"Why, they _says_ so."
Jehoshaphat's reply was gently spoken, a compassionate rebuke. "An I was
you, Timothy," said he, "I wouldn't be harsh in judgment. 'Tisn't quite
Christian."
"My God!" ejaculated the disgusted Timothy.
After that they pulled in silence for a time. Jehoshaphat's face was
averted, and Timothy was aware of having, in a moment of impatience, not
only committed a strategic indiscretion, but of having betrayed his
innermost habit of profanity. The light grew and widened and yellowed;
the cottages of Satan's Trap took definite outline, the hills their
ancient form, the sea its familiar aspect. Sea and sky and distant rock
were wide awake and companionably smiling. The earth was blue and green
and yellow, a glittering place.
"Look you! Jehoshaphat," Timothy demanded; "is you in debt?"
"I is."
"An' is you ever been out o' debt?"
"I isn't."
"How come you t' know?"
"Why," Jehoshaphat explained, "Mister Wull _told_ me so. An' whatever,"
he qualified, "father was in debt when he died, an' Mister Wull told me
I ought t' pay. Father was _my_ father," Jehoshaphat argued, "an' I
'lowed I _would_ pay. For," he concluded, "'twas right."
"Is he ever give you an account?"
"Well, no--no, he haven't. But it wouldn't do no good, for I've no
learnin', an' can't read."
"No," Timothy burst out, "an' he isn't give nobody no accounts."
"Well," Jehoshaphat apologized, "he've a good deal on his mind, lookin'
out for the wants of us folk. He've a _wonderful_ lot o' brain labor.
He've all them letters t' write t' St. John's, an' he've got a power of
'rithmetic t' do, an' he've got the writin' in them big books t' trouble
un, an'--"
Timothy sneered.
"Ah, well," sighed Jehoshaphat, "an I was you, Timothy, I wouldn't be
harsh in judgment."
Timothy laughed uproariously.
"Not harsh," Jehoshaphat repeated, quietly--"not in judgment."
"Damn un!" Timothy cursed between his teeth. "The greedy squid, the
devil-fish's spawn, with his garden an' his sheep an' his cow! _You_ got
a cow, Jehoshaphat? _You_ got turnips an' carrots? _You_ got ol' Bill
Lutt t' gather soil, an' plant, an' dig, an' weed, while you smokes
plug-cut in the sunshine? Where's _your_ garden, Jehoshaphat? Where's
_your_ onions? The green lumpfish! An' where do he get his onions, an'
where do he get his soup, an' where do he get his cheese an' raisins?
'Tis out o' you an' me an' all the other poor folk o' Satan's Trap. 'Tis
from the fish, an' _he_ never cast a line. 'Tis from the fish that we
takes from the grounds while he squats like a lobster in the red house
an' in the shop. An' he gives less for the fish 'n he gets, an' he gets
more for the goods an' grub 'n he gives. The thief, the robber, the
whale's pup! Is you able, Jehoshaphat, t' have the doctor from Sniffle's
Arm for _your_ woman! Is _you_ able t' feed _your_ kids with cow's milk
an' baby-food?"
Jehoshaphat mildly protested that he had not known the necessity.
"An' what," Timothy proceeded, "is you ever got from the grounds but
rheumatiz an' salt-water sores?"
"I got enough t' eat," said Jehoshaphat.
Timothy was scornful.
"Well," Jehoshaphat argued, in defence of himself, "the world have been
goin' for'ard a wonderful long time at Satan's Trap, an' nobody else
haven't got no more'n just enough."
"Enough!" Timothy fumed. "'Tis kind o' the Satan's Trap trader t' give
you that! _I'll_ tell un," he exploded; "I'll give un a piece o' my mind
afore I dies."
"Don't!" Jehoshaphat pleaded.
Timothy snorted his indignation.
"I wouldn't be rash," said Jehoshaphat. "Maybe," he warned, "he'd not
take your fish no more. An' maybe he'd close the shop an' go away."
"Jus' you wait," said Timothy.
"Don't you do it, lad!" Jehoshaphat begged. "'Twould make such a
wonderful fuss in the world!"
"An' would you think o' that?"
"I isn't got _time_ t' think," Jehoshaphat complained. "I'm busy. I 'low
I got my fish t' cotch an' cure. I isn't got time. I--I--I'm too busy."
They were on the grounds. The day had broken, a blue, serene day,
knowing no disquietude. They cast their grapnels overside, and they
fished until the shadows had fled around the world and were hurrying out
of the east. And they reeled their lines, and stowed the fish, and
patiently pulled toward the harbor tickler, talking not at all of the
Satan's Trap trader, but only of certain agreeable expectations which
the young Timothy had been informed he might entertain with reasonable
certainty.
"I 'low," said Jehoshaphat, when they were within the harbor, "I
understand. I got the hang of it," he repeated, with a little smile,
"now."
"Of what?" Timothy wondered.
"Well," Jehoshaphat explained, "'tis your first."
This was a sufficient explanation of Timothy's discontent. Jehoshaphat
remembered that he, too, had been troubled, fifteen years ago, when the
first of the nine had brought the future to his attention. He was more
at ease when this enlightenment came.
* * * * *
Old John Wull was a gray, lean little widower, with a bald head, bowed
legs, a wide, straight, thin-lipped mouth, and shaven, ashy cheeks. His
eyes were young enough, blue and strong and quick, often peering
masterfully through the bushy brows, which he could let drop like a
curtain. In contrast with the rugged hills and illimitable sea and stout
men of Satan's Trap, his body was withered and contemptibly diminutive.
