I am
hones' man--ver', ver' hones' man--an' I _mus'_ have wait. Now I tell you
what have happen: I am come ashore one night, an' it is thee nex' night
after thee boy have burn thee house of Skip' Jim for the peenk parasol.
"'Where Skip' Jim house?' I say.
"'Burn down,' they say.
"'Burn down!' I say. 'Oh, my! 'Tis sad. Have thee seven lobster-tin of
gold be los'?'
"'All spoil,' they say.
"I am not theenk what they mean. 'Oh, dear!' I say. 'Where Skip' Jim?'
"'You fin' Skip' Jim at thee Skip' Bill Tissol's house.'
"'Oh, my!' I say. 'I am mos' sad. I am go geeve thee pit-ee to poor
Skip' Jim.'"
The fog was fast thickening. We had come close to Skeleton Tickle; but
the downcast cottages were more remote than they had been--infinitely
more isolated.
"Ver' well. I am fin' Skip' Jim. He sit in thee bes' room of thee Skip'
Bill Tissol's house. All thee 'lone. God is good! Nobody there. What
have I see? Gold! Gold! The heap of gold! The beeg, beeg heap of gold! I
am not can tell you!"
The man was breathing in gasps; in the pause his jaw dropped, his yellow
eyes were distended.
"Ha!" he ejaculated. "So I am thank thee dear, good God I am not come
thee too late. Gold! Gold! The heap of gold! I am pray ver' hard to be
good business man. I am close thee eye an' pray thee good God I am be
ver' good business man for one hour. 'Jus' one hour, O my God!' I pray.
'Leave me be ver', ver' good business man for jus' one leet-tle ver'
small hour. I am geeve one hun'red fifty to thee Orth'dox Church in
Washin'ton Street, O my God,' I pray, 'if I be mos' ver' good business
man for thee one hour!' An' I shake thee head an' look at thee rich ol'
Skip' Jim with thee ver' mos' awful sad look I am can.
"'Oh, Skip' Jim!' I say. 'Fear-r-ful! How have your house cotch thee
fire?'
"'Thee boy of Skip' Elisha,' he say.
"'Oh, Skip' Jim,' I say, 'what have you do by thee wicked boy?'
"'What have I do?' he say. 'He cannot have mend thee bad business. What
have I do? I am not wish thee hurt to thee poor, poor boy.'
"There sit thee beeg fool--thee ver' beeg fool--thee mos' fearful fool in
all thee worl'. Ol' Skip' Jim All--thee beeg fool! There he sit, by thee
'lone; an' the heap of good gold is on thee table; an' the candle is
burnin'; an' the beeg white wheesk-airs is ver' white an' mos' awful
long; an' thee beeg han's is on thee gold, an' thee salt-sores from thee
feeshin' is on thee han's; an' thee tear is in thee ol' eyes of ol'
Skip' Jim All. So once more I pray thee good God to be made ver' good
business man for thee one hour; an' I close thee door ver' tight.
"'Oh, Tom Shiva,' he says, 'I am ruin'!'
"'Ver' sad,' I say. 'Oh, dear!'
"'I am ruin'--ruin'!' he say. 'Oh, I am ruin'! What have I do?'
"'Ver', ver' sad,' I say. 'Oh, Skip' Jim,' I say, 'tis ver' sad!'
"'Ruin'!' he say. 'I am not be rich no more. I am ver' poor man, Tom
Shiva. I am once be rich; but I am not be rich no more.'
"I am not know what he mean. 'Not be rich no more?' I say. 'Not be rich
no more?'
"'Look!' he say. 'Look, Tom Shiva! Thee gold! Thee seven lobster-tin of
gold!'
"'I am see, Skip' Jim,' I say.
"'Ah,' he say, in thee mos' awful, thee ver' mos' awful, speak, 'it is
all spoil'! It is all spoil'! I am ruin'!'
"Then I am pray mos' fearful hard to be ver' good business man for thee
one hour. Ver' well. I look at thee gold. Do I know what he have mean?
