"Ecod!" Tumm growled.
The amusement of the stars was not by this altered to a more serious
regard: everywhere they winked.
"I've seed un peep through a gale o' wind, a slit in the black sky, a
cruel, cold time," Tumm continued, a pretence of indignation in his
voice, "when 'twas a mean hard matter t' keep a schooner afloat in a
dirty sea, with all hands wore out along o' labor an' the fear o' death
an' hell; an', ecod! them little cusses was winkin' still. Eh? What d'ye
make o' that?--winkin' still, the heartless little cusses!"
There were other crises, I recalled--knowing little enough of the labor
of the sea--upon which they winked.
"Ay," Tumm agreed; "they winks when lovers kiss on the roads; an' they
winks jus' the same," he added, softly, "when a heart breaks."
"They're humorous little beggars," I observed.
Tumm laughed. "They been lookin' at this here damned thing so long," he
drawled--meaning, no doubt, upon the spectacle of the world--"that no
wonder they winks!"
This prefaced a tale.
* * * * *
"Somehow," Tumm began, his voice fallen rather despondent, I fancied,
but yet continuing most curiously genial, "it always made me think o'
dust an' ashes t' clap eyes on ol' Bill Hulk o' Gingerbread Cove. Ay,
b'y; but I could jus' fair hear the parson singsong that mean truth o'
life: 'Dust t' dust; ashes t' ashes'--an' make the best of it, ye sinners
an' young folk! When ol' Bill hove alongside, poor man! I'd think no
more o' maids an' trade, o' which I'm fair sinful fond, but on'y o'
coffins an' graves an' ground. For, look you! the ol' feller was so
white an' wheezy--so fishy-eyed an' crooked an' shaky along o' age. 'Tis
a queer thing, sir, but, truth o' God, so old was Bill Hulk that when
he'd board me I'd remember somehow the warm breast o' my mother, an'
then think, an' couldn't help it, o' the bosom o' dust where my head
must lie."
Tumm paused.
"Seemed t' me, somehow," he continued, "when the _Quick as Wink_ was
lyin' of a Sunday t' Gingerbread Cove--seemed t' me somehow, when I'd
hear the church bell ring an' echo across the water an' far into the
hills--when I'd cotch sight o' ol' Bill Hulk, with his staff an' braw
black coat, crawlin' down the hill t' meetin'--ay, an' when the sun was
out, warm an' yellow, an' the maids an' lads was flirtin' over the roads
t' hear the parson thunder agin their hellish levity--seemed t' me then,
somehow, that ol' Bill was all the time jus' dodgin' along among open
graves; for, look you! the ol' feller had such trouble with his legs.
An' I'd wish by times that he'd stumble an' fall in, an' be covered up
in a comfortable an' decent sort o' fashion, an' stowed away for good
an' all in the bed where he belonged.
"'Uncle Bill,' says I, 'you at it yet?'
"'Hangin' on, Tumm,' says he. 'I isn't quite through.'
[Illustration: "OL' BILL HULK CRAWLIN' DOWN THE HILL T' MEETIN'"]
"'Accordin' t' the signs,' says I, 'you isn't got much of a grip left.'
"'Yes, I is!' says he. 'I got all my fishin' fingers exceptin' two, an'
I 'low they'll last me till I'm through.'
"Ecod! sir, but it made me think so mean o' the world that I 'lowed I'd
look away.
"'No, Tumm,' says he, 'I isn't _quite_ through.'
"'Well,' says I, 'you must be tired.'
"'Tired,' says he. 'Oh no, b'y! Tired? Not me! I got a little spurt o'
labor t' do afore _I_ goes.'
"'An' what's that, Uncle Bill?' says I.
"'Nothin' much,' says he.
"'But what _is_ it?'
"'Nothin' much,' says he; 'jus' a little spurt o' labor.'
"The ol' feller lived all alone, under Seven Stars Head, in a bit of a
white house with black trimmin's, jus' within the Tickle, where 'twas
nice an' warm an' still; an' he kep' his house as neat an' white as a
ol' maid with a gray tomcat an' a window-garden o' geraniums, an', like
all the ol' maids, made the best fish on fifty mile o' coast. 'Twas said
by the ol' folks o' Gingerbread Cove that their fathers knowed the time
when Bill Hulk had a partner; but the partner got lost on the Labrador,
an' then Bill Hulk jus' held on cotchin' fish an' keepin' house all
alone, till he got the habit an' couldn't leave off. Was a time, I'm
told, a time when he had his strength--was a time, I'm told, afore he
wore out--was a time when Bill Hulk had a bit o' money stowed away in a
bank t' St. John's. Always 'lowed, I'm told, that 'twas plenty t' see un
through when he got past his labor. 'I got enough put by,' says he. 'I
got more'n enough. I'm jus' fishin' along,' says he, 't' give t' the
poor. Store in your youth,' says he, 'an' you'll not want in your age.'
But somehow some o' them St. John's gentlemen managed t' discover
expensive ways o' delightin' theirselves; an' what with bank failures
an' lean seasons an' lumbago, ol' Bill was fallen poor when first I
traded Gingerbread Cove. About nine year after that, bein' then used t'
the trade o' that shore, I 'lowed that Bill had better knock off an' lie
in the sun till 'twas time for un t' go t' his last berth. ''Twon't be
long,' thinks I, 'an' I 'low my owners can stand it. Anyhow,' thinks I,
''tis high time the world done something for Bill.'