His premises occupied a point of shore within the harbor--a wharf, a
storehouse, a shop, a red dwelling, broad drying-flakes, and a group of
out-buildings, all of which were self-sufficient and proud, and looked
askance at the cottages that lined the harbor shore and strayed upon the
hills beyond.
It was his business to supply the needs of the folk in exchange for the
fish they took from the sea--the barest need, the whole of the catch.
Upon this he insisted, because he conscientiously believed, in his own
way, that upon the fruits of toil commercial enterprise should feed to
satiety, and cast the peelings and cores into the back yard for the folk
to nose like swine.
Thus he was accustomed to allow the fifty illiterate, credulous families
of Satan's Trap sufficient to keep them warm and to quiet their
stomachs, but no more; for, he complained: "Isn't they got enough on
their backs?" and, "Isn't they got enough t' eat?" and, "Lord!" said he,
"they'll be wantin' figs an' joolry next."
There were times when he trembled for the fortune he had gathered in
this way--in years when there were no fish, and he must feed the men and
women and human litters of the Trap for nothing at all, through which he
was courageous, if niggardly. When the folk complained against him, he
wondered, with a righteous wag of the head, what would become of them if
he should vanish with his property and leave them to fend for
themselves. Sometimes he reminded them of this possibility; and then
they got afraid, and thought of their young ones, and begged him to
forget their complaint. His only disquietude was the fear of hell:
whereby he was led to pay the wage of a succession of parsons, if they
preached comforting doctrine and blue-pencilled the needle's eye from
the Testament; but not otherwise. By some wayward, compelling sense of
moral obligation, he paid the school-teacher, invariably, generously, so
that the little folk of Satan's Trap might learn to read and write in
the winter months. 'Rithmetic he condemned, but tolerated, as being some
part of that unholy, imperative thing called l'arnin'; but he had no
feeling against readin' and writin'.
There was no other trader within thirty miles.
"They'll trade with me," John Wull would say to himself, and be
comforted, "or they'll starve."
It was literally true.
* * * * *
In that winter certain gigantic forces, with which old John Wull had
nothing whatever to do, were inscrutably passionate. They went their
way, in some vast, appalling quarrel, indifferent to the consequences.
John Wull's soul, money, philosophy, the hopes of Satan's Trap, the
various agonies of the young, were insignificant. Currents and winds and
frost had no knowledge of them. It was a late season: the days were gray
and bitter, the air was frosty, the snow lay crisp and deep in the
valleys, the harbor water was frozen. Long after the time for blue winds
and yellow hills the world was still sullen and white. Easterly gales,
blowing long and strong, swept the far outer sea of drift-ice--drove it
in upon the land, pans and bergs, and heaped it against the cliffs.
There was no safe exit from Satan's Trap. The folk were shut in by ice
and an impassable wilderness. This was not by the power or contriving of
John Wull: the old man had nothing to do with it; but he compelled the
season, impiously, it may be, into conspiracy with him. By-and-by, in
the cottages, the store of food, which had seemed sufficient when the
first snow flew, was exhausted. The flour-barrels of Satan's Trap were
empty. Full barrels were in the storehouse of John Wull, but in no other
place. So it chanced that one day, in a swirling fall of snow,
Jehoshaphat Rudd came across the harbor with a dog and a sled.
John Wull, from the little office at the back of the shop, where it was
warm and still, watched the fisherman breast the white wind.
"Mister Wull," said Jehoshaphat, when he stood in the office, "I 'low
I'll be havin' another barrel o' flour."
Wull frowned.
"Ay," Jehoshaphat repeated, perplexed; "another barrel."
Wull pursed his lips.
"O' flour," said Jehoshaphat, staring.
The trader drummed on the desk and gazed out of the window. He seemed to
forget that Jehoshaphat Rudd stood waiting. Jehoshaphat felt awkward and
out of place; he smoothed his tawny beard, cracked his fingers,
scratched his head, shifted from one foot to the other. Some wonder
troubled him, then some strange alarm. He had never before realized that
the lives of his young were in the keeping of this man.
"Flour," he ventured, weakly--"one barrel."
Wull turned. "It's gone up," said he.
"Have it, now!" Jehoshaphat exclaimed. "I 'lowed last fall, when I paid
eight," he proceeded, "that she'd clumb as high as she could get 'ithout
fallin'. But she've gone up, says you? Dear man!"
"Sky high," said the trader.
"Dear man!"
The stove was serene and of good conscience. It labored joyously in
response to the clean-souled wind. For a moment, while the trader
watched the snow through his bushy brows and Jehoshaphat Rudd hopelessly
scratched his head, its hearty, honest roar was the only voice lifted in
the little office at the back of John Wull's shop.
"An' why?" Jehoshaphat timidly asked.
"Scarcity."
"Oh," said Jehoshaphat, as though he understood. He paused. "Isn't you
got as much as you _had?_" he inquired.
The trader nodded.
"Isn't you got enough in the storehouse t' last till the mail-boat
runs?"
"Plenty, thank God!"
"Scarcity," Jehoshaphat mused. "Mm-m-m! Oh, I _sees_," he added,
vacantly. "Well, Mister Wull," he sighed, "I 'low I'll take one of Early
Rose an' pay the rise."
Wull whistled absently.