God is good! I do. Ver' well. Thee gold is come out of the fire. What
happen? Oh, ver' well! It have be melt. What ver' beeg fool is he! It
have be melt. All? No! Thee gold steek together; thee gold melt in two;
thee gold be in thee beeg lump; thee gold be damage'. What this fool
theenk? Ah! Pooh! This fool theenk thee gold have be all spoil'. Good
gold? No, spoil' gold! No good no more. Ruin'? I am ver' good business
man. I see what he have mean. Ah, my heart! It jump, it swell, it choke
me, it tumble into the belly, it stop; it hurt me mos' awful. I am
theenk I die. Thee good God have answer thee prayer. 'O my God,' I pray
once more, 'this man is ver' beeg fool. Make Tanous Shiva good business
man. It have be ver', ver' easy t'ing to do, O God!'
"'Spoil', Skip' Jim?' I say.
"'All spoil', Tom Shiva,' he say. 'Thee gold no good.'
"'Ver' sad to be ruin',' I say. 'Oh, Skip' Jim, ver' sad to be ruin'. I
am ver', ver' sad to see you ruin'.'
"'Tom Shiva,' he say, 'you ver' good man.'
"'Skip' Jim,' I say, 'I have love you ver' much.'
"'Oh, Tom Shiva,' thee beeg fool say, 'I am thank you ver' hard.'
"'Oh yess, Skip' Jim,' I say, 'I am love you ver', ver' much.'
"He shake my han'.
"'I am love you ver' much, Skip' Jim,' I say, 'an' I am ver' good man.'
"My han' it pinch me ver' sore, Skip' Jim shake it so hard with thee
beeg, black han' he have. Thee han' of thee feesherman is ver', ver'
beeg, ver' strong. Thee ver' hard work make it ver' beeg an' strong.
"'Skip' Jim,' I say, 'I am poor man. But not ver' poor. I am have
leet-tle money. I am wish thee help to you. I am _buy_ thee spoil'
gold.'
"'Buy thee gold?' he say. 'Oh, Tom Shiva. All spoil'. Look! All melt.
Thee gold no good no more.'
"'I am buy thee gold from you,' I say, 'Skip' Jim, my friend.'
"'Ver' good friend, you, Tom Shiva,' he say; 'ver' good friend to me.'
"I am look at him ver' close. I am theenk what he will take. 'I am geeve
you,' I say, 'I am geeve you,' Skip' Jim,' I say--
"Then I stop.
"'What you geeve me for thee spoil' gold?' he say.
"'I am geeve you,' I say, 'for thee spoil' gold an' for thee half-bushel
of spoil' silver,' I say, 'I am geeve you seventy-five dollar.'
"Then _he_ get ver' good business man in the eye.
"'Oh no!' he say. 'I am want one hundred dollar.'
"I shake my head. 'Oh, Skip' Jim!' I say. 'Shame to have treat thee
friend so! I am great friend to you, Skip' Jim,' I say. 'But,' I say,
'business is business. Skip' Jim,' I say, 'let us have pray.'
"What you theenk? What you theenk this ver' beeg fool do? How I laugh
inside! 'Let us have pray, Skip' Jim,' I say. What you theenk he do? Eh?
Not pray? Ver' religious man, Skip' Jim--ver', ver' religious. Pray? Oh,
I know _him_. Pray? You bet he pray! You ask Skip' Jim to pray, an' he
pray--oh, he pray, you bet! 'O God,' he pray, 'I am ver' much 'blige' for
Tom Shiva. I am ver' much 'blige' he come to Skeleton Teekle. I am ver'
much 'blige' he have thee soft heart. I am ver' much 'blige' you fix
thee heart to help poor ol' Skip' Jim. He good Jew, O God.' (Pooh! I am
Syrian man--not Jew. But I am not tell, for I am ver' good business man).
'Forgive this poor Tom Shiva, O my dear God!'
"I get ver' tired with thee prayin'. I am ver' good business man. I am
want thee gold.