"But--
"'Tumm,' says he, 'how many books is kep' by traders in Newf'un'land?'
"I 'lowed I didn't know.
"'Call it a round million,' says he.
"'What of it?' says I.
"'Nothin' much,' says he.
"'But what of it?' says I.
"'Well,' says he, 'if you was t' look them million books over, goin' as
easy as you please an' markin' off every line o' every page with your
forefinger, what d'ye think would come t' pass?'
"I 'lowed I couldn't tell.
"'Eh?' says he. 'Come, now! give a guess.'
"'I don't know, Bill,' says I.
"'Why, Tumm,' says he, 'you wouldn't find a copper agin the name o' ol'
Bill Hulk!'
"'That's good livin',' says I.
"'Not a copper!' says he. 'No, sir; _not if you looked with spectacles_.
An' so,' says he, 'I 'low I'll jus' keep on payin' my passage for the
little time that's left. If my back on'y holds out,' says he, 'I'll
manage it till I'm through. 'Twon't be any more than twenty year. Jus' a
little spurt o' labor t' do, Tumm,' says he, 'afore I goes.'
"'More labor, Uncle Bill?' says I. 'God's sake!'
"'Nothin' much,' says he; 'jus' a little spurt afore I goes in peace.'
"Ah, well! he'd labored long enough, lived long enough, t' leave other
hands clean up the litter an' sweep the room o' his life. I didn't know
what that little spurt o' labor was meant t' win for his peace o'
mind--didn't know what he'd left undone--didn't know what his wish or his
conscience urged un t' labor for. I jus' wanted un t' quit an' lie down
in the sun. 'For,' thinks I, 'the world looks wonderful greedy an' harsh
t' me when I hears ol' Bill Hulk's bones rattle over the roads or come
squeakin' through the Tickle in his punt. 'Leave un go in peace!' thinks
I. 'I isn't got no love for a world that sends them bones t' sea in an
easterly wind. Ecod!' thinks I; 'but he've earned quiet passage by jus'
livin' t' that ghastly age--jus' by hangin' on off a lee shore in the
mean gales o' life.' Seemed t' me, too, no matter how Bill felt about
it, that he might be obligin' an' quit afore he _was_ through. Seemed t'
me he might jus' stop where he was an' leave the friends an' neighbors
finish up. 'Tisn't fair t' ask a man t' have his labor done in a
ship-shape way--t' be through with the splittin' an' all cleaned up--when
the Skipper sings out, 'Knock off, ye dunderhead!' Seems t' me a man
might leave the crew t' wash the table an' swab the deck an' throw the
livers in the cask.
"'You be obligin', Bill,' says I, 'an' quit.'
"'Isn't able,' says he, 'till I'm through.'
"So the bones o' ol' Bill Hulk rattled an' squeaked right on till it
made me fair ache when I _thunk_ o' Gingerbread Cove.
* * * * *
"About four year after that I made the Cove in the spring o' the year
with supplies. 'Well,' thinks I, 'they won't be no Bill Hulk this
season. With that pain in his back an' starboard leg, this winter have
finished he; an' I'll lay a deal on that.' 'Twas afore dawn when we
dropped anchor, an' a dirty dawn, too, with fog an' rain, the wind
sharp, an' the harbor in a tumble for small craft; but the first man
over the side was ol' Bill Hulk.
"'It _can't_ be you, Uncle Bill!' says I.
"'Tumm,' says he, 'I isn't quite through--yet.'
"'You isn't goin' at it _this_ season, is you?'
"'Ay,' says he; 'goin' at it again, Tumm.'
"'What for?' says I.
"'Nothin' much,' says he.
"'But what _for_?'
"'Well,' says he, 'I'm savin' up.'
"'Savin' up?' says I. 'Shame _to_ you! What you savin' up for?'
"'Oh,' says he, 'jus' savin' up.'
"'But what _for_?' says I. 'What's the sense of it?'
"'Bit o' prope'ty,' says he. 'I'm thinkin' o' makin' a small
investment.'
"'At your age, Uncle Bill!' says I. 'An' a childless man!'
"'Jus' a small piece,' says he. 'Nothin' much, Tumm.'
"'But it won't do you no _good_,' says I.
"'Well, Tumm,' says he, 'I'm sort o' wantin' it, an' I 'low she won't go
t' waste. I been fishin' from Gingerbread Cove for three hundred year,'
says he, 'an' when I knocks off I wants t' have things ship-shape. Isn't
no comfort, Tumm,' says he, 'in knockin' off no other way.'
"Three hundred year he 'lowed he'd fished from that there harbor, a
hook-an'-line man through it all; an' as they wasn't none o' us abroad
on the coast when he come in, he'd stick to it, spite o' parsons. They
was a mean little red-headed parson came near churchin' un for the
whopper; but Bill Hulk wouldn't repent. 'You isn't been here long enough
t' _know_, parson,' says he. ''Tis goin' on three hundred year, I tells
you! I'll haul into my fourth hundred,' says he, 'come forty-three year
from Friday fortnight.' Anyhow, he'd been castin' lines on the
Gingerbread grounds quite long enough. 'Twas like t' make a man's back
ache--t' make his head spin an' his stomach shudder--jus' t' think o' the
years o' labor an' hardship Bill Hulk had weathered. Seemed t' me the
very stars must o' got fair disgusted t' watch un put out through the
Tickle afore dawn an' pull in after dark.
"'Lord!' says they. 'If there ain't Bill Hulk puttin' out again! Won't
nothin' _ever_ happen t' he?'"