"Early Rose," Jehoshaphat repeated, with a quick, keen glance of alarm.
The trader frowned.
"Rose," Jehoshaphat muttered. He licked his lips. "Of Early," he
reiterated, in a gasp, "Rose."
"All right, Jehoshaphat."
Down came the big key from the nail. Jehoshaphat's round face beamed.
The trader slapped his ledger shut, moved toward the door, but stopped
dead, and gazed out of the window, while his brows fell over his eyes,
and he fingered the big key.
"Gone up t' eighteen," said he, without turning.
Jehoshaphat stared aghast.
"Wonderful high for flour," the trader continued, in apologetic
explanation; "but flour's wonderful scarce."
"Tisn't _right!_" Jehoshaphat declared. "Eighteen dollars a barrel for
Early Rose? 'Tisn't right!"
The key was restored to the nail.
"I can't pay it, Mister Wull. No, no, man, I can't do it. Eighteen!
Mercy o' God! 'Tisn't right! 'Tis too _much_ for Early Rose."
The trader wheeled.
"An' I _won't_ pay it," said Jehoshaphat.
"You don't have to," was the placid reply.
Jehoshaphat started. Alarm--a sudden vision of his children--quieted his
indignation. "But, Mister Wull, sir," he pleaded, "I got t' have it.
I--why--I just _got_ t' have it!"
The trader was unmoved.
"Eighteen!" cried Jehoshaphat, flushing. "Mercy o' God! I says 'tisn't
right."
"Tis the price."
"'Tisn't right!"
Wull's eyes were how flashing. His lips were drawn thin over his teeth.
His brows had fallen again. From the ambush they made he glared at
Jehoshaphat.
"I say," said he, in a passionless voice, "that the price o' flour at
Satan's Trap is this day eighteen."
Jehoshaphat was in woful perplexity.
"Eighteen," snapped Wull. "Hear me?"
They looked into each other's eyes. Outside the storm raged, a clean,
frank passion; for nature is a fair and honest foe. In the little office
at the back of John Wull's shop the withered body of the trader shook
with vicious anger. Jehoshaphat's round, brown, simple face was
gloriously flushed; his head was thrown back, his shoulders were
squared, his eyes were sure and fearless.
"'Tis robbery!" he burst out.
Wull's wrath exploded. "You bay-noddy!" he began; "you pig of a
punt-fisherman; you penniless, ragged fool; you man without a copper;
you sore-handed idiot! What you whinin' about? What right _you_ got t'
yelp in my office?"
Of habit Jehoshaphat quailed.
"If you don't want my flour," roared Wull, fetching the counter a thwack
with his white fist, "leave it be! 'Tis mine, isn't it? I _paid_ for it.
I _got_ it. There's a law in this land, you pauper, that _says_ so.
There's a law. Hear me? There's a law, Mine, mine!" he cried, in a
frenzy, lifting his lean arms. "What I got is mine. I'll eat it," he
fumed, "or I'll feed my pigs with it, or I'll spill it for the fishes.
They isn't no law t' make me sell t' _you_. An' you'll pay what I'm
askin', or you'll starve."
"You wouldn't do that, sir," Jehoshaphat gently protested. "Oh no--_no_!
Ah, now, you wouldn't do that. You wouldn't throw it t' the fishes,
would you? Not flour! 'Twould be a sinful waste."
"Tis my right."
"Ay,' Mister Wull," Jehoshaphat argued, with a little smile, "'tis
yours, I'll admit; but we been sort o' dependin' on you t' lay in enough
t' get us through the winter."
WUll's response was instant and angry. "Get you out o' my shop," said
he, "an' come back with a civil tongue!"
"I'll go, Mister Wull," said Jehoshaphat, quietly, picking at a thread
in his faded cap. "I'll go. Ay, I'll go. But--I got t' have the flour.
I--I--just _got_ to. But I won't pay," he concluded, "no eighteen dollars
a barrel."
The trader laughed.
"For," said Jehoshaphat, "'tisn't right."
Jehoshaphat went home without the flour, complaining of the injustice.
* * * * *
Jehoshaphat Rudd would have no laughter in the house, no weeping, no
questions, no noise of play. For two days he sat brooding by the kitchen
fire. His past of toil and unfailing recompense, the tranquil routine of
life, was strangely like a dream, far off, half forgot. As a reality it
had vanished. Hitherto there had been no future; there was now no past,
no ground for expectation. He must, at least, take time to think, have
courage to judge, the will to retaliate. It was more important, more
needful, to sit in thought, with idle hands, than to mend the rent in
his herring seine. He was mystified and deeply troubled.
Sometimes by day Jehoshaphat strode to the window and looked out over
the harbor ice to the point of shore where stood the storehouse and shop
and red dwelling of old John Wull. By night he drew close to the fire,
and there sat with his face in his hands; nor would he go to bed, nor
would he speak, nor would he move.
In the night of the third day the children awoke and cried for food.
Jehoshaphat rose from his chair, and stood shaking, with breath
suspended, hands clinched, eyes wide. He heard their mother rise and go
crooning from cot to cot. Presently the noise was hushed: sobs turned to
whimpers, and whimpers to plaintive whispers, and these complaints to
silence. The house was still; but Jehoshaphat seemed all the while to
hear the children crying in the little rooms above, He began to pace the
floor, back and forth, back and forth, now slow, now in a fury, now with
listless tread. And because his children had cried for food in the night
the heart of Jehoshaphat Rudd was changed. From the passion of those
hours, at dawn, he emerged serene, and went to bed.