"'Skip' Jim!' I whis-pair. 'Oh, Skip' Jim!' I say. 'Thee bargain! Fix
thee bargain with thee dear God.' My heart is ver' mad with thee fear.
'Fix thee bargain with thee good God,' I say. 'Oh, Skip' Jim!' I
whis-pair. 'Queek! I am offer seventy-five dollar.'
"Then he get up from thee knee. Ver' obstinate man--ver', ver' obstinate
man, this ol' Skip' Jim. He get up from thee knee. What he theenk? Eh?
He theenk he ver' good business man. He theenk he beat Tom Shiva by thee
sin. Want God? Oh no! Not want God to know, you bet!
"'I am want one hundred dollar,' he say, ver' cross, 'for thee heap of
spoil' gold an' silver. Thee God is bus-ee. I am do this business by
thee 'lone. Thee dear God is ver', ver' bus-ee jus' now. I am not bother
him no more.'
"'Ver' well,' I say. 'I am geeve you eighty.'
"'Come,' he say; 'ninety will have do.'
"'Ver' well,' I say. 'You are my friend. I geeve you eighty-five.'
"'Ver' well,' he say. 'I am love you ver' much, Tom Shiva. I take it.
Ver' kind of you, Tom Shiva, to buy all thee spoil' gold an' silver. I
am hope you have not lose thee money.'
"I am ver' hones' business man. Eh? What I say? I say I lose thee money?
No, no! I am thee ver' mos' hones' business man in Newf'un'lan'. I am
too hones' to say thee lie.
"'I am take thee risk,' I say. 'You are my friend, Skip' Jim,' I say. 'I
am take thee risk. I am geeve you eighty-five dollar for all the spoil'
gold an' silver--half cash, half trade.... I am have mos' wonderful suit
clothes for ver' cheap....'"
* * * * *
And the fool of Skeleton Tickle was left with a suit of shoddy tweed and
fifty-seven dollars in unspoiled gold and silver coin, believing that he
had overreached the peddler from Damascus and New York, piously thanking
God for the opportunity, ascribing glory to him for the success, content
that it should be so.... And Tanous Shiva departed by the mail-boat, as
he had come, with the seven lobster-tins of gold and the half-bushel of
silver which three generations had labored to accumulate; and he went
south to St. John's, where he converted the spoiled coin into a bank
credit of ten thousand dollars, content that it should be so. And
thereupon he set out again to trade....
* * * * *
The mail-boat was now riding at anchor within the harbor of Skeleton
Tickle. Rain was falling--thin, penetrating, cold, driven by the wind. On
the bleak, wet hills, the cottages, vague in the mist, cowered in dumb
wretchedness, like men of sodden patience who wait without hope. A punt
put out from shore--came listlessly toward the steamer for the mail.
"Ho! Tom Timms!" the Syrian shouted. "That you, Tom Timms? How Skip' Jim
All? How my ol', good friend Skip' Jim All?"
The boat was under the quarter. Tom Timms shipped his oars, wiped the
rain from his whiskers, then looked up--without feeling.
"Dead," he said.
"Dead!" The man turned to me. "I am thank thee good God," he whispered,
reverently, "that I am get thee gold in time." He shuddered. "O, my
God!" he muttered. "What if I have come thee too late!"
"Ay, dead," Tom Timms repeated. "He sort o' went an' jus' died."
"Oh, dear! How have he come to die? Oh, my poor friend, ol' Skip' Jim!
How have he come by thee death?"
"Hanged hisself."
"Hanged hisself! Oh, dear! Why have thee ol' Skip' Jim be so fearful
wicked?"
It was an unhappy question.
"Well," Tom Timms answered, in a colorless drawl, "he got a trap-leader
when he found out what you done. He just sort o' went an' got a
trap-leader an' hanged hisself in the fish-stage--when he found out what
you done."
The Syrian glanced at me. I glanced at him. Our eyes met; his were
steady, innocent, pitiful; my own shifted to the closing bank of gray
fog.
"Business," he sighed, "is business."
The words repeated themselves interminably--a monotonous dirge. Business
is business.... Business is business.... Business is business....