* * * * *
At noon of that day Jehoshaphat Rudd was in the little office at the
back of the shop. John Wull was alone, perched on a high stool at the
desk, a pen in hand, a huge book open before him.
"I'm come, sir," said Jehoshaphat, "for the barrel o' flour."
The trader gave him no attention.
"I'm come, sir," Jehoshaphat repeated, his voice rising a little, "for
the flour."
The trader dipped his pen in ink.
"I says, sir," said Jehoshaphat, laying a hand with some passion upon
the counter, "that I'm come for that there barrel o' flour."
"An' I s'pose," the trader softly inquired, eying the page of his ledger
more closely, "that you thinks you'll get it, eh?"
"Ay, sir."
Wull dipped his pen and scratched away.
"Mister Wull!"
The trader turned a leaf.
"Mister Wull," Jehoshaphat cried, angrily, "I wants flour. Is you gone
deaf overnight?"
Impertinent question and tone of voice made old John Wull wheel on the
stool. In the forty years he had traded at Satan's Trap he had never
before met with impertinence that was not timidly offered. He bent a
scowling face upon Jehoshaphat. "An' you thinks," said he, "that you'll
get it?"
"I does."
"Oh, you does, does you?"
Jehoshaphat nodded.
"It all depends," said Wull. "You're wonderful deep in debt,
Jehoshaphat." The trader had now command of himself. "I been lookin' up
your account," he went on, softly. "You're so wonderful far behind,
Jehoshaphat, on account o' high livin' an' Christmas presents, that I
been thinkin' I might do the business a injury by givin' you more
credit. I can't think o' _myself_, Jehoshaphat, in this matter. 'Tis a
_business_ matter; an' I got t' think o' the business. You sees,
Jehoshaphat, eighteen dollars more credit--"
"Eight," Jehoshaphat corrected.
"Eighteen," the trader insisted.
Jehoshaphat said nothing, nor did his face express feeling. He was
looking stolidly at the big key of the storehouse.
"The flour depends," Wull proceeded, after a thoughtful pause, through
which he had regarded the gigantic Jehoshaphat with startled curiosity,
"on what I thinks the business will stand in the way o' givin' more
credit t' you."
"No, sir," said Jehoshaphat.
Wull put down his pen, slipped from the high stool, and came close to
Jehoshaphat. He was mechanical and slow in these movements, as though
all at once perplexed, given some new view, which disclosed many and
strange possibilities. For a moment he leaned against the counter, legs
crossed, staring at the floor, with his long, scrawny right hand
smoothing his cheek and chin. It was quiet in the office, and warm, and
well-disposed, and sunlight came in at the window.
Soon the trader stirred, as though awakening. "You was sayin' eight,
wasn't you?" he asked, without looking up.
"Eight, sir."
The trader pondered this. "An' how," he inquired, at last, "was you
makin' that out?"
"Tis a fair price."
Wull smoothed his cheek and chin. "Ah!" he murmured. He mused, staring
at the floor, his restless fingers beating a tattoo on his teeth. He had
turned woebegone and very pale. "Jehoshaphat," he asked, turning upon
the man, "would you mind tellin' me just how you're 'lowin' t' get my
flour against my will?"
Jehoshaphat looked away.
"I'd like t' know," said Wull, "if you wouldn't mind tellin' me."
"No," Jehoshaphat answered. "No, Mister Wull--I wouldn't mind tellin'."
"Then," Wull demanded, "how?"
"Mister Wull," Jehoshaphat explained, "I'm a bigger man than you."
It was very quiet in the office. The wind had gone down in the night,
the wood in the stove was burned to glowing coals. It was very, very
still in old John Wull's office at the back of the shop, and old John
Wull turned away, and went absently to the desk, where he fingered the
leaves of his ledger, and dipped his pen in ink, but did not write.
There was a broad window over the desk, looking out upon the harbor;
through this, blankly, he watched the children at play on the ice, but
did not see them. By-and-by, when he had closed the book and put the
desk in order, he came back to the counter, leaned against it, crossed
his legs, began to smooth his chin, while he mused, staring at the
square of sunlight on the floor. Jehoshaphat could not look at him. The
old man's face was so gray and drawn, so empty of pride and power, his
hand so thin and unsteady, his eyes so dull, so deep in troubled
shadows, that Jehoshaphat's heart ached. He wished that the world had
gone on in peace, that the evil practices of the great were still hid
from his knowledge, that there had been no vision, no call to
revolution; he rebelled against the obligation upon him, though it had
come to him as a thing that was holy. He regretted his power, had shame,
indeed, because of the ease with which the mighty could be put down. He
felt that he must be generous, tender, that he must not misuse his
strength.
The patch of yellow light had perceptibly moved before the trader spoke.
"Jehoshaphat," he asked, "you know much about law?"
"Well, no, Mister Wull," Jehoshaphat answered, with simple candor; "not
_too_ much."
"The law will put you in jail for this."
Constables and jails were like superstitious terrors to Jehoshaphat. He
had never set eyes on the brass buttons and stone walls of the law.
"Oh no--_no_!" he protested. "He wouldn't! Not in _jail_!"
"The law," Wull warned, with grim delight, "will put you in jail."
"He _couldn't_!" Jehoshaphat complained. "As I takes it, the law sees
fair play atween men. That's what he was _made_ for. I 'low he ought t'
put you in jail for raisin' the price o' flour t' eighteen; but not
me--not for what I'm bound t' do, Mister Wull, law or no law, as God
lives! 'Twouldn't be right, sir, if he put me in jail for that."
"The law will."
"But," Jehoshaphat still persisted, doggedly, "'twouldn't be _right_!'
The trader fell into a muse.
"I'm come," Jehoshaphat reminded him, "for the flour."
"You can't have it."
"Oh, dear!" Jehoshaphat sighed. "My, my! Pshaw! I 'low, then, us'll just
have t' _take_ it."
Jehoshaphat went to the door of the shop. It was cold and gloomy in the
shop. He opened the door. The public of Satan's Trap, in the persons of
ten men of the place, fathers of families (with the exception of Timothy
Yule, who had qualified upon his expectations), trooped over the greasy
floor, their breath cloudy in the frosty air, and crowded into the
little office, in the wake of Jehoshaphat Rudd. They had the gravity of
mien, the set faces, the compassionate eyes, the merciless purpose, of a
jury. The shuffling subsided. It was once more quiet in the little
office. Timothy Yule's hatred got the better of his sense of propriety:
he laughed, but the laugh expired suddenly, for Jehoshaphat Rudd's hand
fell with unmistakable meaning upon his shoulder.
John Wull faced them.
"I 'low, Mister Wull," said Jehoshaphat, diffidently, "that we wants the
storehouse key."
The trader put the key in his pocket.
"The key," Jehoshaphat objected; "we wants that there key."
"By the Almighty!" old John Wull snarled, "you'll all go t' jail for
this, if they's a law in Newfoundland."
The threat was ignored.
"Don't hurt un, lads," Jehoshaphat cautioned; "for he's so wonderful
tender. He've not been bred the way _we_ was. He's wonderful old an'
lean an' brittle," he added, gently; "so I 'low we'd best be careful."
John Wull's resistance was merely technical.
"Now, Mister Wull," said Jehoshaphat, when the big key was in his hand
and the body of the trader had been tenderly deposited in his chair by
the stove, "don't you go an' fret. We isn't the thieves that break in
an' steal nor the moths that go an' corrupt. We isn't robbers, an' we
isn't mean men. We're the public," he explained, impressively, "o'
Satan's Trap. We got together, Mister Wull," he continued, feeling some
delight in the oratory which had been thrust upon him, "an' we 'lowed
that flour was worth about eight; but we'll pay nine, for we got
thinkin' that if flour goes up an' down, accordin' t' the will o' God,
it ought t' go up now, if ever, the will o' God bein' a mystery, anyhow.
We don't want you t' close up the shop an' go away, after this, Mister
Wull; for we got t' have you, or some one like you, t' do what you been
doin', so as we can have minds free o' care for the fishin'. If they was
anybody at Satan's Trap that could read an' write like you, an' knowed
about money an' prices--if they was anybody like that at Satan's Trap,
willin' t' do woman's work, which I doubts, we wouldn't care whether you
went or stayed; but they isn't, an' we can't do 'ithout you. So don't
you fret," Jehoshaphat concluded. "You set right there by the fire in
this little office o' yours. Tom Lower'll put more billets on the fire
for you, an' you'll be wonderful comfortable till we gets through. I'll
see that account is kep' by Tim Yule of all we takes. You can put it on
the books just when you likes. No hurry, Mister Wull--no hurry. The
prices will be them that held in the fall o' the year, 'cept flour,
which is gone up t' nine by the barrel. An', ah, now, Mister Wull,"
Jehoshaphat pleaded, "don't you have no hard feelin'. 'Twouldn't be
right; We're the public; so _please_ don't you go an' have no hard
feelin'."
The trader would say nothing.
"Now, lads," said Jehoshaphat, "us'll go." In the storehouse there were
two interruptions to the transaction of business in an orderly fashion.
Tom Lower, who was a lazy fellow and wasteful, as Jehoshaphat knew,
demanded thirty pounds of pork, and Jehoshaphat knocked him down.
Timothy Yule, the anarchist, proposed to sack the place, and him
Jehoshaphat knocked down twice. There was no further difficulty.
"Now, Mister Wull," said Jehoshaphat, as he laid the key and the account
on the trader's desk, "the public o' Satan's Trap is wonderful sorry;
but the thing had t' be done."
The trader would not look up.
"It makes such a wonderful fuss in the world," Jehoshaphat complained,
"that the crew hadn't no love for the job. But it--it--it jus' had t' be
done."
Old John Wull scowled.
* * * * *
For a long time, if days may be long, Jehoshaphat Rudd lived in the fear
of constables and jails, which were the law, to be commanded by the
wealth of old John Wull; and for the self-same period--the days being
longer because of the impatience of hate--old John Wull lived in
expectation of his revenge. Jehoshaphat Rudd lowed he'd stand by,
anyhow, an' _go_ t' jail, if 'twas needful t' maintain the rights o'
man. Ay, _he'd_ go t' jail, an' be whipped an' starved, as the
imagination promised, but he'd be jiggered if he'd "_'pologize_." Old
John Wull kept grim watch upon the winds; for upon the way the wind blew
depended the movement of the ice, and the clearing of the sea, and the
first voyage of the mail-boat. He was glad that he had been robbed; so
glad that he rubbed his lean, transparent hands until the flush of life
appeared to surprise him; so glad that he chuckled until his housekeeper
feared his false teeth would by some dreadful mischance vanish within
him. Jail? ay, he'd put Jehoshaphat Rudd in jail; but he would forgive
the others, that they might continue to fish and to consume food. In
jail, ecod! t' be fed on bread an' water, t' be locked up, t' wear
stripes, t' make brooms, t' lie there so long that the last little Rudd
would find its own father a stranger when 'twas all over with. 'Twould
be fair warning t' the malcontent o' the folk; they would bide quiet
hereafter. All the people would toil and trade; they would complain no
more. John Wull was glad that the imprudence of Jehoshaphat Rudd had
provided him with power to restore the ancient peace to Satan's Trap.
* * * * *
One day in the spring, when the bergs and great floes of the open had
been blown to sea, and the snow was gone from the slopes of the hills,
and the sun was out, and the earth was warm and yellow and merrily
dripping, old John Wull attempted a passage of the harbor by the ice,
which there had lingered, confined. It was only to cross the narrows
from Haul-Away Head to Daddy Tool's Point, no more than a stone's throw
for a stout lad. The ice had been broken into pans by a stiff breeze
from the west, and was then moving with the wind, close-packed, bound
out to sea, there to be dispersed and dissolved. It ran sluggishly
through the narrows, scraping the rocks of the head and of the point;
the heave of the sea slipped underneath and billowed the way, and the
outermost pans of ice broke from the press and went off with the waves.
But the feet of old John Wull were practised; he essayed the crossing
without concern--indeed, with an absent mind. Presently he stopped to
rest; and he stared out to sea, musing; and when again he looked about,
the sea had softly torn the pan from the pack.
Old John Wull was adrift, and bound out.
"Ahoy, you, Jehoshaphat!" he shouted. "Jehoshaphat! Oh, Jehoshaphat!"
Jehoshaphat came to the door of his cottage on Daddy Tool's Point.
"Launch that rodney,"[1] Wull directed, "an' put me on shore. An'
lively, man," he complained. "I'll be cotchin' cold out here."
With the help of Timothy Yule, who chanced to be gossiping in the
kitchen, Jehoshaphat Rudd got the rodney in the open water by the
stage-head. What with paddling and much hearty hauling and pushing, they
had the little craft across the barrier of ice in the narrows before the
wind had blown old John Wull a generous rod out to sea.
"Timothy, lad," Jehoshaphat whispered, "I 'low you better stay here."
Timothy kept to the ice.
"You been wonderful slow," growled Wull. "Come 'round t' the lee side,
you dunderhead! Think I wants t' get my feet wet?"
"No, sir," Jehoshaphat protested. "Oh no; I wouldn't have you do that an
I could _help_ it."
The harbor folk were congregating on Haul-Away Head and Daddy Tool's
Point. 'Twas an agreeable excitement to see John Wull in a mess--in a
ludicrous predicament, which made him helpless before their eyes. They
whispered, they smiled behind their hands, they chuckled inwardly.
Jehoshaphat pulled to the lee side of the pan.
"Come 'longside," said Wull.
Jehoshaphat dawdled.
"Come 'longside, you fool!" Wull roared. "Think I can leap three
fathom?"
"No, sir; oh no; no, indeed."
"Then come 'longside."
Jehoshaphat sighed.
"Come in here, you crazy pauper!" Wull screamed, stamping his rage.
"Come in here an' put me ashore!"
"Mister Wull!"
Wull eyed the man in amazement.
"Labor," said Jehoshaphat, gently, "is gone up."
Timothy Yule laughed, but on Haul-Away Head and Daddy Tool's Point the
folk kept silent; nor did old John Wull, on the departing pan, utter a
sound.
"Sky high," Jehoshaphat concluded.
The sun was broadly, warmly shining, the sky was blue; but the wind was
rising smartly, and far off over the hills of Satan's Trap, beyond the
wilderness that was known, it was turning gray and tumultuous. Old John
Wull scowled, wheeled, and looked away to sea; he did not see the
ominous color and writhing in the west.
"We don't want no law, Mister Wull," Jehoshaphat continued, "at Satan's
Trap."
Wull would not attend.
"Not law," Jehoshaphat repeated; "for we knows well enough at Satan's
Trap," said he, "what's fair as atween men. You jus' leave the law stay
t' St. John's, sir, where he's t' home. He isn't fair, by no means; an'
we don't want un here t' make trouble."
The trader's back was still turned.
"An', Mister Wull," Jehoshaphat entreated, his face falling like a
child's, "don't you have no hard feelin' over this. Ah, now, _don't_!"
he pleaded. "You won't, will you? For we isn't got no hate for you,
Mister Wull, an' we isn't got no greed for ourselves. We just wants
what's fair--just what's fair." He added: "Just on'y that. We likes t'
see you have your milk an' butter an' fresh beef an' nuts an' whiskey.
_We_ don't want them things, for they isn't ours by rights. All we wants
is just on'y fair play. We don't want no law, sir: for, ecod!"
Jehoshaphat declared, scratching his head in bewilderment, "the law
looks after them that _has_, so far as I _knows_, sir, an' don't know
nothin' about them that _hasn't_. An' we don't want un here at Satan's
Trap. We won't _have_ un! We--we--why, ecod! we--we can't _'low_ it! We'd
be ashamed of ourselves an we 'lowed you t' fetch the law t' Satan's
Trap t' wrong us. We're free men, isn't we?" he demanded, indignantly.
"Isn't we? Ecod! I 'low we _is_! You think, John Wull," he continued, in
wrath, "that _you_ can do what you like with _we_ just because you an'
the likes o' you is gone an' got a law? You can't! You can't! An' you
can't, just because we won't _'low_ it."
It was an incendiary speech.
"No, you can't!" Timothy Yule screamed from the ice, "you robber, you
thief, you whale's pup! _I'll_ tell you what I thinks o' you. You can't
scare _me_. I wants that meadow you stole from my father. I wants that
meadow--"
"Timothy," Jehoshaphat interrupted, quietly, "you're a fool. Shut your
mouth!"
Tom Lower, the lazy, wasteful Tom Lower, ran down to the shore of
Haul-Away Head, and stamped his feet, and shook his fist. "I wants your
cow an' your raisins an' your candy! We got you down, you robber! An'
I'll _have_ your red house; I'll have your wool blankets; I'll have
your--"
"Tom Lower," Jehoshaphat roared, rising in wrath, "I'll floor you for
that! That I will--next time I cotch you out."
John Wull turned half-way around and grinned.
"Mister Wull," Jehoshaphat asked, propitiatingly, "won't you be put
ashore?"
"Not at the price."
"I 'low, then, sir," said Jehoshaphat, in some impatience, "that you
might as well be comfortable while you makes up your mind. Here!" He
cast a square of tarpaulin on the ice, and chancing to discover Timothy
Yule's jacket, he added that. "There!" he grunted, with satisfaction;
"you'll be sittin' soft an' dry while you does your thinkin'. Don't be
long, sir--not overlong. _Please_ don't, sir," he begged; "for it looks
t' me--it looks wonderful t' me--like a spurt o' weather."
John Wull spread the tarpaulin.
"An' when you gets through considerin' of the question," said
Jehoshaphat, suggestively, "an' is come t' my way o' thinkin', why all
you got t' do is lift your little finger, an' I'll put you ashore"--a
gust of wind whipped past--"if I'm able," Jehoshaphat added.
Pan and boat drifted out from the coast, a slow course, which in an hour
had reduced the harbor folk to black pygmies on the low rocks to
windward. Jehoshaphat paddled patiently in the wake of the ice. Often he
raised his head, in apprehension, to read the signs in the west; and he
sighed a deal, and sometimes muttered to himself. Old John Wull was
squatted on the tarpaulin, with Timothy Yule's jacket for a cushion, his
great-coat wrapped close about him, his cap pulled over his ears, his
arms folded. The withered old fellow was as lean and blue and rigid and
staring as a frozen corpse.
The wind had freshened. The look and smell of the world foreboded a
gale. Overhead the sky turned gray. There came a shadow on the sea,
sullen and ominous. Gusts of wind ran offshore and went hissing out to
sea; and they left the waters rippling black and flecked with froth
wherever they touched. In the west the sky, far away, changed from gray
to deepest black and purple; and high up, midway, masses of cloud, with
torn and streaming edges, rose swiftly toward the zenith. It turned
cold. A great flake of snow fell on Jehoshaphat's cheek, and melted; but
Jehoshaphat was pondering upon justice. He wiped the drop of water away
with the back of his hand, because it tickled him, but gave the sign no
heed.
"I 'low, Mister Wull," said he, doggedly, "that you better give Timothy
Yule back his father's meadow. For nobody knows, sir," he argued, "why
Timothy Yule's father went an' signed his name t' that there writin'
just afore he died. 'Twasn't right. He didn't ought t' sign it. An' you
got t' give the meadow back."
John Wull was unmoved.
"An', look you! Mister Wull," Jehoshaphat continued, pulling closer to
the pan, addressing the bowed back of the trader, "you better not press
young Isaac Lower for that cod-trap money. He've too much trouble with
that wife o' his t' be bothered by debt. Anyhow, you ought t' give un a
chance. An', look you! you better let ol' Misses Jowl have back her
garden t' Green Cove. The way you got that, Mister Wull, is queer. I
don't know, but I 'low you better give it back, anyhow. You _got_ to,
Mister Wull; an', ecod! you got t' give the ol' woman a pound o' cheese
an' five cents' worth--no, ten--ten cents' worth o' sweets t' make her
feel good. She _likes_ cheese. She 'lows she never could get _enough_ o'
cheese. She 'lows she _wished_ she could have her fill afore she dies.
An' you got t' give her a whole pound for herself."
They were drifting over the Tombstone grounds.
"Whenever you makes up your mind," Jehoshaphat suggested, diffidently,
"you lift your little finger--jus' your little finger."
There was no response.
"Your little finger," Jehoshaphat repeated. "Jus' your little
finger--on'y that."
Wull faced about. "Jehoshaphat," said he, with a grin, "you wouldn't
leave me."
"Jus' wouldn't I!"
"You wouldn't."
"You jus' wait and see."
"You wouldn't leave me," said Wull, "because you couldn't. I knows you,
Jehoshaphat--I knows you."
"You better look out."
"Come, now, Jehoshaphat, is you goin' t' leave an old man drift out t'
sea an' die?"
Jehoshaphat was embarrassed.
"Eh, Jehoshaphat?"
"Well, no," Jehoshaphat admitted, frankly. "I isn't; leastways, not
alone."
"Not alone?" anxiously.
"No; not alone. I'll go with you, Mister Wull, if you're lonesome, an'
wants company. You sees, sir, I can't give in. I jus' _can't_! I'm here,
Mister Wull, in this here cranky rodney, beyond the Tombstone grounds,
with a dirty gale from a point or two south o' west about t' break,
because I'm the public o' Satan's Trap. I can die, sir, t' save gossip;
but I sim-plee jus' isn't able t' give in. 'Twouldn't be _right_."
"Well, _I_ won't give in."
"Nor I, sir. So here we is--out here beyond the Tombstone grounds, you on
a pan an' me in a rodney. An' the weather isn't--well--not quite _kind_."
It was not. The black clouds, torn, streaming, had possessed the sky,
and the night was near come. Haul-Away Head and Daddy Tool's Point had
melted with the black line of coast. Return--safe passage through the
narrows to the quiet water and warm lights of Satan's Trap--was almost
beyond the most courageous hope. The wind broke from the shore in
straight lines--a stout, agile wind, loosed for riot upon the sea. The
sea was black, with a wind-lop upon the grave swell--a black-and-white
sea, with spume in the gray air. The west was black, with no hint of
other color--without the pity of purple or red. Roundabout the sea was
breaking, troubled by the wind, indifferent to the white little rodney
and the lives o' men.
"You better give in," old John Wull warned.
"No," Jehoshaphat answered; "no; oh no! I won't give in. Not _in_."
A gust turned the black sea white.
"_You_ better give in," said Jehoshaphat.
John Wull shrugged his shoulders and turned his back.
"Now, Mister Wull," said Jehoshaphat, firmly, "I 'low I can't stand this
much longer. I 'low we can't be fools much longer an' get back t'
Satan's Trap. I got a sail, here, Mister Wull; but, ecod! the beat t'
harbor isn't pleasant t' _think_ about."
"You better go home," sneered old John Wull.
"I 'low I _will_," Jehoshaphat declared.
Old John Wull came to the windward edge of the ice, and there stood
frowning, with his feet submerged. "What was you sayin'?" he asked.
"That you'd go home?"
Jehoshaphat looked away.
"An' leave me?" demanded John Wull. "Leave _me? Me?_"
"I got t' think o' my kids."
"An' you'd leave me t' _die?_"
"Well," Jehoshaphat complained, "'tis long past supper-time. You better
give in."
"I won't!"
The coast was hard to distinguish from the black sky in the west. It
began to snow. Snow and night, allied, would bring Jehoshaphat Rudd and
old John Wull to cold death.
"Mister Wull," Jehoshaphat objected, "'tis long past supper-time, an' I
wants t' go home."
"Go--an' be damned!"
"I'll count ten," Jehoshaphat threatened.
"You dassn't!"
"I don't know whether I'll _go_ or not," said Jehoshaphat. "Maybe not.
Anyhow, I'll count ten, an' see what happens. Is you ready?"
Wull sat down on the tarpaulin.
"One," Jehoshaphat began.
John Wull seemed not to hear.
"Two," said Jehoshaphat. "Three--four--five--six--seven."
John Wull did not turn.
"Eight."
There was no sign of relenting.
"Nine."
Jehoshaphat paused. "God's mercy!" he groaned, "don't you be a fool,
Mister Wull," he pleaded. "Doesn't you _know_ what the weather is?"
A wave--the lop raised by the wind--broke over the pan. John Wull stood
up. There came a shower of snow.
"Eh?" Jehoshaphat demanded, in agony.
"I won't give in," said old John Wull.
"Then I got t' say ten. I jus' _got_ to."
"I dare you."
"I will, Mister Wull. Honest, I will! I'll say ten an you don't look
out."
"Why don't you _do_ it?"
"In a minute, Mister Wull. I'll say it just so soon as I get up the
sail. I will, Mister Wull, honest t' God!"
The coast had vanished.
"Look," cried Jehoshaphat, "we're doomed men!"
The squall, then first observed, sent the sea curling over the ice.
Jehoshaphat's rodney shipped the water it raised. Snow came in a
blinding cloud.
"Say ten, you fool!" screamed old John Wull.
"Ten!"
John Wull came to the edge of the pan. 'Twas hard for the old man to
breast the gust. He put his hands to his mouth that he might be heard in
the wind.
"I give in!" he shouted.
Jehoshaphat managed to save the lives of both.
* * * * *
Old John Wull, with his lean feet in a tub of hot water, with a gray
blanket over his shoulders, with a fire sputtering in the stove, with
his housekeeper hovering near--old John Wull chuckled. The room was warm
and his stomach was full, and the wind, blowing horribly in the night,
could work him no harm. There he sat, sipping herb tea to please his
housekeeper, drinking whiskey to please himself. He had no chill, no
fever, no pain; perceived no warning of illness. So he chuckled away. It
was all for the best. There would now surely be peace at Satan's Trap.
Had he not yielded? What more could they ask? They would be content with
this victory. For a long, long time they would not complain. He had
yielded; very well: Timothy Yule should have his father's meadow, Dame
Jowl her garden and sweets and cheese, the young Lower be left in
possession of the cod-trap, and there would be no law. Very well; the
folk would neither pry nor complain for a long, long time: that was
triumph enough for John Wull. So he chuckled away, with his feet in hot
water, and a gray blanket about him, bald and withered and ghastly, but
still feeling the comfort of fire and hot water and whiskey, the pride
of power.
And within three years John Wull possessed again all that he had
yielded, and the world of Satan's Trap wagged on as in the days before
the revolution.
-----
[1] A rodney is a small, light boat, used for getting about among the
ice packs, chiefly in seal-hunting.